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The Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace: When Family Means Control, Not Love, and One Sister’s Choice Sets Everyone Free
His wife had packed her belongings and vanished into thin air.
Stop pretending youre some martyr. Shell calm down. Women are like that, they shout a bit and then get over it.
The important thing is weve got a son now. A proper heir. Thats what matters. The family line continues.
Dina said nothing, her eyes fixed on her brother.
George, she leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, you told me last week youd taken care of Emilys pregnancy. What exactly did you mean by that?
George put down his fork, leaning back in his seat.
I meant what I said. She spent five years making excusesnot ready, career this, lets wait.
And Im thirty-two, Dina. I wanted an heir. A real family, you know? SoI swapped her pills.
Dina stared, aghast.
Did you tell her that? When?
The day she left, George muttered, avoiding her eyes. She started yelling, so I told herget used to it, darling, you wanted this, I just helped things along.
He sighed, confident. I honestly thought shed realise she had no choice and calm down. But shes something else. Grabbed her bag and legged it.
***
On the kitchen table, among the mountain of unwashed baby bottles, lay Georges forgotten hairbrush.
Dina glared at it, irritation bubbling inside. Why did there always have to be a mess?
The baby next door had finally settled, but the silence was no reliefgive it an hour, two, and it would all begin again.
She straightened her old housecoat and filled the kettle. Just a month ago, theyd brought Emilyher sister-in-lawhome from hospital. George had been beaming, bustling about with huge bouquets for the nurses. Emily, though
Emily had looked like she was being led to her execution.
Dina had chalked it up to exhaustion. First child, hormones, the lot. Now she wondered why she hadnt seen it sooner.
The front door slammed. George was home from work. He loosened his tie as he stomped into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.
Anything to eat? he said, not glancing her way.
Pastas in the pot. And I boiled some sausages for you.
George, hes only just nodded off. Keep it down, will you?
George huffed, grabbing a plate.
Im knackered, Dina. Been rushed off my feet all day. Clients theyve drained the life out of me.
Hows the little chap?
Little chap is your son, Dina put her mug down on the table with a loud clatter. His name is Arthur.
Hes been screaming for three hours straight. Tummy pains.
Youre coping, though, arent you? George shrugged, utterly unconcerned as he sat down. Youre a womanits in your blood.
Mum managed with both of us on her own, remember, back when Dad worked away all the time.
Dina bit her lip, fighting the urge to hurl the plate at him.
She was only here temporarily, while she sorted out her debts and studio rent, but in two weeks, shed become unpaid nanny, cook, and cleaner.
George behaved as if nothing had happened. As if his wife hadnt packed up and disappeared overnight.
Has Emily called? Dina asked, watching him wolf down his food.
George froze, fork halfway to his mouth. For a moment, his expression clouded.
She refuses to answer. Goes straight to voicemailthe nerve! Walking out and leaving a child behind. All because I swapped those pills, sped things up a bit.
Youre a bastard, George, Dina said quietly.
What?! he looked at her, astonished. I did all this for the family! I work, I bring home the money.
And she abandoned the child. Whos in the wrong here?
You took away her choice, Dina stood up, voice trembling. You lied to the person you claim to love.
What was she supposed to say? Thank you, darling, for ruining my life?
Oh, dont start, George waved her off. Shell come round. Where else will she go? Her stuffs here, the childs here. Shell run out of cash and come crawling back. Meanwhile
He looked pleadingly at her.
Youll help, wont you? Ive got too much on, end of month reports due and all that.
Dina didnt reply. She walked from the kitchen to the nursery.
Arthurs tiny fists were clenched in sleep. Dina gazed at him, her heart twisting.
On one hand, there was this helpless, blameless bundle. On the other, Emily, lured into a trap.
She pitied them both.
She opened her phone, flicking open her messenger. Emily had been online three minutes ago. Dina wrote, erased, and wrote again.
Emily, its Dina. Im not asking you to come back. I just want to make sure youre alright.
And its hard on my own. Can we talk? No shouting.
The reply came ten minutes later.
Im at a hotel. In three days Im away for a work trip, out of town for three weeks. Was planned before I found out, ages ago.
When Im back, Ill file for divorce. Im not abandoning Arthur, Dina. But I cant be there. I cant even look at him, do you understand? I just see George in him!
Dina exhaled.
I understand. Truly. George told me everything.
And? Is he proud of himself?
He seems to be. Thinks youll come back.
Let him dream. Dina, if its too much for youplease say. Ill find a way to hire a nanny, send money.
But I wont go back. Ever.
