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I don’t even want to get married because of this—I don’t trust women! And don’t you dare foolishly tear our family apart, you hear me?
“I dont even want to get married because of it. I dont trust women! And dont you dare wreck your family over some silly nonsense, you hear me?”
Id just finished my scrambled eggs and was sipping the last of my coffee when my wife, flushing red, asked me in a shaky, awkward voice:
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“What makes you think”
“Dont lie to me, Simon. Just tell me the truth.”
Now it was my turn to go redsomething that rarely happens, only when I cant bring myself to tell the truth but refuse to lie.
“You dont have to say anything. I already know.”
I bolted outside like Id been scalded. All day at work, I was a nervous wreck, furious with myself. The situation had thrown me off completely, forcing me to make a decision I wasnt ready for. I couldnt lie to my wifeshe meant too much to me.
Yes, there was another woman. Young, beautiful, stunningyoud probably laughlike Id lost my mind, all rationality gone, just testosterone taking over.
But youd be wrong. She wasnt younger or more beautiful than my wife. She was an old classmate. My first, unrequited love. An unresolved chapter, you could say. Wed bumped into each other after years.
“Si, is that you? Blimey, I barely recognised you. Proper London gent now!”
I froze. Standing in front of me, smirking, was Christine.
For a moment, I just stood there like an idiot, feeling completely flustered. She looked me up and downmy tormentor from school (shed saddled me with all sorts of nicknames everyone else picked up. “Si” was one of them).
“Come on, lets grab a coffee, catch up. Mini school reunion. Theres another old friend popping out of the shops any minute.”
Before I could reply, out she walkedSienna. Blonde, delicate, soft-spoken. The second she saw me, she smiled.
“Simon Spencer, is that really you?” she asked in that painfully familiar, melodic voice. “How many years has it been?”
All I could do was smile back, a lump in my throat from the shock.
Of course, I took them to a café. We had a brilliant chat, and the next day, unable to shake the emotions, I met Sienna after work.
She wasnt surprisedacted like it was expected. We sat in a café, just the two of us this time, and then I ended up at her place and that was it.
It had been six months now, and the whole time, Id been living in two worlds. Onemy family: my kids, Oliver and little Emily, who I adored, and my wife, whom I loved and still loved.
Yes, loved. The love hadnt gone anywhereit had just dulled slightly, buried under routine.
The other world? Sienna. A surge of emotions, the thrill of possession, passion. If I couldve, Id have kept diving back and forth between the two. Which is why, when my wife figured it out at the worst possible time, I wasnt ready.
By the end of the day, the only thought I had was: I need a break. A real onenot just from one of them. Time to think and make a final choice.
I was about to call my wife, Rebecca, but she beat me to it.
“Simon, Im taking the kids to stay with my parents for a while. I need space,” she said. “Just promise me one thingstay in touch with Emily and Oliver. They love you, and I dont want them hurt before they have to be.”
Even more lost, I went home. When Id imagined making a decision, it hadnt occurred to me that my wife might make one tooand not necessarily in my favour. But fair enough. She had every right.
For days, I thought about Sienna (too fresh, too bright) and Rebecca (my wife). I only remembered the good thingsI didnt want to lose either of them.
I dont know why, but at some point, I felt like calling an old school friend, Greg. Wed been mates since school, even served in the army together. Years ago, wed both fancied Sienna unsuccessfully. Maybe thats why I rang him.
We arranged to meet. I invited him overit was pouring outside, and no one wanted to sit in some dreary pub. Greg wasnt married, still lived with his parents, and I was temporarily “free,” so if needed, he could crash at mine.
After work, I stopped by the shop, grabbed some frozen dumplings, sausages, and a bottle (what else do blokes need?), then headed home to wait for him.
“Your place is lovely! Proper cosy. Chuffed for you, mate. When am I getting my own little nest, eh? Your missus got any single friends?” Greg grinned, shaking my hand while glancing around.
We went to the kitchen. Id already chopped everything up, laid out plates and forksjust had to boil the dumplings.
“Wheres Rebecca?” Greg frowned. “Wanted to pay my respects, but its just you? Why didnt you say? I brought cake and chocolates”
“Dont worry, well eat them. Theyre at her parents just for a bit. Right, first round!”
We had one. Then another. And only after that did I tell Greg about Sienna, the whirlwind affair, and my mess. Greg stayed quietcompletely unlike him.
“Whats with the silence? You fancied Sienna too. Still do?”
“Nah, not at all! Definitely not now,” Greg laughed awkwardly. “Listen, mateyou dont want this. Trust me.”
“And whys that?” I snapped. Back then, she barely noticed either of us, and if there was gossip, I wasnt interested.
“I lived with her for six months, Simon,” Greg said wearily. She was divorced by then. Know who her ex was? Nick Pearsonremember him?
“Pearson? Had no idea. She said she was divorced, never mentioned the ex. Yeah, I remember her eyeing him. Bloke had all the girls after him.”
“Want me to spell it out?”
“Just say it.” I braced myself, suddenly sober. Whatever was coming, I wouldnt like it.
“Unlike you, I didnt just stare at herI wrote notes, carried her bag when she let me, even cornered her a couple times in the stairwell. No luck. She wanted Pearson. Bloke was out of our league. Sienna fought for him like we fought for her.”
“They marriedperfect couple, supposedly. Local golden pair. Seemed happy at first, till Sienna started nagging him about money. Didnt want to live with his mum, wanted their own place, furniture, the lot. So he went off to Europe for workdriving second-hand imports. Started making decent cash, but on one trip, he had a bad crash. Took ages to put him back together.”
“Spent every penny hed saved on surgeries. She stuck by himIll give her that. Got him back on his feet. Then suddenly, she had a flat. Left him.”
