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Dad’s Country Cottage Olga discovered—suddenly and entirely by chance—that she and her dad’s beloved country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from a local telegraph office, never imagining she’d accidentally overhear the life-changing phone conversation between her mum and her aunt: “The cottage is gone, sold for a good price. Now we can do so much, even help out Olga a bit!” It felt surreal, like the sort of mix-up that only ever happens in films—when you become a third, unintended participant in someone else’s conversation because the operator accidentally connects you to the wrong line. Olga’s mum and her aunt Irina—two painfully familiar voices spread across one hundred and twenty kilometres, their words transformed from vibrating speech to electric signals running along the wires. Physics was never Olga’s strong suit, though her dad always insisted she try. *** “Dad, why is September sunshine different?” “What do you mean, darling?” “I don’t know… It’s softer somehow. Still bright, but not August-bright.” “Study your physics! The positions of the celestial bodies are all changed in September. Here, catch this apple!” He laughed and tossed a huge, flattish red apple that smelled of honey. “Is it a Pippin?” “No, not yet—they’re not ripe. It’s a Russet Stripe.” She bit into its crisp flesh, mouth filling with sweet white foam that tasted like summer rain and the earth itself. Olga didn’t know apple varieties well, no better than she knew physics. And that was her problem: because eight-grader Olga Sokolova was already two years deep in a crush on her physics teacher. The world had narrowed to a single point of light, and physics—matter, space, and law—refused to fit neatly inside the margins of her school notebook. Her dad understood, just by her absent gaze and poor appetite. She’d already confessed the year before, in a night of tears on his lap, while mum was away at a spa and her older sister was off at university. At the cottage, Dad was always happy, whistling unfamiliar little tunes with gleeful musicality. At home, only Mum and Irina sang when they visited. Mum was a striking beauty: tall, proud, a forceful Cossack, head librarian at the military library. Her coppery curls, dyed with henna, filled the flat with scents of herbs and rain. Olga loved watching her, while Dad, below her in height and nearly a decade older, would simply kiss her hands and say, “Hands like these are for handing out books, not digging up vegetable plots!” But Mum preferred comfort and order to country living. Their tiny two-room flat was often full of Dad’s old army mates—his “soldiers”—who’d sleep on the floor or drop by for help finding work. After being mustered out as a major during Khrushchev’s mass army downsizing, Dad had landed a job as chief engineer at the Lipetsk telegraph office. His “soldiers” would come together to help build the family cottage: a modest one-room house with a veranda where Olga loved to read, Dad passing bowls of gooseberries or cherries straight up to her from below. Mum rarely visited the cottage—she preferred to keep her hands immaculate, with their neat, large nails. Olga admired them, Dad kissed them, both in their own way. *** The first raindrops of September began to tap merrily on the veranda roof—no autumn gloom, just energy. Olga closed her book. “Come down, love. Mum and Irina will be here soon. We need to start lunch,” Dad called, his voice at the cottage ringing brightly. Olga dragged her feet, head tipped back to the heavy, swollen sky, face growing wet with rain. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, only half-wanting to come back to earth. From the rooftop, she watched sunlight breakout between clouds across a patchwork of neighbouring cottages. In that moment, physics and its iron laws were forgotten; come university, there would be new rules. Her first week at journalism school meant a rented room next to the landlady, sharing the flat with other students. Each day, deep dives into literature and language with lecturers everyone adored—charisma you could fall for, group-wide. Evenings stung with homesickness and loneliness in the vast, alien city streets. She ate at the student cafeteria and wandered until dark, chilled by the city’s impersonal beauty. On the kitchen counter, the apples her dad had brought as thanks to her landlady sat in boxes, their sweet, slightly overripe scent bringing tears and a desperate longing for home. When Olga moved to halls, she found her neighbours were girls from East Germany: Viola, Maggi, Marion. By evening her mind ached from German; she’d sneak outside to breathe, perching on the steps. The German girls cadged cigarettes—always paying—or marveled over Olga’s mum’s homemade pickled tomatoes. When her stores ran dry, they brought out “unimaginable” German sausages—but never shared. Each spring, as their exchange year ended, piles of sturdy German winter boots appeared at the dustbin for her Russian neighbours to snatch up in secret. *** “Ollie, shred the cabbage while I dig some carrots. The stock’s ready.” The kitchen steamed, cabbage leaves unfurling delicate green lace on the board. She tore a leaf to eat—earthy and satisfying, always. Olga chopped briskly, the cabbage sweetly scented, then opened the window for autumn leaf-smoke and apple aromas. Through the glass Dad was just a stooped figure, shovel in hand, struggling with his back. Olga dropped the knife and ran to hug him from behind; he turned, hugged in silence, kissed her crown. Irina arrived alone that evening—Mum, struck by a headache, stayed home. *** University was done. Olga’s student marriage, first job at “The Innovator” newspaper, her dad’s first heart attack, her daughter’s birth, her divorce—all in five years. Her husband left for someone else, Olga moved to a rented flat with toddler Marisha. Every fortnight, Dad came by with groceries, fussing over his granddaughter. “Ollie, don’t be cross with Mum for missing visits—she gets carsick… You know, I think she’s even got a gentleman caller…” “Dad! At your age?” He chuckled, bitterly, falling silent. Olga realised he’d grown completely white, diminished, even his whistling gone. “Dad, what if I take my holiday next week? We could go up to the cottage with Marisha—while it’s still warm, the three of us?” *** The cottage was covered in autumn leaves—a final warm week of October. They lit the stove, brewed tea with blackcurrant leaves. Olga fried potato cakes, Dad raked leaves, Marisha played and giggled, tossing piles in the air. The oil popped, the smell rich. Dad’s whistling drifted from the garden. By evening, they’d built a bonfire. The lane was empty, neighbours gone; Dad skewered cubes of bread onto cherry twigs for Marisha to toast, Olga unmuffling her cold hands by firelight. She remembered her first student work camp in Kazakhstan—guitar songs under endless stars, the thrill of loving life more than any person. Faces looked different by the firelight, mysterious and deep. She’d met her future husband there. This week, at work, she was called before the Communist Party meeting—under scrutiny over her divorce, pressed about morals, almost in tears as a colleague leapt up, stammering: “This is a meeting of bullies, not communists!” Years later, she’d remember it all with disbelief. As darkness fell, they doused the fire. A car pulled up at the gate, door banging—Mum! Glamorous in a fashionable coat, explaining a colleague had dropped her off. Marisha ran to her, Dad greeted her stonily, awkwardly. “Who was that colleague?” “Oh, Sasha, it doesn’t matter. He just gave me a lift. You don’t know him.” Dinner conversation floundered. Marisha grew fussy, Mum interrogating Olga about work while clearly lost in thought. Dad sat quiet, staring at Mum, shoulders sinking. The evening soured. *** A year later, Dad was gone—heart attack, gone in two days that sunny October. After the funeral, Olga took time off to stay at the cottage, leaving Marisha with her mother-in-law. Everything slipped through her hands; the apple harvest was record-breaking. Olga brewed apple mint and cinnamon jam by the tub-full, as Dad loved. Dad’s friend Ivan Alekseevich arrived, offering to stay and help with the garden. “I’ll stay a few days, Olga—turn over the beds, prune the trees, if that’s alright.” “Oh Ivan Alekseevich, that’s so kind… Thank you.” Her dad’s “Olga dear” brought tears; in that moment, a crushing sense of finality, orphanhood, hopelessness. Up until then, she’d almost expected Dad would return, that all of this was some dreadful dream. For that first haunted week, in the dawn between sleep and waking, she’d forget—until black wave of certainty crashed back in: Dad was gone. Then came guilt for not saving him. “Don’t sell the cottage, please. I’ll always come to help. Remember, we picked out that Antonovka apple tree together—Sasha told me so much about you on the way to Michurinsk. You were just a kid, small and funny. He said his trees would outlive him. He took forever examining saplings—I always hurried him along, how he annoyed me…” Ivan stayed three days, digging, pruning, fertilising, planting three yellow chrysanthemum bushes at Olga’s request. “They should have been planted sooner, but this autumn’s mild—they’ll take root. In memory of Sasha… I’ll wrap the roses, clear the leaves on my next visit.” They hugged goodbye. Rain began to fall. Olga stood by the gate, watching Ivan walk away until he turned and waved—Go inside. The wind slammed the gate shut. Chrysanthemum petals scattered on the doorstep. Everything here was Dad’s and always would be: the rain, the trees, the autumn smells, the soil. He was part of it, always near. Olga promised herself she’d learn everything in time—she’d come back with Marisha until the first frosts, just a two-hour bus ride. Perhaps, next spring, she’d sort out the heating; she’d start saving up. And she’d go back to Michurinsk with Ivan for white currant saplings—Dad had always wanted those… *** Six months later, in early April, just as the last snow lingered, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by chance—on the telephone at the telegraph office, calling home from her trip to Michurinsk. In the cramped booth, at her feet, a plastic bag cradled a white currant sapling, its roots wrapped in a damp old child’s T-shirt.

