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Rita’s Packing Her Bags and Walking Out – ‘Where To?’ – ‘Why Do You Care? Clear Out the Flat Too, It’s Mine and Dad’s. I’m Renting It Out. I Don’t Need Deadbeats Here. Find Your Own Place.’
Emma was packing her things to leave.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“What difference does it make to you? You should clear out toothe flat belongs to me and Dad. Ill be renting it out. I dont need layabouts here. Find yourself somewhere else to live.”
Emma had just come home from work and found her husband, James, carousing again. He wasnt alonehis friends were there too. Sitting at the table were their neighbour, Paul, and his brother, Nick. Nick had come to visit, and theyd been celebrating his holiday for the third day in a row.
James rarely drank to excessonly on special occasions, and even then, not always. But this was differenthis friend had come to town, and the company had swept him up. James knew he was being irresponsible, but he couldnt bring himself to refuse them.
“Are you my mate or not?” Nick kept saying.
“James, tell your friends to leave and go to bed. They can barely stand.”
“Shut it, woman!” Nick snapped.
“Emma, well go in a minute,” Paul muttered, pushing himself up from the table.
“How dare you speak to my wife like that?”
“Calm down. Everyone, out.”
Emma ushered the guests out, shoved James onto the sofa, and started cleaning. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, would be arriving soon. Let her see what her son had been up to.
By the time Margaret arrived, Emma had tidied everything and even thrown together a quick dinnertheir guests had eaten everything in sight. The leftovers had gone straight into the bin.
“Margaret, Mary, Ive missed you!”
“Mum, Grandma brought a kitten! Its ginger. Grandad called it a sly little fox.”
“Mary!”
“Thats what he said.”
“Wash your hands, well have dinner and tea.”
“Wheres James? I called him, but he didnt answer.”
“Asleep. Hes been celebrating with the neighbours for three days. I come home from work and kick them out, but by morning, it starts again. I should just lock him out. Everything was fine until Pauls brother showed up. They share the flat, and Pauls wife wont let them carry on theretheyve got young kids. So theyve made themselves at home here instead.”
“Theyve been friends since primary school. Ever since we moved here, theyve been thick as thieves. But you cant just let it go on. You need to move.”
“Where? The house isnt finished yet, though its nearly there. We ought to go and check on it. Besides, I cant just leave him.”
“Hell come running.”
“Who will?” James appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“You. Who else? Drawn in by the smell of food, I suppose?”
“I dont want anything.”
“Good. Emma is packing her things to leave.”
“Where?”
“Whats it to you? You need to clear out toothis flat belongs to me and your father. Ill be renting it out. I dont need layabouts here. Find your own place.”
“What place, Mum?” Nick looked stunned. “Weve got a house being built.”
“A house? Well, think about itwhose house is it? Who paid for it? Thats rightEmma and you. But you used our money. Emma and Mary will live there. Emma, dont stand therepack your things and Marys.”
“I wont let you take my daughter!”
“Oh, youre scaring me.”
“Shes mine. Emmas got no claim on her.”
“And when she became her mother, did she have a claim then? Arent you ashamed? Shes her mother! And dont you dare say another word in front of her. Just pack your things.”
“Mum, Im your son. What about me?”
“So? The flat needs to be empty by tomorrow. Were leaving now.”
“Where?”
“To check on their house and hurry the builders along. Theres not much left to do. Well order the furniture while were at it.”
“And me?”
“Why do you care? Youve got your friendstheyll take you in.”
“No, you cant do this.”
“Ive said all I have to. Emma, have you got everything? Lets go. Take the car keys.”
“In my car?”
“You want us to walk? Youre in no state to drive.”
“Well go to ours tonight and see about the house tomorrow,” Margaret said. “Its the weekend. Well air it out, rest. And he can think about what hes done.”
The next morning, James stood on his parents doorstep with his bags. His mother wasnt one to jokeif she said something, she meant it.
“What do you want?”
“Mum, you told me to clear the flat. Its done. Ill stay here for now, then find somewhere else. Ill take Emma and Mary back. Where are they?”
“Theyre here, but soon well go look at their house.”
“Ive been looking for them. Mum, can we talk? Its my fault. Its the brothers. You know Nick and Paulyou cant shake them off.”
“Which is exactly why you wont be living with them anymore.”
Emma and James reconciled. She was hurt, but she believed him.
“No more neighbours, no more friends.”
“Watch it, or you wont see Mary again. Shell stay with me. And the baby too”
“Baby? Baby! We need to finish the house faster. I have to tell Mum!”
“Dont shoutshe knows. Might not be a boy, might be another girl. Its still early.”
“Doesnt mattergirl or boy. Youre my Emma!” James spun her around the room.
“Careful. Put me down.”
The family moved into their new house. Marys little brother was born right after they settled in.
“Mary, come see your brother,” Grandma said.
“Hes so tiny. Mines bigger. Mummy gave him to me. Now weve got two mums. Right, Grandma?”
“Yes, love.”
“Im not little. Hes little. And Mum said we could get a sly little fox too. Or”
“Mary!”
“Grandad says it!”
Life taught James that family comes firstfriends may come and go, but those who stand by you deserve your best. Sometimes, the hardest lessons bring the sweetest rewards.
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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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.
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