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For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping to live with him the way shed lived with her mother.
Emily grew up in a quiet English village. Thats where she was first struck by Cupids arrow. She fell in love with James, and he with her. Together, they decided to escape their small hometown. They told their parents they were heading to London to save for their wedding. And indeed, they went to London to earn some money. But before long, they decided there was no point in spending all their savings on a big wedding.
They did whats popular these days: a registry office ceremony in trainers and jeans, gifts only in the form of cash, and instead of a traditional wedding reception, just a simple buffet. The money from the gifts went straight towards the deposit on their flat. Still, when they visited home, their mothers threw them a modest gathering to celebrate.
Five years passed since the wedding. The couple decided to wait before having children, since their wedding gifts hadnt been enough to pay off the mortgage. Emilys mother, a determined woman whod raised her alone, would remind her with every phone call that she was waiting for grandchildren. But Emily wasnt ready yet. There was no rush, and so they continued to wait.
Then, out of nowhere, Emily began to take issue with things about James that had never really troubled her beforeat least, not enough to mention. She rang me up one evening and said:
Hell spend ages chatting on the phone with others, but with me, its just hello, goodbye, and thats it
Im sure when he gets home from work, youll both have plenty of time to talk.
I want to watch a romantic film after work, but he just stares at his horror movies.
Youve only got the one telly? These days you can watch anything youd like on the laptop with headphones. Still, its hardly what youd call family time if youre both sitting next to each other but focused on different screens.
Exactly! I dont think James understands me at all!
Thats quite an interesting way of putting it.
Why are you laughing?
Alright, Ill stop. Tell me, Emily, when do you both have the best time together?
On holiday, or when we have friends over Hes always so sweet then
We ended up talking for nearly an hour as Emily told me how they met, and how everyone had envied her when James asked her out. From what she said, I gathered that one of her main troubles was an unfulfilled wish to show off to others, to be admired. And there was something else…
Emily, how do you picture the ideal marriage?
Well, it definitely includes children.
Thats the answer everyone gives, but as you know, quite a few marriages struggle after children arrive
A husband should be interested in how Im feeling, how things are going at work He should notice my outfits, praise my cooking
Doesnt James do those things?
He says the foods nice, but it doesnt feel enough for me.
Alright, tell me exactly what happens say he comes home, youve made mashed potatoes and sausages for tea, then what?
He rubs his hands together, grins, and digs in.
But thats a compliment too! Youd feel pretty awkward if he pushed the plate away and said he wasnt hungry!
Emily was quiet for a moment; I dont think she really grasped the root of her complaint. Still, she couldnt help but feel uneasy about her marriage. I found myself wondering what exactly she was dissatisfied with. To confirm my suspicions, I asked about her relationship with her mother.
It turned out her mother was a very emotional person, often fussing over her with questions and comments. Yet, whenever something went wrong, her mother was always there to reassure her that all would be well.
They say we often marry people like our parents, or those who give us the love we missed. Emily never knew her father, so she didnt realise that not everyone expresses their feelings as openly and warmly as her mother did.
So I told Emily that for five years, shed been married to an image of her mother, expecting her husband to behave in exactly the same caring way. At first, Emily was taken aback, but after a moments thought, she nodded.
So, how do I divorce my mother?
Its simple. Each time you find yourself complaining, imagine that James has nothing to do with it, that its your well-meaning mother beside you, not your husband. And he could never compete with her!
You know, thats exactly it!
Thats all there is to it. And then, youll see, most of your worries will simply fade away.
We often look for something familiar in those closest to us, expecting them to fit the shape of the love weve always known. Its only when we realise we need to let people love us in their own way, not as a copy of the past, that we can truly appreciate what we have and grow together.
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
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For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping...
The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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