Fathers Cottage The fact that the cottage was sold reached Emily quite unexpectedly, and entirely by chance.

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CAN’T WAIT TO WALK DOWN THE AISLE: Alla’s Rollercoaster Quest for Love After Betrayal, Academic Triumphs, A Prodigal Son, and a Romance with Charming Wahid—Before Fate Turns the Page and Family Ties Heal Again

CANT WAIT TO WALK DOWN THE AISLE Ella was positively itching to get married again. Shed already tested

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Is the Orchid Really to Blame? “Polly, take this orchid or I’m throwing it out,” Katie said, grabbing the transparent pot from the windowsill and handing it to me. “Thanks, love! But what’s wrong with this orchid?” I wondered aloud. There were already three lush, thriving orchids on the sill. “That flower was a wedding gift for my son. And, well, you know how that ended…” Katie sighed heavily. “Yes, Den divorced before the year was out. I won’t ask why—it must’ve been serious. He adored Tanya,” I said, not wanting to reopen old wounds. “I’ll tell you everything one day, Polly. It still hurts to talk about,” Katie murmured, wiping her eyes. I brought the “exiled” and “rejected” orchid home. My husband glanced at the “pathetic” flower and said, “Why do you want that runt? There’s no life left in it. Even I can see that. Don’t waste your time.” “I want to revive it. I’ll give it care and love. You’ll see, you’ll fall for this orchid yet,” I told him, wanting to bring life back to the drooping, dying plant. He winked at me, teasing, “Who wouldn’t thrive on a little love?” A week later, Katie called: “Polly, can I come round? I can’t keep carrying this secret. I need to tell you everything about Den’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Katy, come over—I’m waiting for you,” I replied. I could never say no to her: she’d been my rock through both my divorces and through all these years of friendship. An hour later, Katie arrived, settled in the kitchen, and over a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, and some dark chocolate, the long soul-baring began… “I never guessed my former daughter-in-law was capable of this. Den and Tanya were together seven years. He left Anne for Tanya—even though I adored Anne, such a warm, homey soul. I called her my daughter. But then in swept Tanya, all glamour and beauty, and Den was besotted, fluttering round her like a bee round a flower—his love for her fierce and all-consuming. Anne was out the door in a blink. Sure, Tanya looked like a model. Den loved the way his mates sighed after her, even strangers turned their heads. Seven years together and not a single child. I thought Den just wanted to do things properly—marriage, then start a family. We never pushed into his business. One day, out of the blue, Den announced: ‘Dad, Mum, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry. I’m throwing the biggest wedding—won’t spare a penny.’ We were delighted. At last, our son would have a real family—he was already thirty. Twice the wedding had to be postponed—he was ill once, then I was delayed on work. It didn’t sit right, but I said nothing; Den was glowing. Why ruin his joy? He wanted to have the church blessing too, but the priest he wanted was away. Nothing fell into place—bad signs everywhere… Anyway, we finally threw a huge wedding. Look at the photo—see that lovely orchid? Blooms stiff and proud. Now look at it—its leaves are in tatters. Den and Tanya were heading to Paris for the honeymoon, but disaster struck at the airport—Tanya wasn’t allowed to leave the country over a massive fine. Den ignored the adversity, dreaming of a happy family. Then, suddenly, he fell very ill and landed in hospital. The prognosis was dire. Tanya visited for a week before saying, ‘Sorry, Den, I can’t deal with a disabled husband. I’ve filed for divorce.’ Can you imagine, Polly, how he felt, helpless in that hospital bed? But all he said was, ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t fight the divorce.’ So, they divorced. But our boy recovered—thanks to a doctor, Peter Brown, who told us, ‘He’s young, he’ll pull through.’ We became quite friendly with Peter and his family—he’s got a sweet daughter, Mary, just twenty. At first, Den wouldn’t look at her, ‘She’s a shorty—not even pretty.’ ‘Son, give Mary a chance. Looks aren’t everything. You had your beauty queen already… better happy with water than miserable with honey.’ Den couldn’t get over Tanya, but Mary was smitten—always calling, following him everywhere. We decided to throw them together—took them all on a picnic. Den was miserable, nothing cheered him: not the crackling fire, not the barbecue, not our laughter. Mary tried to catch his eye, but he never looked her way. I said to my husband, ‘This was pointless—Den still loves Tanya. She’s a thorn in his heart.’ Months passed. Then, one day, Den came by with that orchid: ‘Here, Mum—a remnant of past happiness. Do what you like with it. I don’t want this exotic reminder.’ I reluctantly took the orchid and ignored it, somehow blaming it for Den’s heartaches. Not long after, a neighbour said, ‘Katie, I saw your Den with a tiny girl. Not as statuesque as his ex.’ I couldn’t believe he might actually be courting Mary. Then one day Den came over: ‘Meet my wife, Mary.’ He held her hand so gently. My husband and I were stunned, ‘What, no wedding? No guests?’ ‘No need for fuss. We’ve done that already. Quiet registry, and the church blessing too—now we’re together forever.’ I took Den aside: ‘Den, do you really love her? You’re not just marrying out of spite?’ ‘No, Mum, I’m not. I’m over… her.’ He couldn’t even say Tanya’s name. ‘And love—it’s different now, Mum. Mary’s world just fits mine, perfectly.’ That’s the story, Polly. Katie poured her heart out. After that, we didn’t see much of each other—life got in the way. But the orchid revived and flourished. Flowers really show their gratitude. I finally ran into Katie at the hospital: ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ ‘Mary’s had twins! She’s coming home today.’ Katie’s smile was dazzling. Nearby, Den and Katie’s husband waited with red roses. Mary appeared: tired, but radiant, followed by a nurse with two tiny sleeping bundles. Just then, my daughter arrived too, with my new granddaughter. Now Tanya begs Den to forgive her and start again. But you can glue a broken cup, Polly… doesn’t mean you’ll ever want to drink from it again.

