Січень 2026 Archives

Another Man’s Bride Val was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and number spread, as they say, “by word of mouth,” through a unique local grapevine. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Hosting a golden anniversary or a wedding? Perfect! He even once hosted a children’s nursery graduation, charming not just the youngsters but their mums too! It all began simply enough. A close friend got married, and the emcee they’d booked in advance never showed up — turns out, he’d gone on a bender. There was no time to find anyone else, so Val grabbed the microphone himself. He’d participated in school theatre, belonged to the “Logos” drama club, and at university he was a fixture in Comedy Revues and the annual student talent show. That impromptu performance went down a treat, and right there in the banqueting hall, two more guests asked if he’d host their upcoming events. After graduating, Val took a job at one of the city’s research institutes, earning next to nothing. His first earnings from MC gigs inspired him. He took every job he could get, and soon he was making nearly ten times what he earned as a junior research associate — and getting far more satisfaction to boot. After a year, Val made a decision: he left the institute, spent his savings on quality audio equipment, opened his own business, and became a full-time entertainer. He even started singing lessons, as he had a good voice and ear for music. Soon, he was a singing MC, supplementing his income three nights a week as a restaurant singer. By 30, Val was handsome, comfortable, and known as a skilled DJ, singer, and the kind of MC who could rescue any event. He wasn’t married — why bother? Women flocked to him, and he could pick and choose. But his mates were getting married and having kids, and slowly, he started longing for the quiet joys of family life. The trouble was, with whom? The easy sorts were only good for a night, not a lifetime. He wanted “the one,” and for keeps. — You ought to meet a schoolgirl, he joked, raise her up as you see fit, and when she turns 18 — marry her. The perfect wife! He even started accepting school prom gigs, hoping to spot a suitable match, but modern girls left him disappointed — not at all what he imagined. Still, Val kept his eyes peeled, as he put it, “on the hunt for rare game.” And that’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman rang, mentioning a mutual acquaintance: — We need a wedding MC. Are you free June 17th? Brilliant! Can we meet? They met. And then, as Val later told it, he finally understood the phrase “the earth moved under my feet.” The woman, introducing herself as Ksenia, was dazzling — he’d never seen anyone like her in person. She spoke clearly, sensibly, got straight to the point: this and that is needed. Val found himself mesmerised — what luck someone had! Not only beautiful, but clever to boot. A rare combination! She looked 25, maybe a little older, but in conversation she mentioned having once been a Young Pioneer — so she had to be at least 40! They discussed the details, settled on terms and signed a contract, though Ksenia protested: — Why bother? I trust you! You’ve come highly recommended. Val always worked by contract, sticking to the rules and expecting the same from clients. This time, too, he insisted: — I have to submit accounts to HMRC, you see — can’t risk any trouble. But really, as he admitted later, he just wanted physical proof Ksenia existed and wasn’t a dream. Ksenia’s phone pinged: — Oh, my fiancé has arrived now. Would you like a lift? Val declined, but walked her out as usual when the couple arrived separately — a chance to observe the chemistry between bride and groom. But this time it wasn’t curiosity; it was jealousy and envy. The groom surprised him — he’d expected a dapper man around 40, to match the bride, but out hopped a chap clearly younger than Val himself. — Ksenia, all good? She smiled as if to say, “When isn’t it?” and got in the car. The groom, turning to Val, extended a hand: — You’re going to host our wedding, then? It’s a pleasure, Slava spoke very highly of you — said you’re the best. Sorry — forgot to introduce myself, Ksenia will scold me! I’m Robert, the groom. Val wanted nothing more than to wipe the beaming smile off “Robert the groom’s” face, but instead he shook the fellow’s hand: — Val. Pleasure. From that day, Val lost all peace. He looked for any excuse to call Ksenia, hear her voice, see her again. The wedding loomed, and Val felt he was losing his mind. The only friend he’d confided in asked, a touch mockingly: — And what about your schoolgirls for raising the perfect wife? Val waved him off: — Sod the schoolgirls! Ksenia’s the perfect woman — I don’t need anyone else! — Tell her then, the friend advised, only to be met with: — Are you mad? She’s getting married — she must love him. What would she want with my daft feelings? Sometimes Robert would drop by cheerfully: — Ksenia asked me to pass this on… Val would grit his teeth with envy — he even considered bailing on the wedding, reputation be damned! But then he’d never see Ksenia again, so his courage failed him. Two days before the wedding, Ksenia visited Val “to polish up the script, make sure it’s perfect.” There were building works at the office, so they met at Val’s flat. They chatted, laughed; both were on top form. Finally, details sorted, Val offered a glass of champagne: — Here’s to the perfect wedding. Ksenia agreed, light-heartedly: — Delighted! She laughed, looking astonishingly beautiful. The champagne gave Val courage, and in a moment, he kissed her. To his utter amazement, she kissed him back. His head spun. Val woke up suddenly. He sat up and looked around. Had he really just spent the best night of his life? No trace of Ksenia…but her perfume lingered on the pillow beside him. So it had happened? Still tormented by doubts, Val got up. No — he hadn’t imagined it. Now what? Surely the wedding would be called off? He rang Ksenia: — Hi… She greeted him as if nothing was amiss. — Hi! How are you? Sorry I left so abruptly this morning, but you know — so much to do, the wedding’s tomorrow! — So the wedding’s going ahead? Val asked glumly. — Of course! Why wouldn’t it? Everything’s perfect! Are all women really so heartless? How could she even look her fiancé in the eye? Val couldn’t settle — should he wreck the wedding? Did he even want a woman so cold? Then he admitted to himself: yes, he wanted her. At any cost. The next day, he arrived at the restaurant early. The decorators were finishing the hall, sneaking him flirty glances. And then… He couldn’t believe his eyes: Ksenia came up to him. — Hi. I dashed here straight after the registry office — couldn’t wait to see you, she beamed. What’s up with you, Val? — I…I don’t get it. So the wedding happened? Why’d you run off? — Of course — silly! Why would I spend the day riding round town with the youngsters when I can be with you? Or aren’t you pleased? — Wait — with the youngsters? Isn’t it your wedding? Ksenia stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing — clear, pure laughter that made Val smile in spite of himself. — Good heavens, no! My daughter, Ksusha — she studies up in Edinburgh, just flew in yesterday. — Then she sobered, Hey, did you really think I was the bride? That two days before the wedding, I’d…? You think so little of me? Only then did it dawn on Val. Ksenia had never said “I” or “we” — always “the bride and groom”. And Robert never called her Ksusha, only Ksenia — and always “you”. How hadn’t he noticed before? How daft! At last, Val asked the most important question: — And you? Are you single? When the answer was yes, he blurted out: — Marry me! Please… The wedding was splendid, the MC outdid himself, and the guests were thrilled. The happy couple came up to thank Val: — Thank you so much! No idea how to repay you for such a wonderful evening. — I’ll do the thanking, said Ksenia, joining them. Go on — your limo’s waiting, I’ll keep an eye on things here… News that Val would marry a woman nine years older than him quickly spread through the family. At first, some were wary, but once they saw the bride, everyone agreed: — How could you not fall in love with someone like that? Ksenia and her daughter, Ksusha, gave birth just two weeks apart.