“We bumped into each other or did we? I was leaving work, and there she was with Christineher old mate. No idea what they were doing there, nowhere near her usual spots.”
“We had coffee, then well, you know. Felt like I was flying! Was ready to propose! Then she tells me shes off for two weekswork trip to Manchester. Like an idiot, I believed her.”
“She comes back with a Mediterranean tan. When I asked, she said: Place was dull, so I hit the sunbed and spa in my free time.”
“I got jealous, started keeping tabs, especially when she kept cancelling plans. And guess what? I caught her. Big Jeep pulls up, out she hopswith some bloke. Not some young stud, either. Bloke in his sixties. Lost it, went at himtook three blokes to pull me off.”
“Nearly got locked upturns out the old bloke was some bigwig. Only got off cause he didnt want his affair going publicflat hed bought her and all.”
“Thats my story. Pearsons got his own.”
Greg didnt seem keen to chat further. He got up, headed for the hall to grab his coat. I didnt stop him but walked him out.
“Thats why Im not getting married. Dont trust women. And dont you wreck your family over this, you hear?” he said before leaving.
We shook hands, and he was gone.
A heavy sadness settled over me. I collapsed onto the bed, thinking about how fragile life, happiness, and love could be. About a dream Id carried for years, buried deep, that hadironicallycome true.
That dream had been like a
You Drive Me Up the Wall!… I Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Dress Right, Can’t Do Anything Right! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything!… Can’t even earn proper money!… We never get any help from you around the house!… — Marina burst into tears, — …And there are no children…, — she whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “family tragedy”. She knew, she could sense, that Mum and Dad truly loved each other… But she didn’t understand why they said such cruel words that hurt everyone. Mum, sobbing, locked herself in the bedroom as Dad lit one cigarette after another. Belka, seeing her family falling apart, thought, “There must be happiness in this house… and happiness means children… we need to find some children…” Belka couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said she could, but something just wouldn’t work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the very first time, slipped out the window to visit her neighbour Pawsy — for advice. — Why would you want kids? — scoffed Pawsy. — Ours come with children, and I have to hide from them… they smear lipstick on your face or squeeze you until you can’t breathe! Belka sighed: — We just need normal children… If only we could find some… — Hmmm… That street cat Molly’s had a litter… five of them… — mused Pawsy. — Take your pick… Taking her chances, Belka leapt balcony to balcony to the street. Shivering nervously, she squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called out: — Molly, could you come out for a minute, please… From deep within came desperate squeaks. Carefully crawling through, eyes darting in fear, Belka began to cry. Under the radiator, on the hard gravel, lay five tiny, sightless kittens, nudging the air and wailing for their mum. One sniff told her: Molly hadn’t been back for at least three days. The babies were starving. Fighting tears, Belka gently carried each kitten to the entrance. Trying to calm her hungry, squeaking brood, Belka lay down beside them, anxiously watching the end of the yard, waiting for Mum and Dad. Pavel, silent as he met Marina after work, brought them home. As they reached the doorway, they froze — there was their Belka, (who had never set paw on the street alone), and five multicoloured kittens clambering to nurse from her. — What on earth? — Pavel was stunned. — A miracle…, — echoed Marina, and together they scooped up the cat and kittens and rushed inside… Watching Belka purr happily in a box with her new babies, Pavel asked: — But what do we do with them? — I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll call my friends…, — Marina whispered. Three months later, still stunned by the turn of events, Marina sat stroking her “cat pack” and murmured, over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen… this just doesn’t happen… Then, she and Pavel broke down in happy tears; he swept her into his arms, and they both laughed and chattered at once: — I’m glad I finished building the house! — Perfect for a child to get some fresh air! — And let the kittens run in the garden! — There’ll be room for everyone! — I love you! — And I love you even more! Wise Belka brushed away a tear — life, it seemed, was finally coming together…
How you get on my nerves! Nothing I do is right not even how I eat, not even what I...
I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned and Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones!” — And the Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Garden Gate Without Tears Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Gripped It in Their Fist. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Only Stopped When I Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—Now That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We’d Spent New Year Together, Just as Always: Mum in Her Favourite Apron I Gave Her at School, the Smell of Fried Burgers, Family Jokes, Dad Arriving with an Enormous Tree, All of Us Decorating, Singing Old Christmas Songs, Laughing Until We Cried… On 2nd January, I Looked Out to See Mum Clearing a Perfect Pathway from the Gate to Our Door, Her Scarf Tied Up, Red-cheeked, Shovelling Snow So We Wouldn’t Have to Struggle Through the Drifts. “It’s for You, My Lazy Lot—Go Put the Kettle On,” She Called, Smiling. That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Cheerful. The Next Day She Was Gone, So Suddenly It Didn’t Seem Real. Only Her Little Footprints Remain—Marks in the Snow, and In My Heart.
I remember shouting out the window, Mum, what are you doing out there so early? Youll freeze! She turned around,...
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
MOTHER-IN-LAW Margaret Brown sat in her kitchen, watching as the milk quietly simmered on the hob. She’d forgotten to stir...
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The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
The Recipe for Happiness… The entire block watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat, arms loaded with...
“My Grandchildren Only Get Fruit Once a Month, While I Buy Gourmet Food for My Cats”—My Daughter-in-Law Fumes and Accuses Me of Heartlessness… My daughter-in-law tried to shame me because her children only get fruit once a month, while I treat my cats to quality food. What she overlooks is that children have a mum and dad to care for their nutrition, but my cats only have me. When I once suggested that my son and his wife slow down on having children, they told me to mind my own business. So I did. Now I feed my cats and listen to my ever-indignant, child-devoted daughter-in-law.
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Friday, 18th May I settled into my study laptop at the ready, a mug of Yorkshire tea by my side...