IS THE ORCHID REALLY TO BLAME? Sarah, take this orchid away, or Im just going to chuck it, Kate says

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Open Up, We’re Here: When Entitled Relatives Turn Your Inheritance Into a Family Free-for-All — Juliet, it’s Aunt Natasha! — The voice on the phone rang with such forced cheer it made Juliet’s teeth ache. — We’re coming to town next week, need to sort out a few documents. We’ll stay at yours for a week or two, all right? Juliet nearly choked on her tea. No “hello”, no “how are you,” just straight in — we’re staying. Not “may we?”, not “would it be convenient?” Just “We’ll stay.” Full stop. — Aunt Natasha, — Juliet tried to keep her voice gentle, — lovely to hear from you. But about staying… perhaps I could help you find a good hotel? There are some great affordable options at the moment. — A hotel? — her aunt snorted as if Juliet had said something utterly ludicrous. — Why waste money? Didn’t your father leave you that three-bedroom flat? All alone in a massive place! Juliet closed her eyes. Here we go again. — It’s my flat, aunty. — Yours? — The voice sharpened with something cold and nasty. — And whose was your father? Not from our family? Blood’s thicker than water, Juliet. We’re not strangers, and you want to send us to a hotel like we’re dogs! — I’m not sending anyone anywhere. I just can’t have you to stay. — And why not? “Because last time you turned my life into a branch office of Hell,” Juliet thought, but only said, — Circumstances, Aunt Natasha. I simply can’t host you. — Circumstances?! — her aunt wasn’t even feigning patience now. — Three empty rooms and you’ve got circumstances! Your father would never have turned family out. You’re all just like your mother, aren’t you… — Aunt… — What — aunt? We’ll arrive Saturday by lunchtime. Max and Paul are coming with me. You’ll greet us properly. — I’ve already said — I can’t. — Juliet! — Her tone became harsh, commanding. — This isn’t up for discussion. Saturday. We’ll be there. The call ended. Juliet set the phone down and stared into space for a minute. Then exhaled heavily and leaned back on her chair. Like clockwork. Two years ago, Aunt Natasha had already “visited”—came as a foursome, promised three days, stretched to two weeks. Juliet still remembered the chaos: Max, uncle by marriage, sprawled across her sofa in muddy boots and channel surfed till 3am; Paul, their oversized twenty-three-year-old son, raided the fridge and never washed a plate. Aunt Natasha herself reigned over the kitchen, criticising everything — from curtains to “improper” tiles. When they finally left, Juliet discovered scorched upholstery, a smashed bathroom shelf, and mysterious stains on the lounge carpet. Not a word about money for food or utilities, which had piled high after their stay. Just packed their bags and left — “Thanks, Juliet, you’re a gem.” Juliet rubbed her temples. No. Never again. She could scream about Dad and family ties, but this time, even if Aunt showed up Saturday, the door would stay shut. She reached for her phone and found a good hotel. Proper, comfy, all the mod cons. She sent the address with clear instructions: This is all I’m willing to offer. If that wasn’t enough, it was not her problem. Two peaceful days passed. Juliet worked, enjoyed evening walks, cooked for one, and almost convinced herself the aunt’s call had been a nightmare. Surely, they might change their minds. Find another relative to leech off instead. The phone blared on Thursday near dusk. ‘Aunt Natasha’ lit up the screen, and Juliet’s stomach twisted. — Juliet, it’s me! — Cheerful voice crashed into the quiet flat. — We’re coming tomorrow, train gets in at two. Meet us there, set a proper table — we’ll want a decent meal after the journey! Juliet lowered herself slowly onto the sofa, fingers whitening on the phone. — Aunt Natasha, — every word dragged out, clear, — I’ve already said. I will NOT let you into my flat. Do not come. — Oh, don’t be silly! — The aunt chuckled, as if rebuffing a child’s tantrum. — You’re being ridiculous. We bought tickets! — That’s your problem. — Juliet, what is going on? You’re FAMILY. You HAVE to help! It’s sacred! — I don’t HAVE to do anything. — You do! Your father, bless him— — Aunt, stop with Dad. I said no. That’s final. A heavy, dramatic sigh came down the line, like steeling herself for a stubborn child: — Juliet, your opinion is irrelevant. We’re your family. Stop acting like we’re enemies. Two o’clock, don’t forget! — As I said— — Kisses, see you soon! Dial tone. Juliet stared at the dead screen, something hot and angry rising inside her. She flung the phone onto the sofa, pacing the room — three strides each way, like a trapped animal. So her opinion didn’t matter. Brilliant. Just perfect. She stopped cold. Think again, dear aunt. Juliet grabbed the phone, found ‘Mum’ in her contacts. — Hello? Juliet, love? — Mum’s voice was warm, a little quizzical. — Is everything all right? — Hi Mum. I want to come and stay. Tomorrow. For a week, maybe more. Pause. — Tomorrow? Sweetheart, you were only here a month ago… — I know. I just need it. I work remotely, doesn’t matter where I am. Can I come? She could almost picture Mum frowning, trying to work it out. — Of course you can. You know I’m always happy to have you. Are you sure you’re okay? — Yes Mum, honestly. Just missed you. She hung up and allowed herself a smile. By the time Aunt Natasha arrived, desperately banging on her door, Juliet would be in another city, 200 miles away. She checked train tickets. Early morning — 6:45. Perfect. While the aunt was hammering on her door, she’d be drinking tea in her mother’s kitchen. Blood may not be water, but sometimes family needs to hear “No.” On the train, Juliet listened to the wheels and wondered at her aunt’s face confronting that locked door. Eyes drooped, head buzzing, but now, at last, she felt peace. Mum met her at the station in a big hug, took her home, fed her pancakes, gave her tea, sent her off to bed. — We’ll talk later, — she said, taking the empty mug. — You rest first. Juliet fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. She woke to her phone shrieking. Fumbling for it, her eyes focused. “Aunt Natasha.” — Juliet! — Aunt was shrieking so loud, Juliet had to hold the phone away. — We’ve been standing at your door twenty minutes! Why won’t you open?! Juliet sat up, rubbed her face. Sun was setting outside — she’d slept all afternoon. — Because I’m not there, — she answered, unable to hide her smile. — Not there?! Where are you?! — In another city. Silence. Then — explosion: — You’ve got a nerve! You KNEW we were coming and you’ve run off?! How COULD you?! — Easily. I told you, you weren’t welcome. You chose not to listen. — How DARE you! You must have given a spare key to someone! A neighbour! Call them and tell them to open up! We’ll stay without you, we’re not children! Juliet froze. Incredible. Real nerve. — Are you serious, aunt? — Absolutely! We’re tired from travelling and you’re playing games! — I never agreed to let you stay. And I’m certainly not letting you into my home without me. — You— The bedroom door creaked. Mum stood in the doorway — dressing gown, messy hair, eyes squinting. She calmly held out her hand, and Juliet, not quite knowing why, gave her the phone. — Natasha, — Mum’s voice went ice cold, — it’s Vera. Listen carefully, and don’t interrupt. There was a sound, half bubbling, from the other end. — Yuri couldn’t stand you, — Mum continued. — All his life, he disliked you. I know that better than anyone. So why are you bothering his daughter? What do you want? Juliet heard the aunt try to stammer a reply. — Right, — Mum cut her off. — Don’t call Juliet again. Ever. She has people to rely on — and you’re not one of them. Conversation’s over. She hung up and handed the phone back. Juliet gaped at her mother as if seeing her for the first time. — Mum… You… I’ve never seen you like that. Mum snorted, adjusted her gown: — Your dad taught me. Said Natasha only responds to barking. One good roar — she won’t come back for years. She smiled, laughter lines creasing her face: — Works every time, would you believe? Juliet burst out laughing, loud and free, all her tension finally gone. Mum joined in. — Right, — she waved to the kitchen, — come on, tea. You can tell me everything.