The Bride Who Wasn’t There was no one in the village quite like Peter Farrow. He never bothered

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LIVING A LIFE NOT JUST TO CROSS THE FIELD…

It is said that a life welllived is not measured by the fields one has crossed, but by the hearts one

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Friends Turned Up Empty-Handed to My Lavish Spread, So I Slammed the Fridge Shut “Paul, are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder is enough? Last time they ate everything in sight, even mopped up the sauce with bread. And Lucy even asked for a container ‘for her dog’—then posted photos of my roast as her own culinary masterpiece on Instagram.” Helen fussed with the edge of a tea towel as she surveyed the war zone that had become her kitchen. It was only noon, but already she was exhausted. Up since six: first the market for the freshest meat, then the posh supermarket for fine booze and delicacies, then endless chopping, boiling, frying. Paul—her husband—stood by the sink scraping potatoes, quietly irritated though he tried not to show it. “Helen, how much do they need?” he sighed, rinsing another spud. “Three kilos is half a kilo per person! They’ll burst. You’ve outdone yourself: smoked salmon, caviar, mountains of salads. We’re not catering a wedding, just a slightly belated housewarming!” “You don’t understand,” she said, stirring thick sauce in a pan. “It’s Claire and Dave, plus Lisa and Tom. Old friends, coming all the way from across town. What if the spread looks stingy? They’ll say we’ve gotten snobby since we bought the flat.” Helen was always like this. Hospitality ran in her blood; to her, an empty table was a personal insult. She spent a week planning the menu and money from her paycheque to buy the posh Cognac Dave liked and the right French wine for Claire. “They could bring something themselves for once,” Paul muttered. “Remember Tom’s birthday last year? We brought a proper present, nice champagne, and you baked a cake. When we pop over there it’s teabags and ancient biscuits.” “Don’t be petty, love,” she chided. “They had a tough patch, what with the mortgage and decorating. But now Dave’s had a promotion, Lisa’s showing off a new fur coat. Maybe they will bring dessert or some fruit. I hinted to Claire dessert was their job.” By five the place gleamed and the living room table looked like a fancy deli window. There was a perfect platter of jellied beef tongue at the centre, encircled by bowls of prawn cocktail, truffled potato salad, smoked salmon, home-cured ham, and cold roast beef. In the oven, the main event: slow-roasted pork with herby, garlicky new potatoes and wild mushrooms. In the fridge: Finlandia vodka, that special Cognac, three bottles of Bordeaux. Helene, exhausted but satisfied, slipped on her best dress, smoothed her hair, and perched in an armchair, nerves fluttering as she waited for the bell. “Bit nervous,” she confessed as Paul did up his shirt. “First time in our new place; I want it to go perfectly.” At 5 p.m. sharp, the bell rang. Their friends, bang on time. Helen threw open the door. There they were—Claire in that new mink coat Helen knew cost half her renovation, Dave in leather jacket, Lisa heavily made up, Tom already tipsy. “Woo! Housewarming!” squealed Claire, sweeping inside in a cloud of sugary perfume. “Show us your palace!” Coats flung about, shoes kicked every which way, Helen smiled nervously and—without meaning to—noticed their hands. All four were empty. No bag, no cake box, no wine, not even a bar of chocolate. “Er, did you…” Helen almost asked, but clammed up. Had they left something in the car? “Oh Helen, you look so slim!” gushed Lisa, air-kissing her and stomping on through. “Your decorating—well, it’s basic, but neat. Painted walls though? So office-y. You really should’ve done silk wallpaper.” “We like minimalism,” Paul said dryly. “Come on through, dinner’s ready.” The party bowled into the lounge. Dave’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the table. “Now THAT’s a spread!” he crowed, rubbing his hands. “Knew you were the hostess with the mostest, Helen. We starved ourselves all day for this roast!” Everyone sat. Helen dashed to the kitchen for hot starters—mushroom gratin. In her head a voice nagged: “Maybe they brought a gift in an envelope?” When she returned, the guests were already shoveling salad in, not bothering with a toast. “Mmm, this potato salad is top notch,” Tom said through a mouthful. “Paul, pour the drinks, for God’s sake. My throat’s like the Sahara.” Paul poured vodka for the blokes, wine for the women. “To the new home!” Dave declared, lifting his glass. “May your walls not crack and your neighbours not leak. Bottoms up!” He downed his vodka, sniffed his sleeve (linen napkins sat untouched) and stabbed at the smoked salmon. “Helen, why’s the vodka warm? Should’ve frozen it.” “It was chilled, 5 degrees—just right,” she said, feeling the first spark of annoyance. “Doesn’t feel it. Vodka should be syrupy! Anyway, got any Cognac? I’d fancy a sharpener.” “Yes,” Helen nodded. “Perhaps after the main course?” “One doesn’t cancel the other!” laughed Tom. The meal picked up pace, the food disappearing at worrying speed. The guests ate as if starved for a week, but didn’t hesitate to criticise. “This salmon salad is a bit dry,” observed Claire, heaping herself a third portion. “Could’ve used more mayo. You scrimping?” “I made homemade mayo, it’s lighter,” Helen explained. “Oh trust me, just buy the stuff in a squeeze bottle next time, much easier,” scoffed Lisa. “Also this caviar’s tiny—salmon, right? Should have got sturgeon.” Helen exchanged a look with Paul. His knuckles whitened around his fork. “So,” Paul