Dina put her phone down and let out a long breath. She needed a job, to pay her debts, to build her life. Yet she couldnt leave Arthur alone with George, who barely knew which end of the nappy went where.
***
The next three days were endless purgatory.
George came home late, ate and crashed into bed.
Every time Dina asked for help with the baby, the response was, Im exhausted, or, Youre better at settling him.
One night, Arthurs screams pierced the house so loudly that Dina snapped.
She stormed into her brothers room, flicked on the light.
Get up, she said, ice in her voice.
George squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the duvet over his head.
Dina, for Gods sake, let me sleep. Ive got to be up at six.
I dont care. Get in there and see to your son. Hes hungry, and my hands are shaking so badly from exhaustion I cant feed him.
Are you mad? George shot up, bleary-eyed and furious, Thats why youre here! I give you a place to stay, pay for bills!
Oh, is that it? Dinas temper snapped. So Im just your servant?
Call it what you like, he grumbled. Emilyll be back soon, then you can rest. Until thenget on with it.
Dina walked out without another word.
She didnt sleep that night. Sitting in the kitchen, rocking the cradle with her foot, she pondered what could teach George a lesson. Hed gone too far.
Morning brought resolve. Once George left for work, Dina messaged Emily again.
We need to meet. Today. Before he gets back. Please.
Emily agreed.
They met in a small park not far from the flat.
Emily looked dreadful: pale, sunken-eyed, thin. She approached the pram and gazed at her son, hands trembling.
Hes grown, she whispered. Changed so much in two weeks.
Emily, he hardly knows you, Dina spoke gently.
I know. Emily buried her face in her hands. Im not a monster, Dina. I suppose I love him. Somewhere inside, I know hes mine. But imagining having to live with George, share a bed with the man who did that to meI can barely breathe.
What if you didnt have to? Dina asked.
Emily lifted her head. What do you mean?
He thinks youll come crawling back. That you belong to him, you and the baby. But lets face ithes not a father, hes a project manager, running his own perfect family scheme. He doesnt get up at night, doesnt even know how much formula to use. He just wanted an heirnot the work of raising one.
So what are you suggesting?
You go on your work trip, Dina said, voice steady. Work, recover. Ill stay here for three weeks, hold the fort. Meanwhile, Ill sort things out.
What exactly?
The divorce. Custody. Emily, you never have to go back to him. You can rent a place. Ill move in with you, help with Arthur while you work.
My finances will improve soonIve found a few online commissions. Well manage. Just us.
Emily eyed her, uncertain.
Youll take on your own brother?
Hes my brother, yesbut his actions were vile. I wont be an accomplice in his deception. He thinks Im on his side because Ive nowhere else to go. Hes wrong.
Emily was silent for a long while, watching sunlight dancing on the prams hood.
And what about him? He wont just let Arthur go. Hell kick up a scandal.
He might, Dina nodded. But we have an ace. Hes admitted, in front of me, that he swapped your pills. If that gets out in court, with witnesses, Ill back every word up.
As for his help in parentingIll explain everything.
George doesnt actually want the child, Emily. He just needs someone to control. When he realises Arthur needs proper care and attention, hell lose interest.
Its easier to play the part of heroic abandoned dad to his mates than to actually look after a baby.
For the first time in ages, Emily managed a thin smile.
Youve grown up, Dina.
I had to, Dina sighed. Sois it a plan?
Yes. Thank you.
Three weeks raced by.
George grew increasingly irritable, finally noticing that Dina no longer ran to fetch his dinner the instant he got home.
Whens Emily back? he barked one evening, tossing his briefcase on the sofa.
Tomorrow, Dina replied shortly, holding Arthur.
Finally! Maybe we can go to a proper restaurant, Im sick of pasta. I guess Id better buy her a presentshut her up a bit. A ring, or earrings. Women like that sort of thing.
Dina shot him a look of almost physical disgust.
You really think jewellery will make things right?
Look, George came closer, tried awkwardly to pat her shoulder. She stepped away. Stop acting all high and mighty. Everythingll be fine. Women are forgiving, let them have their shouttheyll calm down. Important thing isweve got a son. The family continues.
Dina didnt respond.
***
The next morning, Emily arrived while George was at work. She didnt come up, just waited outside in her car. Dina had packed up the babys things, her own bags, everything necessary.
It took three trips up and down, but eventually Arthur was fastened snugly in his car seat.
Dina returned to the flat for one final thingleaving the keys on the kitchen table, right where Georges hairbrush had been three weeks before. Next to them, she placed a note.