Open up, were here Lizzie, its Aunt Susan! The voice on the phone rang with such forced cheerfulness

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Like a Bird Drawn to the Call – A Tale of First Loves, Broken Vows, Forbidden Romances, and Finding True Happiness After Heartbreak “Girls, marriage should be once and for all. Stand by your beloved until your last breath, not drifting endlessly in search of ‘the one’ and ending up like a half-eaten apple. Married men are off-limits—don’t flirt, don’t fool yourself it’s just a fling, or you’ll both fall into the abyss, missing out on true happiness.” My parents have been together 50 years—a shining example I hoped to follow. I told my friends at twenty that I’d never have children or affairs outside of marriage—a rule my grandmother’s wise words cemented in my heart. But life’s script was uniquely mine. There were family secrets, sibling rivalry, whirlwind romance with Army cadet Egor, a distant posting, a baby in the turbulent ’90s, and Egor’s endless disappearances and dark secrets. I waited as the years passed—until, one New Year’s, Egor returned to ask for a divorce and left us for good. Lonely, I was courted by Dr. Dmitri—a married man—but stopped our romance for the sake of his family, my heart heavy but resolute. In time, I met Vasily, a patient at my hospital with a son the same age as my daughter. Together, we found happiness, raised our children as one family, and built the kind of love worth protecting at all costs. Now, thirty years later, Egor calls my mother with bittersweet nostalgia: “I never met another woman like Ksenia…”

LIKE A BIRD TO A CALL Girls, marriage is something you commit to for life till your final breath with