said, changing the subject, “what’s new with you lot? Claire, Dubai?” “Ohhh, heavenly! Five-star hotel, all-inclusive, lobster and champagne. Bought a real Louis Vuitton bag for two grand—worth every penny. Dave wasn’t thrilled, but I said you only live once!” “Women—always spending,” Dave grunted, helping himself to Cognac. “I’m getting a new SUV soon, saved up. We don’t waste cash on stuff like wallpaper.” “What’s wrong with wallpaper?” Helen asked, puzzled. “Just, walls are walls,” said Lisa. “We’ve still got my gran’s beige wallpaper from ten years ago but at least we do a foreign holiday every year, buy designer clothes, eat in nice restaurants. You lot spend all yours on bare walls—boring!” “Speaking of restaurants—” Tom cut in, dabbing greasy lips, throwing his napkin onto the cloth. “We did the Savoy grill last night. Food was next-level. Bill was steep, but at least that’s proper nosh! Not just homemade. Helen, is the main coming? Salads are rabbit food—I want some meat!” Helen rose to clear plates, hands shaking. These people just bragged about designer bags and posh dinners but came here empty-handed. Not even a potted supermarket basil. She went to the kitchen. Claire followed, supposedly to help but really to gossip. “My god, Helen, you’ve been generous,” Claire whispered. “But honestly, your wine—bit rough. Only fit for barbecue. You could’ve splashed out more for guests.” “That’s French Bordeaux—£30 a bottle,” Helen gritted out as she stacked plates. “Get out, someone ripped you off, it’s sharp as vinegar! By the way, got any leftovers to send us home with? We’ll be hungover tomorrow and can’t be bothered to cook. You always make too much.” Helen froze mid-movement, slowly turning. “You want to take food home?” “Yeah, we always do—saves money!” Claire giggled. “And what’s for dessert? I’m dying for a bit of cake.” “You said dessert was your job, Claire,” Helen reminded quietly. “Me? Did I? That can’t be right! I’m on a diet, don’t do sweets, figured you’d do your special Victoria sponge or something. We came empty-handed because obviously you have everything, what with your new flat and all.” Helen set the plate down with a clatter. “So you thought we’ve got everything—because we’re supposedly rich?” “Well yeah! New flat, fresh décor, you must be loaded. Dave and I are still saving for the Maldives trip, we’re the poor relations… right, bring on that pork, the lads are getting restless.” Helen stared at Claire. In her mind flashed all the times she’d lent Claire money for “last-minute deals” and waited months for it back, or when Paul helped Dave move and wasn’t even offered petrol money; every party their friends descended on them but never invited back. She opened the oven—a cloud of herbs and roast meat wafted up. She saw the giant meringue cake with berries, boxed in the fridge, ordered specially for five thousand roubles as a surprise. She shut the oven. Turned the gas off. Walked over and pressed the fridge closed. “There’ll be no main course,” she said, loud and steady. “What do you mean?” Claire blinked. “Did it burn?” “No. There just won’t be any.” Helen strode back into the lounge. The men poured more drinks, arguing about football, Paul looking wretched. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Helen announced, her voice taut as a wire, “the party’s over.” Everyone stared. Dave’s glass hung at his lips. “But…what? You promised pork! We’re starving!” wailed Lisa. “I promised, but I’ve changed my mind.” “You can’t be serious!” snapped Tom. “We want meat!” “The pork’s staying in the oven. You’re all going home. Or perhaps you’d rather the Savoy, since you like it so much? They’ll feed you nicely for two hundred quid.” “Are you drunk?” Tom demanded. “Paul, sort your missus out!” Paul stood up, surveyed Helen and then their ‘friends’—then straightened. “Helen’s not drunk. She’s fed up,” he said coldly. “You came here empty-handed, drank all my Cognac, insulted my wife’s food and our flat, demanded extras—and now you want to take home leftovers?” “Oh, get lost!” yelled Dave, pushing back his chair. “You think you’re better than us now? Choke on your roast!” “Don’t forget your containers—empty,” Paul said, opening the front door wide. They all stormed out, Lisa hissing about a ruined night, Claire screaming Helen was no friend. The men cursed; the hallway echoed with slammed doors. Once silence fell, Helen stood gazing at the wrecked table, wine stains on the cloth, crumpled napkins. Paul hugged her. “You all right?” he murmured. “My hands are shaking,” Helen admitted. “Was I a cow? Should I have just put up with it because they’re guests?” “No. You finally respected yourself. I’m proud of you—I’d have thrown them out after five minutes. They crossed every line.” Helen smiled at last. “What about the pork?” Paul grinned. “It’s all ours. And there’s cake. And cracking wine.” They sat together at the messy table. Helen fetched the sizzling pork, the big berry-topped meringue cake, poured two glasses of that ‘vinegary’ Bordeaux. “To us—and to only letting in people who come to our home with open hearts, not just empty plates,” Paul toasted. They enjoyed the best dinner of their lives, just the two of them. An hour later, Helen’s phone buzzed: “God, you’re a cow! We’re stuck in McDonald’s eating burgers thanks to you. Don’t you dare expect an apology!” Helen read it, smiled, blocked the sender—and the rest of them, too. Her contact list shrank by four—but her life felt freed. The fridge, packed full of delicious food, would feed her and Paul for a week—and not a crumb would go to those who didn’t deserve it. This story is a reminder that friendship is a two-way street—and sometimes, closing the fridge is the best way to save your self-respect.

