This was the last thing she needed…
Marianne lived alone. She and her husband had never managed to have children. At first, they had hoped, tried, and later considered adopting—she had been the one pushing for it, while he had seemed indifferent. Perhaps she had taken too long to prepare for such a big step, hesitating, overthinking, until time slipped away, and after turning forty, she abandoned the idea altogether. Honestly, she was afraid.
Her husband loved hiking—backpacks, tents, campfire songs. He was good with a guitar, sociable, always up for a gathering or a night out with friends.
In her younger years, Marianne had enjoyed that life too. But as she got older, she grew weary of it. She was tired of spending every weekend trekking with a heavy pack, returning Sunday evening only to drag herself to work on Monday—sunburnt, bitten by midges, nails chipped. She longed to sleep in, take a hot shower, use a proper toilet instead of squatting in the woods with mosquitoes attacking her bare skin.
Too many adventures became exhausting. Her back ached, her joints protested, and eventually, she stopped joining him on his trips.
At first, he stayed home in solidarity, skipping a few outings. But she could see how restless he was, how he missed it. So she told him to go without her. He was relieved.
“Why let him go alone? Mark my words, some woman will snatch him up. He would’ve settled down eventually,” her friend scolded.
“If no one took him when he was young, I doubt it’ll happen now.”
“You’re wrong. Men don’t lose value with age,” her friend shook her head.
“So what? You want me to hike in pain just so he doesn’t cheat? If he wants to stray, he’ll do it at home. Besides, we have our own circle of friends.”
Her friend just sighed.
After that, he stopped inviting her. They drifted apart without noticing, no longer sharing memories or conversations. But she saw nothing unusual—until one day, he came home distant, lost in thought.
“Where did you go this time?” she asked, stirring soup on the stove.
“Same old route. We had some newcomers.”
“Show me the photos?” She tried to engage him.
“I told you, same trail,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew—exactly what her friend had warned her about.
He stayed silent for three days. Then—
“I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Hard. Never thought it’d happen to me,” he confessed, avoiding her gaze.
“Just like that?”
“She came instead of you. We’ve been on a few trips together. I can’t imagine life without her.”
“Is she young?”
He didn’t answer.
“I see. So what now? Moving in with her?” Marianne kept her voice steady, refusing to scream or accuse.
“She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—I can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat and split it.”
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, then… I don’t know.” He stood, pacing nervously.
The flat was theirs, bought together. Every fiber of her rebelled—but after days of thinking, she agreed, insisting on choosing her own place. It hurt, seeing his relief.
“No, I knew you were foolish, but not this foolish,” her friend said, tapping her temple.
“You’re right. But there’s a child. Not his fault. I’m not heartless. What would I do with a big flat alone?”
Luckily, her new one-bedroom was bright, nearby, freshly renovated. She didn’t care where he ended up.
Alone again, no husband, no children—she’d adjust.
Then, late one night, her phone rang. Her brother. He only called for emergencies—last time, when their father died.
Marianne had moved from a tiny village to the city, married, built a life. By her family’s standards, she was rich—city job, own flat. Of course, they expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but their envy, even her mother’s, wore her down. How could she explain that a flat wasn’t wealth, just necessity?
Her younger brother was their parents’ golden child—their future caretaker. She felt like an outsider. Eventually, she stopped visiting. Then came her husband’s hiking phase, and time slipped away.
Her father had died a decade ago. That was her last trip home.
This call couldn’t be good.
“Nick? What’s wrong?” she asked, bracing herself. “Mum?”
“No, she’s alive. But sick. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”
“I can’t right now. Maybe in a month.”
At least Mum was alive.
“Look…” He hesitated. “Nadine left me. Said she’s done caring for Mum, splitting between two homes. Took the boys and left. But I’m a man—I can’t run a household. I work. Mum’s no help, she needs care herself.”
Long story short, he had a new woman, pregnant. Couldn’t handle Mum too. “Take her, will you?”
“Who? Mum or this new girl?”
“Mum, obviously.”
“And the girl—”
“My wife. Well, not legally.”
She could hear his smile. Happy.
“Where would I put her? I’ve divorced, got a tiny flat.”
“Perfect. Company for you. She’s got her pension. Mum hates Maggie anyway. Come get her. She’ll die alone here.”
After arguing, she gave in. Took unpaid leave, went back. Their mother had doted on Nick, yet he was dumping her on Marianne.
Mum recognized her but showed little joy. Frail, shrunken. Agreed to leave. Marianne saw the truth—Nick was drinking. No wonder his wife left.
They took nothing. Everything was worn out. Nick had bought clothes here and there, handed down his own. He put them on the train, waved goodbye. Never called again.
At home, Marianne realized her mistake—she should’ve bought a sofa for Mum first. Hers was orthopedic, vital for her bad back. She paid extra for same-day delivery, shoved hers aside, placed Mum’s by the window—she loved to gaze outside.
Mum shuffled around, but Nick had downplayed her condition. Spilled soup, left taps running, forgot the stove. Marianne came home to scrubbing toilets, picking up shattered plates, scraping dried food off carpets. Eventually, she switched to remote work—couldn’t leave Mum unsupervised. The last six months, Mum stayed bedridden.
Nick didn’t come to the funeral. Too busy.
Back at the office, Marianne couldn’t bring herself to throw out Mum’s urine-soaked sofa.
Just as life settled, Nick called again. Early Saturday—she dreaded his calls now. Always bad news.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?” he said when she asked.
“You? No. What do you want?”
He laughed. “How’s your health?”
“Why?”
“Good. Someone’ll look after you, sis. Remember my eldest? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s gifted—needs uni. No colleges here. Kid’s determined. He’s coming to stay with you. Just a year, till he gets a dorm.”
She was stunned. Again, no asking—just imposing.
“I’ve got a one-bed. How’s that work?”
“We grew up four to a room. Worried about your reputation? He’s harmless.” He laughed again.
“Share meals, no hassle. Company if you’re ill. He’ll call an ambulance.”
She argued, but Nick ignored her. Glancing at Mum’s sofa—glad she’d kept it.
Her nephew arrived two days later. Sullen, silent. Took the sofa, opened his laptop, and vanished into it.
“At least he won’t break dishes or miss the loo,” she thought. But his presence unnerved her. Once, she came home early with a migraine—and found him on her sofa with a half-naked girl.
The girl dressed calmly and left. Marianne tore into her nephew.
“You smoke?” She spotted a cigarette butt.
“That was Janet,” he mumbled.
“Not Sarah, not Lucy—Janet. Unacceptable. I won’t tolerate this. Tomorrow, I’m calling your uni about that dorm.”
“Don’t, Aunt Marianne. I’ll go.”
He left for the dorm within days. But she felt no relief. Why did Nick dump burdens on her without guilt, while she agonized over turning them away?
She waited for his angry call. It never came. Finally, she dialed.
“Busy,” he snapped.
“Really? I was busy too, but you called to unload your problems.” She let him have it—his son could’ve gotten a dorm all along. No orgies in her flat. Save for his wedding—Tolya hadShe exhaled, staring at the silent phone, realizing that sometimes the greatest peace comes from walking away from those who only ever take.