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Stepping Into Her London Flat, Olivia Halted. By the Door, Carefully Placed Beside Her and Ivan’s Shoes, Stood Expensive High Heels She Immediately Recognised—They Belonged to Ivan’s Sister. Why Was She Here? Olivia Didn’t Recall Ivan Warning Her About His Sister’s Visit — Olivia, is your husband off on a work trip again? — called out her colleague Paul as she headed to the bus stop. — Fancy grabbing a drink at the cafe? We could have your favourite hot chocolate and actually chat, instead of our rushing “hello, goodbye” routine. — Sorry, Paul, I can’t tonight. Ivan promised he’d get home early and we’re finally choosing a kitchen—still sorting things after the renovations. And he hasn’t been sent away for ages. — And he’s always home on time? — Paul asked, not quite hiding his ironic tone. — Not always, — smiled Olivia, shaking her head. — We need the money now, so Ivan’s got to work late. Once the flat’s fully furnished, then he can be home every evening. — Got it, — Paul laughed, wishing her a nice evening before heading off. Tonight, Olivia lucked out—the bus arrived quickly and she’d left work early, so made perfect time. Snagging a window seat, she drifted into thought. There was a time when she and Paul nearly got married, but it ended awkwardly—she barely remembered why. Then Ivan appeared, and she married him almost on a whim, perhaps just to get back at Paul: “See, I’m not alone, you missed your chance.” Paul tried to win her back—apologising, promising happiness, swearing to be faithful—but Olivia was swept up with Ivan and convinced herself she never truly loved Paul, just thought she had. Eventually she stopped thinking about him, until recently, when Paul transferred from head office to her branch. He acted pleasantly surprised, but Olivia suspected he’d requested the move. Still, it was nice he remained single and still warm towards her. She genuinely wished him happiness, even envied his future wife just a little—he was a real romantic, always charming. As for her, she hadn’t exactly been unlucky with Ivan—he was working relentlessly for their future. He wanted them to have everything, even if it meant they hardly saw each other now. They were living in Ivan’s sister’s flat, offered generously while her own children were growing up. Oksana and her husband didn’t worry about money; she’d never worked and saw no point renting the place out, simply investing in property so her kids would always have somewhere to live. Ivan and Olivia had redecorated as they liked, with Oksana’s blessing, and were now buying furniture. Yet Olivia often wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to rent somewhere already furnished. They’d sunk so much cash in, it could easily have covered years of rent or a deposit for a mortgage. But Ivan’s eyes lit up at Oksana’s offer of this home. Getting off the bus, Olivia crossed the street and headed to the building, the air thick with that pre-rain scent—but she wasn’t in the mood to savour it. Her mind swirled with thoughts, none settling for long—had it really been a year or more since they moved in? The flat still felt temporary, their “real life” always waiting to start… but when? She realised she was walking slowly, almost reluctant to reach her door. The entrance clicked open, welcoming her into the dim hallway, and she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, tension building with each step. Opening the flat, Olivia stopped. By the door, neatly placed beside her and Ivan’s shoes, sat expensive high heels—Oksana’s, Ivan’s sister. Why was she here? Ivan hadn’t mentioned any visit. Olivia was about to call out, but something made her pause, intuition warning her to listen first. — We wanted a holiday — Oksana’s voice floated out. — But my husband can’t get time off, so I thought I’d give you these tickets. With one condition—her tone sharpened—you’re not to go with your wife, but with Vera. Olivia froze. “With Vera?” The name rang a faint bell—Ivan had once mentioned Oksana trying to set him up with her friend. Olivia hadn’t cared much back then. But hearing it now, dread twisted inside her. — I don’t want Vera — Ivan replied, irritated. — Oksana, I’ve told you, I’m with Olivia now. I have a wife! Why push this again? Olivia exhaled in relief—Oksana meddling as always. She readied herself to emerge, when Oksana continued: — Who are you fooling? I remember how much you loved Vera. You two were even planning to marry until you stormed off over a petty argument. Don’t be stubborn — I can see she’s better for you than Olivia. Vera’s different. Olivia stayed rooted, hardly registering what she was hearing. Loved? A marriage planned? Yet Ivan had said Vera didn’t matter. She stared at the floor, fighting composure as Oksana’s words echoed in her head. — So what? — Ivan retorted, with an edge of uncertainty. — That was the past. Yes, it happened, but it’s over. I love my wife. — Love? Oh come off it, Ivan! — Oksana scoffed. — You only married Olivia to make Vera jealous after she dumped you. When she wanted you back, you got married just to get revenge! Olivia’s heart tightened. Revenge? Was Ivan’s marriage to her really just payback? She felt suddenly lost, remembering she’d rushed into marrying Ivan herself after splitting with Paul. But even if Ivan had had the same motives at first, it didn’t matter—they loved each other now, didn’t they? Holding her breath, Olivia waited for what he’d say next. — It’s all in the past — Ivan’s voice replied. — I’m married now; I have commitments. — Commitments? — Oksana sneered. — No kids yet, thank God. Remember whose flat you’re living in? With Olivia, you’ll keep drifting from place to place. Vera’s just inherited a spacious three-bedroom from her parents! She still loves you—I know, she’s hoping you’ll come to your senses. Olivia pressed herself to the cold wall, fighting for control. How could Oksana say such things? But more than anger, she anxiously listened for Ivan’s reply. — Oksana, stop — Ivan said slowly, voice less certain than before. — A home isn’t everything. We have a roof, and soon we’ll buy our own. But Oksana didn’t back down: — You’re scared of change. Vera was always better for you; you’re just hurt, but it’s not too late. Vera would give you stability—the life you deserve. Don’t you see you’ll never be truly happy with Olivia? — And anyway, — said Oksana, — I won’t be able to let you have the flat much longer. I’ve got my own plans for it—you’ll have to move out soon. — Does Vera know about all this? — Ivan asked suddenly. — Of course! — Oksana replied quickly. — In fact, it was Vera’s idea. She wants you, knows you still love her. The tickets are just her way in—and she asked me to back her up. Silence fell. Olivia’s mind spun—why was Ivan quiet? Was he actually considering it? — What do I tell Olivia? — he finally asked, quietly. — Say you’re helping me at the cottage wink wink; we’re doing up the place. And then you can go off to the seaside with Vera. Simple. Olivia couldn’t take any more. She slipped back out of the flat and walked away into the chilly evening. Her feet led her to a cosy cafe almost by instinct. It was quiet, dusk falling outside, music playing faintly. She sank into a window seat and ordered vanilla hot chocolate without thinking. Her head spun with the conversation she’d overheard. She replayed Oksana’s words, aching to know how her husband could keep such secrets—how he’d never spoken of wanting to marry another, especially his sister’s friend! Olivia felt betrayed, but mostly hurt: was her marriage just his personal vendetta against an old flame? She’d always thought Ivan had chosen her for herself, not as a rebound. At least she’d always rejected Paul’s offers, not even sharing a cafe chat, let alone a holiday! Night fell, rain streaked down the windows, and Olivia stared at the city lights, untouched hot chocolate before her. Time hung suspended. Ivan hadn’t rung—clearly planning a seaside trip with Vera, not caring where Olivia was. Reaching for her phone, she found the battery dead. She sighed, knowing she couldn’t delay going home any longer. Wrapping herself in her coat, braced against the cold wind, Olivia walked home, mentally preparing herself: the relationship was over. A breakup was inevitable. At her door, a heaviness pressed upon her. She entered slowly, met by uncanny silence—no TV, no kitchen noises. But in the middle of the room were suitcases, half-packed. Ivan was moving out. “So it’s true—he’s leaving,” she thought. — What are you doing? — she asked, already expecting his excuse about helping Oksana at the cottage. But Ivan said something different. — Olivia, we’re leaving. I’ve found us a new flat. For now, at least—afterwards we’ll sort out a mortgage. — He paused, looking at her closely. — Why were you so late? I tried calling all evening—your phone’s off. Have you taken on extra shifts? Olivia couldn’t believe her ears. Everything she’d planned to say suddenly felt pointless. She nodded, confused. — We’re leaving? — she whispered. Sensing her uncertainty, Ivan came closer, then sat beside her to explain. — I had a row with Oksana — he sighed. — I’ve had enough. I don’t want us depending on her any more. We need our own place. Olivia felt herself let go just a little. But it wasn’t over yet. Ivan hesitated, then continued: — I should have told you before — his voice softened. — There was something with Vera, yes. I did marry you with her in mind. But you are the one I truly love—I don’t want to lose you. Relief began to trickle into Olivia’s heart. Hurt and lies remained, but openness mattered. — Sorry for not telling you sooner — Ivan said quietly. — It was hard… when you spoke about maybe marrying Paul, I thought my own confession was best left unsaid. Later, I just didn’t want to bring it up. Olivia sighed, tears pricking her eyes—but it was a comfort, not pain. — Alright — she breathed. — The past’s over. You said you’ve got us a flat? — Yes — Ivan nodded. — For now, but eventually our own home. No more Oksana, no more interference. We’ll make it work, I promise. Then get a mortgage, do things properly. Olivia agreed. She felt sure this was the right step. At last, it would be their life, not lived to others’ plans. — Well then, — smiled Ivan, — Let’s finish packing? She nodded again, speechless. All she could do now was trust that their future would genuinely be a fresh start, leaving the past behind for good.