The friends arrived empty-handed to the groaning table, and I shut the fridge door. Simon, are you sure

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I Refused to Endure My Mother-in-Law’s Whims at the Christmas Dinner and Left for a Friend’s House

Hey love, listen I finally stopped putting up with my motherinlaws absurd New Year drama and bolted over

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The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering from cold or fear—she wasn’t sure which. She’d left Zlata at a birthday party in the shopping centre’s playroom. She barely knew the parents of the birthday girl, but it was normal to leave Zlata at these sorts of children’s parties, and she’d done so many times before. Only today, she’d been late—the bus hadn’t come. The shopping centre was awkwardly located and most arrived by car, but Olesya had none. So she’d taken her daughter by bus, rushed home for her scheduled lessons—and she could never cancel client lessons—and only then went back. Fifteen minutes late, running over the icy car park, her breath coming short. Now, the birthday girl’s mum—a petite woman with round blue eyes—was looking at her with mild confusion and repeated: “Her dad picked her up.” But Zlata didn’t have a dad. Well, technically she did, but he’d never even met her. Olesya met Andrew through chance—out with a girlfriend along the Thames embankment; her friend twisted her ankle, two lads offered help… Like something out of a classic film, they claimed they were students at Oxford, one’s dad a general, the other’s a professor. Why they lied was anyone’s guess—young and daft. When Olesya fell pregnant and Andrew realised she was studying at a teachers’ college and her own dad was a bus driver, he slipped her money for an abortion and disappeared. She didn’t have the abortion—never regretted it for a second. Zlata was her clever, reliable companion; together, they made do—Zlata quietly playing with dolls while Olesya taught lessons, then joining her in the kitchen for milky soup or a poached egg and tea with buttery biscuits. There was never much money—all went toward rent—but they never complained. “How could you hand my daughter to a stranger?” Olesya’s voice shook, tears stinging her eyes. The blue-eyed woman bristled. “Hardly a stranger—it was her father!” She could have said there was no dad, but what good would it do? She needed to find security, demand the CCTV… “When was this?” “Just ten minutes ago…” Olesya spun and ran. How many times had she told Zlata not to go anywhere with strangers? Her legs felt numb, everything blurred; she collided with people and didn’t stop running. On sheer instinct, she shouted: “Zlata! Zlata!” The food court was busy and few looked up, but a few faces turned. Gasping, Olesya scanned madly—was she too late? “Mummy!” She could hardly believe it—her daughter, jacket flapping, face sticky with ice cream, running to her. Olesya grabbed her so tightly it felt like she’d collapse if she let go. She stared at the man—a respectable-looking fellow with cropped hair, a silly jumper with a snowman, clutching ice cream. Judging by his expression, he could see what she was about to say, and babbled: “I’m so sorry! I should’ve waited with her, but those little monsters were teasing her—said her dad never comes, never will, because she’s ugly! I wanted to show them! Said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get ice cream while we wait for mum.’ I didn’t mean to scare you—just wanted to teach them a lesson…” Olesya shook, unwilling to trust him. But had Zlata really been teased? She met her daughter’s eyes—Zlata understood, sniffled, chin up. “So what? Now I’ve got a dad too!” The man shrugged apologetically; Olesya still couldn’t speak. “Let’s go,” she finally breathed. “We’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” The man stepped forward, tentative. “Can I give you a lift? Since…you know. No, don’t worry, I’m not a nutter! I’m Artem. I promise—I’m nice! My mum’s right over there; she’ll vouch for me!” He nodded toward a woman with purple curls reading at a table. “If you like, let’s ask her—she’ll give me a glowing reference!” “I’m sure she would,” Olesya muttered, still tempted to smack him. “Thanks, but we’ll walk.” “Mum…” Zlata tugged her coat. “Let him drive us—show them I’ve got a dad!” Still outside the playroom, the birthday girl and her mum lingered. Zlata’s eyes pleaded; it was icy and Olesya barely had the strength to argue. She relented. “All right,” she said curtly. “Brilliant! Just a second—I’ll tell