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At Forty-One, a Child?!” He Yelled at Nastya. “Women Your Age Are Grandmothers Already—Don’t Be Foolish with These Children’s Books!
“At forty-one, you want a baby?!” James shouted at Emily. “Most women your age are grandmothers! Emily, dont be ridiculous!”
“Fine, I get ityou think this is foolish. But have you even considered the child?” James continued, his voice sharp. “I dont want to be hobbling around with a walking stick at her wedding! And what if something happens to us while shes still young? Sort this out now, or Ill leave you!”
Emily and James had been married for twenty years. Shed married him straight out of university, barely more than a girl herself. All this time, shed believed him to be her rock, her closest ally. Never had she imagined hed turn against her like this.
Recently, their family had erupted into a bitter rowthe reason being Emilys unexpected late pregnancy. James was adamantly opposed.
“Emily, have you lost your mind? Deciding to play mother in your dotage? Weve got three wonderful boysOlivers already at university, and Noah and Ethan are finishing secondary school. Arent they enough? What will the boys think? That weve gone senile?”
“James, Ive always dreamed of a daughter,” Emily insisted. “If fates given us this child, why shouldnt she come into the world?”
“And what if its another boy? Will we keep going for a fifth?” James snapped.
“Im certain its a girl.”
Even the boys didnt support her. When Noah and Ethan heard about the new addition, they flatly refused to share their room. Oliver, the eldest, voiced his concerns too.
“Mum, arent you scared at your age? What if something happens to you?”
“Itll be fine,” Emily reassured him. “Im not that old!”
This wasnt the first time James had reacted this way. When shed been expecting the twins, hed been just as reluctant. Back then, Oliver had been three, money was tight, and theyd lived with James parents. Emily had clashed constantly with her mother-in-law.
But when the doctor announced twins, everything changed. James mother gave them money for a house deposit, and James became more attentive. Noah and Ethan, surprisingly, were quiet babies, letting Emily rest. Oliver adored having playmates, often keeping his brothers occupied.
This time, Emily hoped things would magically fall into place again.
By the third week, though, trouble started. She felt sick at work. For over a decade, shed worked as a nail technician, accustomed to the strong smells of polishes and oils. Now, the sight of bright bottles made her nauseous. Medicine didnt help. She was forced to quit.
Too weak to wash dishes, let alone clean, Emily spent her days in bed. Groceries became a luxury, and James and the boys werent pleased.
With her income gone, money grew tight. James, a paramedic, started working double shifts. Oliver switched to evening classes, working days at an electronics shop.
Emily saw the disapproval in their eyes. Even her parents warned herher age made pregnancy dangerous. Neighbours whispered when she left the flat. She felt utterly alone.
Then came the scan.
The doctor frowned at the screen, murmuring numbers to the nurse. Emily lay motionless, afraid even to breathe. Finally, she blurted out, “Doctor, is it a girl or a boy?”
“Female. But theres an issue.”
Emilys stomach dropped. “Whats wrong?”
“Try not to panic, but I must tell you. The baby has a neural tube defecta serious condition. By 23 weeks, it should be closed. Yours is still open. The child may be disabled.”
Emily burst into tears. “Cant you help her? Are there treatments?”
The doctor looked away.
Dazed, Emily wandered the hospital corridors, barely registering her surroundings. Back in the car, she sobbed uncontrollably.
At home, James was heating dinner. The boys were out. Now was the time.
“I had the scan today,” Emily said hoarsely. “Its a girl. But theres a problemher neural tube hasnt closed.”
James stiffened. “What did Dr. Harris say?”
“Nothing. He suggested termination. I refused. I cant do it, James! Shes still our daughter!”
“Youre insane!” James exploded. “Do you understand what this means? That child could be disabledif she even survives. Tomorrow, Im getting you that referral myself.”
“I wont go.”
“Then dont expect my support! I wont watch you sufferor that child!”
James stormed off, yanking a duffel bag from the wardrobe.
“James, what are you doing?” Emily cried. “Youre leaving? Abandoning us? Shes your daughter too!”
“I wont indulge this madness!” He stuffed clothes into the bag. “Think about the boys! Have you ever seen a child like that? My mum had a baby after meborn with a heart defect. He lived six months. I still remember the horror. She never wanted kids again. Well, neither do I. And Im taking the boys.”
He slammed the door behind him.
James mother, Margaret, was stunned to see him on her doorstep with a bag.
“Whats happened? A row with Emily?”
“More than that. Shes keeping a disabled childagainst my wishes. Im filing for divorce.”
“James, the mother and child are one. Its her choice. Calm downlet me make you tea.”
As he slumped into a chair, James asked quietly, “Mum would you have had Ian if youd known?”
“Of course! I hoped till the end hed pull through. And since when do scans never lie? Has that hospital never misdiagnosed anyone?”
James remembered their neighbour, ClaireDr. Harris had said her baby had a heart defect. The boy was born perfectly healthy.
In the morning, James went back to the clinic. The ultrasound room was locked.
“Hes not in today,” a nurse explained. “The machines brokenagain. Third time this month. Were waiting for a technician.”
Doubt gnawed at him. An old colleague worked at a private cliniched take Emily there.
When Emily returned from the shops, James was waiting. “Get your coat. Were going private.”
The private scan was quick. The doctor studied the screen, then smiled.
“Everythings normal. No defects at all. Shes perfectly healthy. Would you like to hear her heartbeat?”
James wept. Emily asked about the first diagnosis.
“The tube is closed. Your daughters fine.”
Relief flooded them both. James held Emily tight.
In the coming weeks, every scan confirmed their daughters health.
When little Harriet was born, the family gatheredeven those whod urged termination.
“She looks just like you,” Margaret whispered, cradling her granddaughter. “Those blue eyes! Im so proud, James.”
James adored Harriet from the first moment, spending every free second with her.
“Fancy watching telly with me?” Emily teased.
“Later,” hed say, grinning. “Harriet and I have plans.”
Even the boys, whod sworn they wanted nothing to do with a baby, set up a rota for walks with their little sister. Emily trusted them completelyshe knew theyd take care of her.
“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming From You? A Chance Encounter, a Perfectly Laid Bathroom Tile, and a Second Wind: How Rita’s Life Changed at 53 When a Homeless Stranger with Sapphire Eyes Built Her Happiness and Challenged Her Son’s Inheritance Plans
– Excuse me, sir, please dont push. Oh, goodness. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man muttered,...
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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)
Yours hasnt written or rung you yet? No, Vera, not a word after nine days, not after forty either, Lydia...