Stepping into the flat, Alice stopped. By the doorway, arranged with strange precision next to her own

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The Taste of Freedom – We finished the renovations last autumn, – began Vera Ignatievna as she shared her story. We spent ages choosing wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over the colour of the bathroom tiles, and laughed, remembering how twenty years ago we dreamed of owning this very three-bedroom flat. – Well then, – my husband said contentedly as we celebrated the end of our dramatic renovation saga, – now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his wife here, they’ll have children, and our home will be filled with noise and real life. But his dreams were not meant to come true. Our eldest daughter, Kate, came home with two suitcases and her two children. – Mum, I have nowhere else to go, – she said, and with those words, all our plans vanished. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Thankfully, he didn’t object, just shrugged: – It’s fine, I’ll have my own place soon. “His own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat. The same one we’d renovated, and which we’d been renting out to a young family. Every month, a modest but crucial amount arrived in our account — our “security cushion” for the day when my husband and I would be too frail and unwanted. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée, Lara, walking past that building, looking up, chattering excitedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I said nothing. Then one day, I overheard: – Mrs. Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We’ve even found our wedding venue! You have to imagine it! – Lara was glowing with happiness, – they have a real carriage there! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace! Guests will walk into the gardens… – Where will you live after the wedding? – I couldn’t help but ask, – such a celebration must cost a fortune! Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. – We’ll stay with you for now. And then… we’ll see. https://clck.ru/3RKgHm – We already have Kate and her kids living with us, – I replied slowly, – it’ll be like a student hostel, not a home. Lara pouted. – True. Maybe we shouldn’t live with you. We’ll look for an actual hostel. At least there, no one will meddle in our lives. That sharp “no one will meddle” stung me. I’d never meddled. I just tried to stop them from making a silly mistake. Later, came the talk with Misha. The last attempt to reach him. – Son, why this spectacle? Just sign the registry, put the money towards a deposit for your own place! – My voice shook. He gazed out the window, his face hard. – Mum, why do you and Dad celebrate your wedding anniversaries at ‘The Golden Dragon’ every five years? You could just stay at home, it would be cheaper. I was at a loss for words. – See? – he smiled with a hint of spite, – you have your tradition, and we’ll have ours. He equated our modest family dinner once every five years with their half-million wedding extravaganza. For a moment, in Misha’s eyes, I saw not my son, but a judge. One who handed down the verdict: you’re hypocrites. You allow yourselves everything, but me — nothing. Somehow, he’d forgotten that his father and I still paid the car loan for him. And never once considered our “security cushion”. Now he needed a wedding! And what a wedding! So, my son and his future wife were upset with me, especially because I refused to give them keys to Grandma’s flat. *** One night, I returned home late on an almost empty bus and watched my reflection in the dark window. I saw a tired woman, looking much older than her years, clutching a heavy shopping bag, with fear in her eyes. Suddenly, with crystal clear, almost painful clarity, I realised: I was driven by… fear! Fear of becoming a burden. Fear my children would leave me. Fear of the future. I didn’t refuse to give Misha the flat because I was greedy, but because I feared being left with nothing. I made him “work for it”, but undercut his independence by paying for his life: what if he failed, and got upset? I demanded grown-up choices from him, but still treated him like a child who couldn’t understand or do anything. But really, he and Lara just want a beautiful start to their life. With a carriage and a harp. Yes, it’s silly, extravagant. But in the end, they have the right. As long as it’s with their own money. I made arrangements with our tenants to find another place as quickly as possible. A month later, I phoned Misha: – Come over. We need to talk. When they arrived, wary and ready for a fight, I set tea on the table and… put down the keys to my mother’s flat. https://clck.ru/3RKg9f – Take them. Don’t get too excited: it’s not a gift. The flat is yours for a year. In that time, you’ll decide: either you take out a mortgage, or you stay here but under new terms. I’ll lose the rental income, but so be it. Consider it my investment. Not for your wedding, but for your chance to become a family, not flatmates. Lara’s eyes widened. Misha looked at the keys like he couldn’t process what was happening. – Mum… And… Kate? – Kate will get her own surprise. You’re grown up now. It’s time for your lives to become your responsibility. We won’t be your safety net or your wallet anymore. Just parents. Who love you, but won’t rescue you. The silence was deafening. – The wedding? – Lara’s voice trembled with uncertainty. – The wedding? – I shrugged, – I don’t know. Do whatever you want. If you want a harp, then have a harp. *** Misha and Lara left, and I was terrified. Terrified to tears. What if they can’t cope? What if they’re angry forever? Still, for the first time in years, I breathed freely. Because at last, I said “no”! Not to them. To my own fears. I let my son go into his own adult, complicated, independent life. Whatever it might be… *** Now let’s look at things through the son’s eyes. Lara and I dreamed of an extraordinary wedding. My sister’s divorce crushed our plans. When Mum said it was pointless spending on a grand celebration, something inside me broke. – Then why do you go to a restaurant every wedding anniversary? – I blurted out. – You could just stay home. Save the money! I watched as Mum paled. I really did want to hit her where it hurt. I was deeply offended. Yes, they gave me a car. So what? I never asked! Now they complain about the loan payments. How is that my problem? Their choice, their payments. They renovated the flat. Said it was for us. But now we can’t live there. Grandma’s “one-bed” – a sacred cow, vital “untouchable reserves”, more important than their only son’s wedding! So what now? How to show the world — and ourselves — that we are a unit? Lara shyly said once: – Misha, I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help. Mortgage troubles. – You’re giving me yourself, – I reassured her. But deep down, I was furious. Not with her. With the unfairness. Why does everything fall on my parents’ shoulders? And why do they help with such bitterness, as if every pound they spend is another nail in their coffin? That kind of help doesn’t warm you. It burns you with guilt. All these unspoken grievances hung in the air. Then came the call. Mum’s voice was strange, firm. – Come over. We need to talk. We went, as if to face judgement. Lara squeezed my hand: – She’ll refuse any help for the wedding, – she whispered, – for good. – Probably, – I nodded. *** On the table lay the keys to Grandma’s flat. I recognised the keyring from childhood. Those keys meant so much. – Take them, – Mum said. And she delivered her speech. Not long, but revolutionary. About one year. About choices. About how they’d stop being our “wallet and background”. The eternal complaint “we have nowhere to live” lost its power, and the old hope “parents will fix it” was gone. I took the keys. They felt cold and weirdly heavy. That moment brought a clear, uncomfortable revelation. We’d wanted so much, held so many grievances, but never spoke honestly to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we understand your fears. Let’s talk about how we can move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just expected them to guess our wishes and deliver — no conversations, no terms, all with a smile. Like when we were children. – The wedding? – Lara whispered, confusion in her voice. – Your wedding? – Mum shrugged, – if you find money for a harp, get the harp. We left. I rolled the keys in my palm. – What shall we do? – Lara asked. Not just about the flat. About everything. – I don’t know, – I answered honestly. – It’s our problem now… In that scary, new responsibility, there was strange, wild freedom. The first step — figuring out if we really needed the carriage and the harp. Traditions are lovely, but they should be built on more than just one spectacular day… *** So what happened in the end? Misha and Lara’s grown-up life began the very next day. Finally together! In their own flat! It might not be theirs yet, but still. It’s small, but cosy. Freshly renovated. And nobody else! At first, constant guests. Of course — freedom! Then, after a month, a new urge: we want a dog! And not just any dog, a big one! Turned out Lara had always dreamed of one but never had one — her mum wouldn’t allow it. Misha had one growing up, but it ran away — a childhood tragedy… Soon enough, the missing link for complete happiness appeared: a big retriever called Lexus. https://clck.ru/3RKgGM This three-month-old wonder quickly started ruling the roost: scratching the corners, chewing furniture, leaving messes everywhere. When Mrs. Ignatievna came visiting, she was shocked — nobody had told her about the new tenant. – Misha! Lara! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! – she nearly wept, surveying the mess, – and why a dog? It needs constant attention, and you leave it home alone! Of course it’s going to destroy everything. And the fur! Do you even clean? The smell! No! I can’t accept this! You must return the dog! Tomorrow! – Mum, – Misha frowned, – you said the flat was ours for a year. Is this how it’s going to be — you telling us how to live? Maybe you want the keys back? – Of course not, – she exclaimed, – I keep my word. A year means a year. But remember: you have to return the flat in the condition you got it. Understood? – Understood, – Misha and Lara replied together. – Don’t expect me to visit till then. I don’t want to see this. *** She kept her word. She didn’t visit. Rarely called. Four months later, Misha came home alone: he and Lara had split up. He went on about what a terrible housekeeper she was. Couldn’t cook. Didn’t care for the puppy. Didn’t walk him enough. Lexus had to be returned to the breeder — and not easily. Took a week of negotiations. They bought food for three months ahead — at the breeder’s insistence. And dog food is expensive! – Did you rush things with Lara, son? – asked Vera Ignatievna, hiding a hint of a smile, – you were planning that wedding, with a carriage and a harp… – A wedding, Mum?! Don’t even start! You can rent out Grandma’s flat again. – Why? You’re used to living there now? – No, I’d rather be home, – Misha shook his head, – unless… Do you mind? – I’m always happy to have you back, – replied Vera Ignatievna, – especially now that Kate and her children have moved out and it’s quiet again…