mum!” “Mummy’s boy,” Olesya thought acidly. The purple-haired woman waved—they hurried away. What a ridiculous situation! She avoided Artem’s gaze on the ride, but couldn’t help noticing how gently he spoke with Zlata—she sang like a bird, never had Olesya seen her so animated. At their building, Zlata wilted. “So we’re not seeing you again?” she whispered, looking from Artem to her mum. Olesya felt his eyes on her—asking permission. She meant to say no, to remind Zlata it wasn’t polite, but her daughter’s face crumbled. She caught Artem’s look—nodded. “If your mum agrees,” Artem said, “I could take you to the pictures at the weekend. Ever been?” “Really? No! Mum, can I go with dad to the cinema?” Olesya flushed, flustered. “OK, Zlata, but two conditions. First, you call him Uncle Artem, not dad; it’s rude to call someone you don’t know that. Second—I’m coming with you! Remember what I said—never ever go anywhere with strangers, no matter how nice they seem.” “I told her that too,” Artem chimed in. “So may I?” “I said yes.” “Yay!” Olesya knew she ought to put an end to the nonsense, but couldn’t. She had nobody in the world but Zlata. If only she had someone to confide in! Her own mother died when Olesya was five—the same age Zlata was now. Her mum had jumped in to save a drowning boy when no one else dared; the boy survived, but she developed pneumonia. With diabetes and poor health, she didn’t make it. Now Zlata too had diabetes—a fact that haunted Olesya, genes passed down. By the next weekend, nerves had been for nothing—things went unexpectedly, because Artem brought his own mum to the cinema. “If you’re worried I’m dodgy, mum’s here to vouch for me!” he grinned. “Oh he’s definitely dodgy,” his mum teased, clearly besotted. While Artem escorted Zlata, his mum confided in Olesya: “He grew up without a dad too. I’ve been married four times—the last was perfect! Artem’s just like him, but he died before holding Artem…heart attack. My earlier husbands helped—first, still loves me; second didn’t like women; third loved them a bit too much. They tried to fill the role, but you know, a real dad is something else. Artem bonded with Zlata—he was teased at school too. Poor lad, always trying to prove something, one time almost got himself killed…” She was fascinating—slender, lively, purple hair with a Chanel suit and a Donzova novel. Olesya found herself charmed. “He’s just a big-hearted boy,” she winked. “And I think he likes you.” Olesya blushed—just what she didn’t need! She tried to dismiss it, but felt sorry for Zlata… After the film she tried to give Artem money for their tickets—he refused. “When I invite girls out, I pay!” Olesya disliked that—she’d always paid her way, relied on no one. As for him being interested—not possible. When Artem dropped them home, Zlata asked: “Dad, where do we go next?” “Zlata!” Olesya scolded. Her daughter giggled, hands over mouth. “We could visit the Natural History Museum,” Artem suggested, ignoring the slip. “What do you think?” “Perfect! Mum, can we go?” “You two go—bring Mrs. Catherine. She loves butterflies,” Olesya replied coolly, hurrying out. She heard Artem whisper to Zlata: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me dad.” So Zlata got herself a Sunday Dad. Sometimes Olesya joined their outings; sometimes she let Zlata go if Catherine came too. She still saw Artem as a stranger, suspect—yet Zlata always returned delighted, raving about Artem’s fun and kindness. Olesya couldn’t help absorbing her joy, but refused to let herself hope—happy endings didn’t exist in real life, not as if some prince would ride in. And Artem’s mum praised him so fiercely, Olesya couldn’t help wonder—was something wrong with him? Why else would his mother push him at a plain girl like her? But Olesya’s heart, little by little, melted. Artem’s kindness was subtle—chocolates left for her, always seeking her opinion before inviting Zlata, catching her eyes during drives. She especially liked Catherine—if not for Artem, Olesya would have made friends with her. One day Artem called—about the cinema. Zlata guessed immediately, whispered, “Is it Artem?” and settled in happily. “Of course, Zlata will be delighted,” Olesya replied, out of habit. “Wait…I meant, well, for you and me. A date?” Catherine chimed in, “Finally!” “Mum, quit eavesdropping! Oh—sorry, Olesya…” Zlata whispered, “Did he ask you out?” Olesya laughed, “My ears are sharp too. Listen, Artem…” “Please give me a chance! I promise, I’ll be a true gentleman!” “Tell her about the eyes, Toma—her mum’s eyes…” Catherine urged. It