The Barrier to Love
Yana had finally broken up with Max, her long-term boyfriend, after realizing that dating was one thing, but living together was entirely different. She couldn’t stand sharing a space with him any longer.
“It turns out we’re completely incompatible, and I thought it was love,” she mused every evening on her way home from work.
“Now I’ll walk in and see him sprawled on the sofa again, the flat a mess, dirty dishes piled high, crumbs everywhere, and him glued to his phone. I can’t take it anymore. Today, I’m ending this,” she resolved.
Stepping inside, she found everything exactly as she’d dreaded. Max lounged on the sofa, still “job hunting” after two months—though Yana had finally seen through his excuses. He was just comfortable leeching off her.
“Max, this is the same every day. The mess, the laziness—I’ve had enough. Pack your things and go,” she said firmly, voice rising.
“Have you lost the plot, Yana? What’s got into you? Things were fine, and now—” Max sat up, bewildered.
“This isn’t sudden. I’ve thought it through. We’re not right for each other. Leave, and don’t try to argue.”
“You’ll regret this! Where am I supposed to go at this hour?” he snapped.
“Figure it out. You’ve got parents, don’t you? Go there.”
Yana clattered dishes in the sink, scrubbing furiously. When she peeked into the room, Max was zipping up his bag—he didn’t have much. On his way out, he hissed, “You’ll regret this,” before slamming the door.
“Every closed door is a chance to find the right one,” someone’s words echoed in her mind. With a relieved sigh, she locked the door and sank onto the sofa. “Finally. A new life. Should’ve done this ages ago.”
Her parents, who’d always despised Max, were thrilled.
“Good riddance to that freeloader,” her mother, Irene, scolded. “Twenty-seven and still unmarried? Find a proper man and settle down.”
Yana knew that already. She worked as a nurse in a busy London hospital—no quiet shifts here. Patients streamed in round the clock, trauma cases, emergencies. No time to eat, let alone rest.
Exhausted after shifts, she’d drag herself home to an empty flat. No parents to cook for her, no energy to make meals. Max had demanded food, so she’d force herself to cook. Now? She grabbed a kebab from the corner shop and collapsed into bed.
Four months passed. Then, one evening, Denis wheeled his injured friend into A&E. Spotting Yana, he was smitten.
“Those eyes—I have to talk to her,” he thought.
Later, lurking in the hallway, he seized his chance when she stepped out.
“Sorry—I’m Denis,” he blurted.
“And?” she smirked.
“Yana! Bring the charts from next door!” a voice called. She dashed off.
“Not exactly chatty here,” Denis mused. When she hurried back, he asked, “When do you finish?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she replied.
At 8 a.m., he waited outside. Spotting him, Yana froze.
“You!”
“Me,” he grinned. “Your name?”
“Yana. So—Denis.”
She’d thought she’d never see him again. Exhausted, yet oddly energised, she liked him instantly—tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed.
“Let me walk you home. I can’t imagine working nights like that.”
“I’m used to it. What do you do?”
“Freight logistics. My dad runs the business; I’m his right hand. Plenty of free time.”
They met that evening—coffee, a stroll along the Thames, a lift home in his car. Their romance spiralled fast, inseparable.
Irene prodded, “Why haven’t we met this new man?”
“Mum, I’m in love. No time.”
“Bring him over, then.”
Weeks later, Yana introduced Denis. Irene paled.
“Hello,” she said stiffly.
Dinner was tense. Irene barely spoke; only Yana’s father made small talk. Denis squirmed.
“Your parents didn’t seem thrilled,” he said later.
“No idea why.”
The truth? Denis’s mother, Alice, had stolen Irene’s boyfriend years ago. Though Irene had married, she’d nursed a lifelong grudge. Alice, now wealthy, lived well—too well for Irene’s taste. She’d even recognised Denis—spitting image of his father.
When Yana demanded an explanation, Irene snapped, “Alice won’t want you either, once she knows whose daughter you are.”
“Met her. She was lovely.”
“Because she doesn’t know.”
Yana groaned. “Are we Romeo and Juliet now?”
“We don’t feud. But I’ll never forgive Alice. First Max, now Denis—always the wrong men.”
“Mum, I love him.”
“Choose. Him or me.”
Yana confessed everything to Denis.
“Parents’ baggage isn’t ours,” he said. “We’ll marry. She’ll come around.”
He told Alice, who sighed.
“I didn’t know. But you’re not to blame for the past. Be happy.”
They married. Both sets of parents attended—but kept their distance. Alice smiled; Irene sulked.
“Maybe a grandchild will thaw her,” Denis said.
For now, they lived in hope, splitting visits between families. And soon—though they’d just found out—they’d have news to share.