A Taste of Freedom We finished the renovations last autumn, Margaret Atkinson began, her voice textured

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Raw to the Core… In This English Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Lives Dad, Alex, not only had a wife but always had a favourite woman on the side—sometimes more than one. Mum, Jennifer, suspecting her husband’s infidelity, was hardly a model of virtue herself; she enjoyed spending time outside the family with a married colleague. Their two sons were left to fend for themselves, their upbringing mostly neglected, and so they spent their days aimlessly wandering about. Jennifer insisted the school was responsible for everything to do with her boys. Every Sunday, the family would gather at the kitchen table—not for conversation but to eat quickly and disappear in silence. This would have been their life forever in a broken, sinful, yet strangely sweet existence—until the day disaster struck. When their younger son, Dennis, was twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage for the first time to help out. While Dennis was admiring the tools, Alex stepped out to see some friends tinkering with their cars nearby. Suddenly, thick black smoke began pouring from the garage and then, roaring flames. (It would later be discovered that Dennis accidentally knocked over a lit blowtorch onto a canister of petrol.) People froze, uncertain what to do. Fire raged. Someone drenched Alex with a bucket of water, and he charged into the inferno. Seconds later, Alex emerged from the flames carrying his lifeless son. Dennis was horribly burned—only his face was spared, likely shielded by his hands. His clothes were gone. The fire brigade and ambulance arrived, and Dennis was rushed to hospital—he was alive. Dennis was rushed straight in for surgery. Hours passed anxiously until a doctor spoke to the parents: “We’re doing everything we can. Dennis is in a coma. His chances are one in a million. There’s nothing official medicine can do now but if Dennis has a mad will to live, perhaps a miracle will occur. Be strong.” Alex and Jennifer, frantic, drove through a torrential downpour to the nearest church. For the first time in their lives, they stepped inside, soaking wet, desperate to save their son. On seeing the vicar, they approached him hesitantly. “Father, our son is dying! What do we do?” Jennifer sobbed. “My children, I’m Father Stephen,” the vicar replied. “It’s always in a crisis you turn to God, isn’t it? How great are your sins?” “None that I know of. We’ve never killed anyone,” Alex replied quietly, averting the vicar’s gaze. “But you’ve let your love die! It lies cold at your feet. Between loving husband and wife there shouldn’t be so much as a slip of thread, but between you two, a cedar log could hardly bridge the gap! Pray, my children, to Saint Nicholas for your son’s health! Pray with all your heart! But remember—it is always God’s will. Sometimes God sends a lesson to the foolish. Otherwise, you’ll never understand. You’ll lose your soul and never even notice. Change your lives—love saves all.” Alex and Jennifer knelt before the icon of Saint Nicholas, sobbing and praying desperately, vowing to turn their lives inside out. All their affairs were cut off for good, every sin reckoned with, their lives rebuilt stitch by stitch. The next morning, the doctor rang: Dennis was out of his coma. His parents sat by his hospital bed. Dennis opened his eyes and tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace of pain. “Mum, Dad—please, don’t leave each other,” he whispered. “Don’t be silly, love, of course we won’t,” Jennifer said, gently touching his hand. Dennis winced in pain and she quickly pulled away. “I saw it happen, Mum! And when I have kids, I’ll give them your names,” Dennis went on. Alex and Jennifer exchanged glances. They thought Dennis must be delirious. “What kids?” they thought. “You can’t even move a finger. Just focus on getting well.” But from that moment, Dennis slowly recovered. The family sold their cottage, pooling every resource for Dennis’s treatment. It was a shame the car and garage were lost—they could have been sold too. But the important thing was: Dennis survived. Grandparents on both sides pitched in. The family was united now through tragedy. Even the longest day ends eventually. A year passed. Dennis was now in a rehabilitation centre. He could walk, look after himself. There, he met a girl his age, Maddy, who had also been burned in a fire, her face scarred despite several surgeries. Maddy was shy and avoided mirrors. Dennis was instantly drawn to her gentle soul—she radiated a wisdom and vulnerability that made you want to protect her. The two spent every free moment together. They had so much in common—both had endured unbelievable pain, despair, countless bitter pills, endless injections, and sterile hospital gowns. They endlessly shared their favourite topics, never running out of things to say. Time passed… Dennis and Maddy had a quiet wedding. They had two beautiful children—a daughter, Charlotte, then a son, Eugene, three years later. Finally, once the family at last felt at peace, Alex and Jennifer decided to separate. The ordeal with Dennis had drained them; they couldn’t bear to remain together. They both wanted release, and calm. Jennifer went to stay with her sister in the suburbs. Before she left, she stopped in at the church for Father Stephen’s blessing. In recent years, she’d often thanked him for saving her son, but he always corrected her: “Thank God, Jennifer!” Father Stephen didn’t approve of her departure. “But if you must, go. Rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But remember—husband and wife are one! Come back!” he urged gently. Alex stayed alone in the empty flat; the sons had families of their own, living separately. The ex-spouses visited their grandchildren at different times, careful to avoid each other. And so, at last, everyone was comfortable…

The Hurt Runs Deep… In this family, everyone lived their own separate lives. John, the father

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The Country Cottage: The Place That Heals Everything

The Cottage Will Fix Everything What on earth are you thinking? I told Nora youd be coming!

