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For Better, For Worse (A Story of Love, Loss and New Beginnings in the English Countryside)
Both in Sorrow and in Joy
Charlotte was widowed early, at forty-two. By then, her daughter, Emily, had already married a decent lad from the next village and gone off with him to the North, chasing higher wages.
Every so often, Emily would treat her mother to a brief telephone call, urging her not to worry, assuring her that life was working out well: new friends, good work, new family. And in those moments, Charlotte felt her daughter slip further awaya slice cut off the loaf, severed and separate.
There was little work to be had in their tiny English hamlet, and the only school, where Charlotte had worked as a kitchen assistant, had closed.
Left jobless, Charlotte did not despair. She began taking the bus every Tuesday and Friday to the next village, where she sold her homemade milk and soft cheese to loyal regulars.
The few pounds she made barely kept her affairs ticking along, but Charlotte had nothing to grumble over. She lived alone, ate the same dairy she sold, and filled out her meals with vegetables she grew in her allotment garden.
There was never much time to dwell on loneliness: her yard bustled with clucking chickens, honking geese, and quacking ducks. Bessie, her cow, mooed softly from the shed, and her tabby cat, Buttercup, threaded himself between her ankles. Tending to all thisfeeding, cleaning, fetching and carryingby the time she finished, the day had slipped quietly by.
After lunch each day, Charlotte would bring a little stool to the front sash window and settle herself, gazing out into the gentle haze.
Even in dreams, the English landscape impressed itself: calm birches lined the verge, their white trunks puncturing the green. Behind them, a spring bubbled up, icy and pure, and its water pooled into a round ponda mirrored eye to the sky.
This tranquil scene didn’t go unnoticed. One morning, Charlotte woke to a clatter outside: strange, weighty machinery trundled up her lane.
Yawning, she slipped on her mothers flannel robe, now a little faded, and stepped onto the porch.
She craned her neck and saw a handful of peoplesurveying, measuring, pointingand drew up to a tall man whose overcoat looked cut for city boardrooms.
Morning, she said, hesitant but firm. Mind telling me whats going on?
The man turned, eyeing her and then her modest home. Ah, you live here? I recently acquired the plot up the way, hoping to build a house. Looks like were to be neighbours.
Neighbours, you say?
Charlotte withdrew, a deep unease winding through her. She had to glean who was moving in next door. Pulling on stout boots, she hurried to the local shop.
Tammy, the boisterous shopkeeper, was always up to date. She confirmed the rumour: some wealthy businessman had bought the plot.
He wants to build a house, not for himself, but for his twin brother. Ill, apparently. Doctors orderscountry air, peace, the works. Our patch is perfect, forest clean as a whistle, pure springs for days.
A businessman, you say? pondered Charlotte. Could be good. If he takes to the place, he might even open a shopcould do with some new jobs round here.
Tammy laughed. You dream on, love.
As Charlotte left, she bumped into the delivery driver, Gabriel, who ran bread to all the little shops.
Now, he was balancing a heavy tray of fresh loaves.
All right, Charlotte, hold the door for us?
All right, hello to you too, she said, letting warmth leach into her cheeks as she held the door.
Gabriel paused, breathless. Whats the rush? Take a warm loaf, just out the oven.
She blushed furiously. Put it on my tab, Tammy! Promise Ill settle up.
Everyone in the village knew Gabriel had courted Charlotte for years. She, for her part, dodged his attentionsa whole six years her junior, and half the county whispered Charlotte was an old hen for him. Shed forbidden herself to even consider it. Let him find some nice young girl!
But Gabriel never married. Still, he looked her way; now and again hed fret over how to woo her, until shed put a stop to every attempt.
All he could do was cast quiet, wistful glances.
*
The building work didn’t take long.
Soon enough, a large red-brick house, majestic among the fields, blazed with the light of its windows. Charlotte couldnt help herself; she brought over an apple pie, rapped on the shiny new door, and called out:
Hello, neighbours! Thought Id pop by.
The scent of clean sawdust filled the entryway. Charlotte hesitated at the threshold, clutching the pie.
A pair of men and two womenall in paint-spattered overallspeered out.
Can we help you?
She hesitated, I live just there, you see. Baked a few pies, thought Id share one with you.
Cheers, one of the women nodded, taking the tray.
While she was there, Charlotte pressed on, I dont suppose youve got any odd jobs? I can hang wallpaper, paint, do a bit of plastering?