George, were gone. Dont try to reach Emilyher solicitor will be in touch. Arthur is with her. So am I.
You wanted a family but forgot its built on trust, not manipulation.
Theres pasta in the fridge. Youll have to handle it on your own from now on.
They drove away.
Emily found a small but cosy flat on the other side of the city. The first days were hardArthur struggled to settle, Emily kept crying, Georges calls and furious messages flooded Dinas phone.
He screamed down the line, threatened courts and custody, raged about taking the child and leaving them penniless.
Dina kept calm.
They survived.
After a few days, Georges fury ebbed, and he faded out of view.
Emily filed for divorce through the court. At the hearing, George said nothing about raising Arthur himself.
Dina had been rightGeorge didnt want the responsibility. He chose to escape with a monthly payment.
He never even asked for visitation. He preferred the story of the wronged father to the reality of parenthood.
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The Troublesome Next-Door Neighbour “Don’t touch my spectacles!” bellowed the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, aren’t you?” Tamara Borisovna replied in surprise. “Is that who you’ve got your sights set on! I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-rolling machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself!” shot back Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond any machine’s help now? Don’t think I don’t notice!” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and wandered over to her home icon corner to recite her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself especially religious: she knew, out there, something must be in charge—someone had to be running the show! But who? That was anyone’s guess. That higher power went by many names: the cosmos, the prime mover, and, of course, the good Lord! Yes, that kindly white-bearded gent with a halo, sitting on his cloud and pondering everyone on earth. After all, Tamara had long since left her prime and was edging up to seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if he doesn’t exist, a believer has lost nothing; but if he does, a nonbeliever has lost everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Mrs Tamara added a few personal words—naturally! The ritual done, her soul lighter, she could face the new day. In Tamara Borisovna’s life, there were two main problems. And no, not the classic British ones of fools and potholes—those were old hat! Hers were her neighbour Lynda and, of course, her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were simple: today’s lot never wanted to do anything. Still, at least they had their parents to handle them! But as for Lynda—the woman was a nightmare, forever needling Tamara in the classic style! On the big screen, feuding national treasures like Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are charming and funny. But in real life? Not so much—especially when someone starts picking at you for no reason. And, to top it off, Tamara had a friend known as Pete the Moped. His full, grand name was Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove—that’s just his surname! His nickname was easy to work out: as a lad, Pete—what a name!—loved tearing around the village on his moped. Or, as his cheeky younger self called it, his “mopette.” So, the nickname stuck: Pete the Mopette—or “the Moped” for short. His decrepit moped had long been gathering dust in a garden shed, but the name clung on: that’s village life! Once, they’d all been family friends: Moped Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her own late husband. Now, their other halves rested peacefully in the churchyard. Tamara carried on her friendship with “the Moped” out of habit: they’d known each other since school, and Pete made a good mate. Back then, they were a friendly trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—and pure friendship it was, with no hint of flirtation from the young gent. They’d go everywhere shoulder to shoulder: Pete the dashing suitor in the middle, with the two girls symmetrically hanging off his arms. Like a teacup with two sturdy handles! Well, you never know… Over time, that friendship soured. First into coldness from Lynda, then open hostility. Like in those cartoons: sometimes you notice someone’s been replaced… It was as if Lynda had become someone else—starting after her husband passed away. Before that, things had been bearable. Of course, people change over the years: the thrifty become stingy, the chatty become gossipers, and the envious get torn apart by spite. Maybe that’s what happened to Lynda. Old ladies can be like that—and the men are no better. Not that she didn’t have something to be jealous of. First of all, Tamara, despite her advanced years, still had a trim figure. Lynda, on the other hand, had grown as round as a pudding—where to find her waistline was anyone’s guess. Against her neighbour, she came up short. Second, their shared old friend had been paying Tamara much more attention lately. They’d often sit and giggle over private jokes, almost bumping their grey heads together. Lynda only got short, clipped phrases. And Pete popped round to see Tamara much more often—they rarely needed to beckon him over at Lynda’s. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as that insufferable Tamara. And her sense of humour was lacking—while Pete was always one for a laugh. There’s a fine old British word—“natter”—that sums up Lynda’s recent behaviour. She’d grumble at Tamara for the slightest thing. It began with the loo: Lynda griped that Tamara’s was in the wrong place and stank! “That bog of yours reeks!” blasted Lynda. “Really, now? It’s been there forever, and you notice only now?” retorted Tamara, not missing a beat. “Oh, and you had your cataracts done on the NHS for free! Nothing good comes for nothing!” “Don’t you talk about my bloody cataracts!” screamed her former friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “Oh, so you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara replied. “I’ll get you a lip-rolling gadget for Christmas—you’ll need it!” “You want to keep it yourself?” Lynda shot back. “Or are your lips a lost cause now? Think I can’t tell?” Oh, she could tell all right. This wasn’t the first row, not by a long shot. Pete advised Tamara to fill in the old outdoor lav and set up a nice modern inside one. Her children clubbed together for a new indoor bathroom, while trusty Pete did the hard graft and filled the old pit. There—time for you to rest, Lynda, and sniff somewhere else! Oh, hardly! The next gripe: Tamara’s grandkids had supposedly scrumped Lynda’s pears, since the branches hung over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought the tree was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, even though she could swear no one touched the pears—they were all still hanging. “Your hens are always digging up my vegetable patch and I don’t complain!” “Hens are stupid birds!” Lynda sniffed. “Just a broiler or a layer! And your grandchildren need discipline, Grandma—not giggling with strange men morning to night!” Wash, rinse, repeat: it all swung back round to Pete. The grandkids got an earful, pear season ended—“Rest easy, Lynda!” …but no, suddenly, the overhanging branches were “damaged”! “Show me where!” Tamara demanded—there was nothing, swear to God. “There! And there!” insisted Lynda, jabbing gnarled fingers sideways—while Tamara’s hands, with their long, even fingers, still looked elegant. A woman’s hands are her signature! Even in the country—a little style never hurt. So, “The Moped” suggested they just prune the branches: “They’re on your land—your rules!” “She’ll just start screaming!” fretted Tamara. “Bet you she won’t! And I’ll back you up,” promised Pete. And, true enough: Lynda witnessed Pete sawing away but never uttered a word! The pear tree matter closed. But soon it was Tamara’s turn to raise a fuss—Lynda’s chickens were constantly foraging in her veg patch. This year, Lynda’d bought a new breed—worse than before. And a chicken, well, it’ll scratch up anything and everything. As a result, every seedling ended up dug out. Kindly requests to pen in the hens only earned a nasty smirk from Lynda: “Go on, tell someone—what will you do?” One option: nab a couple of hens and roast them, just to make a point! But Tamara was too kind-hearted for such risky experiments. So, her clever, fun-loving friend suggested a technique straight from the internet: sneak some eggs out onto the veg patch at night. Then, in the morning, ostentatiously collect them—“Oh look, as if the chickens laid here!” He was tech-savvy: their village had had internet for years. And, you know, it worked: thank you, World Wide Web—at last, you’re good for something! Lynda froze, eyes wide, as she watched Tamara gathering eggs by the handful and strolling back indoors. Needless to say, the chickens stayed away from then on. “So, how about making peace now? Lynda, what do you say? Nothing left to argue about!” Yeah, right! The next complaint: smoke and cooking smells from Tamara’s summer kitchen, where she cooked until autumn. “As if! It never bothered you before—and maybe I hate the smell of roast meat! Maybe I’m vegetarian now! And besides, Parliament’s brought in new barbecue laws!” “Where do you see a barbecue?” Tamara argued. “Maybe try cleaning your glasses, dear!” Tamara Borisovna was patient and polite, but by now, even her patience had run out: Lynda was simply impossible—what a word! In short, there was no pleasing her… “Maybe someone should experiment on her for science,” Tamara sighed to Pete as they sipped tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” Tamara really had become thin and drawn—the daily drama took its toll. “She’d choke! And I won’t let her,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!” A couple of days later, one fine morning, Tamara heard singing: “Tamara, Tamara—come out and see!” At the door stood Pete, beaming: he’d fixed up his battered old moped—Pete and his Mopette! “Why was I always so glum before?” began Peter Geoffrey with a grin. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a spin, gorgeous? Let’s relive our youth!” And Tamara leapt right on! After all, Parliament had declared old age officially cancelled: now, everyone over sixty-five was an ‘active pensioner’! Off they rode, in every sense, into a new life. And soon, Tamara became truly Mrs Cosgrove: Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove proposed! Everything fit together, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda stayed behind: lonely, bitter, and cross. Tell me, isn’t that yet another reason for envy? With no one left to quarrel with, all her spite just built up inside. And that’s not good—you’ve got to let it out somewhere… So, hang in there, Tamara, and lock your door! Who knows what’s next—oy vey! Village life is a song, after all. What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Dont touch me spectacles! shrieked the former friend. Mind your own eyes! You think I cant see who youre ogling?...
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