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LET ME REMIND YOU “Miss Smith, I can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tom sadly, dabbing his paintbrush at the disobedient green leaf curling the wrong way on the flower he’d drawn. “Just a gentler touch, sweetheart—imagine you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There, that’s it! Perfect! That’s not just a swirl, that’s a real masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “So, Tom, who’s this beautiful artwork for?” “For Mum!” Tom beamed, having finally tamed his stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today, and this is my present!” Tom’s voice brimmed with pride at his teacher’s praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Now don’t close your sketchbook yet, let the paint dry or it’ll be smudged. When you get home, you can tear out this masterpiece so it’s perfect for her. She’s absolutely going to love it!” Mrs. Smith cast one last look at the dark head bent over the page. Smiling to herself, she returned to her desk. A gift for Mum, indeed! She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen such a lovely drawing. Tom certainly had a talent for art. She really ought to ring his mother and suggest signing him up for art classes—such a gift shouldn’t be left to waste. And she’d ask her former pupil if she liked the present, too. Mrs. Smith herself couldn’t stop looking at the flowers blooming on the page. They seemed to almost come alive with their curling leaves. Oh, he’s just like his mum! Lorna was an incredible little artist at his age too… ***** “Mrs. Smith, it’s Lorna, Tom Carter’s mum,” came a call to the teacher’s flat that evening, the voice of a young woman sounding brisk and tired. “Just letting you know Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna, is everything alright?” Mrs. Smith asked with gentle curiosity. “Well, it’s not! The little tyke ruined my whole birthday!” The voice crackled with irritation. “Now he’s got a fever—paramedics just left.” “Oh dear, Lorna, he seemed perfectly fine when he left school with your birthday gift…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh come on, Lorna! He drew you the most wonderful flowers! I was going to call and ask about art school—” “I don’t know what flowers you’re on about, but the last thing I expected was a flea-bitten bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Mrs. Smith was thoroughly confused, listening to Lorna’s agitated explanation, her frown deepening by the minute. “Lorna, would you mind if I popped over? Just for a short visit—I do live just across the road…” A few minutes later, having got her former pupil’s reluctant agreement, Mrs. Smith grabbed her thick old album of faded photos and treasured childhood drawings by her very first class, and stepped out into the street. The kitchen was in chaos when Lorna let her in. Clearing away the birthday cake and stacking dirty plates in the sink, Tom’s mum began a litany: How he came home late, trailing mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper, stinking to high heaven, all because he’d clambered into a freezing pit after it—the same pit a gang of local lads had chucked it into. Ruined textbooks, the ink-drenched sketchbook—“those horrible blotches.” And then the fever, spiking to thirty-nine in barely an hour… The guests had all left, cake untouched; the ambulance crew had stern words about her lack of attention… “So I took the mutt back to the tip, when Tom finally fell asleep,” Lorna finished shortly. “His sketchbook’s drying by the radiator—there’s nothing left, not even the flowers! Looks like so much rubbish.” She snorted irritably. She didn’t notice how Mrs. Smith’s expression clouded over with every sentence, growing ever darker as Lorna spoke. And when she realised what had happened to the puppy Tom had rescued, Mrs. Smith was thunderous. She gave Lorna a hard stare with kind, sorrowful eyes, brushed the battered album affectionately, and quietly began to speak… About the green swirls, the blossoming flowers… a little boy’s effort and courage. About a heart that wouldn’t put up with injustice, unlike those bullies who’d dumped a living creature in a ditch. She led Lorna to the window: “See that pit there? Tom could’ve drowned, it’s not just the puppy who was in danger. But do you think he thought about that? Maybe all he thought of was making sure the flowers on his page didn’t get ruined for your birthday gift…” Mrs. Smith looked directly at her former pupil. “Do you remember? Back in ’94, sat on the school bench in tears, cuddling that scruffy kitten you rescued from the estate boys? How the whole class stroked it, and we waited for your mum. How upset you were when your parents, in a panic, threw it outside for being a ‘flea-bitten bundle’… Lucky for you, they changed their minds and let it back in! So let me remind you! Tisha the kitten you couldn’t bear to say goodbye to. Mufty, the big-eared mutt you walked to school with all through your childhood. The injured rook you nursed in the nature corner… Mrs. Smith pulled from the album a big photo: a little girl in a white pinafore, cradling a fluffy kitten, smiling at the crowd of classmates. Her voice was gentle but firm. “Let me remind you of the kindness that bloomed in your heart, brightening even the hardest times…” From the album, a faded childhood drawing of a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand and her mother’s hand with the other slipped onto the table. “If it were up to me,” Mrs. Smith’s voice now held a trace of sternness, “I’d have kissed Tom AND the puppy and framed those colourful blots! There’s no better gift a mother can receive than having her child become a good person.” As she spoke, Lorna’s face softened, her anxious eyes flickering toward Tom’s bedroom door. Her hands gripped the battered sketchbook. “Mrs. Smith! Please—could you watch Tom for just a few minutes? Please—I need to go out. I’ll be quick!” Under Mrs. Smith’s steady gaze, Lorna darted out, coat hastily pulled on, and ran towards the landfill in the gathering dusk, calling and searching through boxes and bags, glancing anxiously back at her home. Would he forgive her? ***** “Tom, who’s that nosing about in the flowers there? That’s your friend, Daisy, isn’t it?” “That’s right, Mrs. Smith! You can tell?” “Of course I can! Look at that star-shaped patch on her paw! I remember you and your mum scrubbing those muddy paws…” Mrs. Smith chuckled. “And now I wash her paws every single day!” Tom announced proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you’ve got a friend, it’s your job to take care of them!’ She even got us a special tub for it!” “She’s a brilliant mum,” Mrs. Smith smiled. “Are you doing another picture for her?” “Yes! Want to put it in a frame for her. She’s still got those blotches in a frame, you know, and she always looks at them and smiles. But why would anyone smile at blotches, Mrs. Smith?” “Blotches, Tom?” Mrs. Smith smirked. “Maybe you would, if the blotches were made with love. Tell me, how’s art school going? Are you enjoying it?” “Oh yes! Soon I’ll be able to draw mum’s portrait! She’ll love that. But for now—” Tom rummaged in his backpack and brought out a folded piece of paper. “This is for you, from Mum—she draws too, now.” Mrs. Smith opened the paper, squeezing Tom’s shoulder as she sat beside him. On the white page, bursting with colour, was a beaming Tom, his hand on the faithful rescue dog’s head. Beside him stood a miniature, fair-haired schoolgirl hugging a kitten in an old-fashioned uniform. And standing behind her desk, half-hidden among books, smiling with quiet pride and ageless wisdom, was Mrs. Smith herself. In every tiny detail, every brushstroke, she felt the deep, boundless pride of motherhood. Mrs. Smith brushed away a tear and smiled warmly—there, in the corner of the picture, picked out in delicate flower-hued lettering, was a single word: “Remember.”

ILL REMIND YOU Miss Mary, look, I cant get this curl right, whispered little Thomas, a Year Two pupil