was like cold water—nothing made sense. What did her mum have to do with anything? Artem snapped at his mum, then told Olesya: “Olesya, I’ll come round to explain—can I?” Some clarity wouldn’t hurt… Olesya paced until he arrived; Zlata went to her desk to draw. “I should have said from the start,” Artem blurted out, nervous. “I wanted to, but… I really liked you—and didn’t want you to think it was only because of your mum. I mean, I was scared you’d hate me. You see, she died because of me…” He rambled, skipping from one thought to the next, desperate. Olesya trembled, speechless, just like the day she feared Zlata was gone. “Will you ever forgive me?” Olesya barely managed: “I need to think.” “Mum, forgive dad…” Zlata pleaded. Artem gave her a look, reminding Zlata of their agreement. He turned to Olesya; she repeated: “I need time—please?” She had a million questions but couldn’t speak them. Then Catherine called—and everything came pouring out. “He didn’t know she died—I was protecting him. Later it came out, and Toma wanted to find you. That night he only meant to help, but then Zlata… And then you… He fell head over heels! He was afraid you’d misinterpret it. It was all about proving he was brave, when the boy fell in. The others wouldn’t go on the ice, but he did…” Catherine didn’t pressure her, but shielded her son. Zlata, however, pressed hard. “Mum, he’s a good man! And he loves you—he said so! He could be my real dad, can’t you see?” And Olesya did see. But…wasn’t it wrong? Nearly a month passed; still she couldn’t talk to him, dodged his calls, didn’t read his messages. The more she delayed, the more she wanted to ring—but it only got harder. Zlata woke her crying one night, stomach in agony. She’d complained the night before, but Olesya thought it might be sour yoghurt. Now she was burning up. Hands shaking, Olesya called the ambulance. Then—without knowing why—she called Artem. He arrived with the paramedics—half asleep, tousled. Went to the hospital with them, soothing her, promising it’d all be OK, though his own voice shook. “Peritonitis isn’t that scary,” he repeated. “Everything will be fine!” Olesya grabbed his hand—maybe to comfort him, maybe herself. The waiting room was chilly; they sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth. He dashed to the doctors for news; Olesya sat frozen with fear. If something happened to Zlata, she wouldn’t survive it. But Zlata was all right. The surgeons did a brilliant job; Zlata was brave, fought hard—though the case had been critical. “It’s like a kind angel was watching over her,” the doctor said. Olesya whispered, “Thank you, mum…” Artem thanked the staff profusely; the doctor told them to go home—Zlata was in ICU, parents would need rest. He dropped her off; Olesya expected him to ask to come in, but he hesitated. So she invited: “It’s almost morning. Come in for coffee?” And realised, she truly wanted him to. Wanted him to stay. Forever. Zlata made a swift recovery—everyone at the hospital noticed. “That’s because I’ve got a mum and a dad,” she’d say. And only Olesya and Artem understood just how much that meant to their little girl…

Sunday Dad. Diary Entry. Wheres my daughter? I kept asking, hardly able to stop my teeth chattering whether

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At My Jubilee, My Mother-in-Law Unexpectedly Demanded the Return of the Gold Earrings She Gifted Me on My Wedding Day

On the day of my motherinlaws golden jubilee, the lady herself demanded that I hand back the gold earrings

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Two Blue Lines on a Test Marked Her Ticket to a New Life—and Sent Her Best Friend Spiraling into Hell. She Walked Down the Aisle Amid Applause from Betrayers, but the Final Twist Came from the One They All Dismissed as Just a Foolish Pawn

Two lines on the test became her passport to a new lifeand a ticket to misery for her closest friend.

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The Lost Letter: A Heartwarming Christmas Tale of a Boy’s Wish, Kind Strangers, and the Magic of Giving

Letter David wandered home from work, the snow crunching under his boots with a soft, familiar sound

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Infidelity: Not a Justification for Divorce

Hey love, you wont believe the chat I just had over coffee. Ivy almost dropped her mug when I started talking.

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FAMILY?

28April Im sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle long since gone cold, and trying to make sense of