One of the tradesmen shook his head, regretful. We brought a full crew from London, love. Talk to the owner, he’ll be here in a couple days.
Oh. Charlotte tried not to show her disappointment. Right then, Ill be off.
The hope of work fizzled out.
Returning home, Charlotte surveyed her own tired house with a sinking feeling. Its damp, mossy walls needed repair, but she knew there was little to be done. What stung most was the sense of neighbourly cold. In days past, newcomers always introduced themselves, offered tea, became part of the village humbut this new owner never once knocked, never asked after her. Odd, she thought.
*
But soon all was turned topsy-turvy.
The new house strung itself in jubilant Christmas lights, and moving vans arrived. Through her lace curtains, Charlotte watched a parade of plush furniture and boxes.
A young woman in a pale fur coat emerged, gliding across the gravel.
Who on earth is that? mused Charlotte. Must be some beauty queenno doubt the kind a businessman brings for company.
The ailing twin, who Tammy had whispered about, seemed never to venture out. Only once a week did Charlotte spot the young woman heading briskly to the village shop.
Charlotte would nod politely and attempt conversation, but the girl only screwed up her face, muttered hello, and rushed by with barely a glance.
Too grand to bother with the likes of me, thought Charlotte, wincing inwardly.
A year passed in this cold silence. Charlotte no longer tried to reach out, nor welcomed visitors at her own door. Every week, a silver car would slip up to the neighbours drive; a well-dressed man would unload bags and vanish inside.
Until, one afternoon, there was a brisk knock.
It was the neighbourher face tight and businesslike.
Ive noticed youve a cow, hens, all sorts. You wouldnt sell me a joint of beef? Id pay, and Id love some of your butter, cream, and potatoes, if you have them.
Of course! Charlotte perked up, waving her guest to a chair while she rummaged in cupboards.
Its justshop meat is horrid, shop cream equally so, the girl said, excusing herself.
Charlotte brought out a packet of beef from the deep-freeze.
Lovely and fresh, this is. Wont take long to boil.
How long does it need? the girl asked, anxious.
Oh, about an hour and a half.
That long?
You sometimes get meat that takes even longer, dear. Dyou know your cuts? If not, Ill help.
What if I dont want to boil it? the girl fretted. Could I just fry it?
You could, yes.
But I havent the faintest idea how. Ill burn it, honestly. Could you fry it here, with potatoes, and Ill pick up the ready meal?
Charlotte surveyed her: too young, too polisheda face unbothered by hardship, hands that plainly never scrubbed pots.
Do you cook at all? Charlotte ventured.
The young woman shrugged. Of course not.
Whats your name?
Abigail. And yours?
Charlotte. Call me Charlie if you fancy. If you like, I could cook lunches and suppers for youfor a modest fee.
Id be grateful for your help. When could you start?
Anytime, love.
Lets not waste a momentcome, Ill show you round.
Charlotte didnt need asking twice. She bundled up ingredients and, shutting her own door tight, followed.
The neighbours House
Inside, the house left Charlotte speechlessplaster still fresh, furnishings twice as grand as her own. In the sitting room, a brooding man hunched over a novel. He peered at her in consternation.
Whos this then? Trouble?
Abigail fawned at his elbow. Darling, Ive found us a helperCharlottes to do our cooking.
Actually, Im your neighbour. Right next door. Pleased to meet you.
He grunted and dismissed her with a glance.
Come on, Abigail urged, suddenly informal.
She whisked Charlotte to the kitchen, fluttering her hand. Cook something for us, will you?
Charlotte stifled surprise at this forwardnessno time to be offended. She set to, washing hands, peeling, slicing, moving about the unfamiliar kitchen.
Within an hour, she plated up stewed beef and potatoes.
Andjust like magicCharlotte had found desirable work.
The owner, stony-faced Mr. Alexander, paid her wages weekly. Over time, he softened. Good meals have a way of opening hearts.
Yet Charlotte soon noticed neither Abigail nor Alexander lifted a finger about the house. Beds unmade, floors dirty.
Shrugging, Charlotte fetched a pail, scrubbed down the house.
But Alexander caught her at it.
Who told you to clean up? he queried, more surprised than angry.
It was simply filthyyou must have noticed. I couldnt help myself.
If you think Ill pay for any fits of enthusiasm, youre mistaken. Dust never killed anyone, and your wages are for kitchen work alone. And groceries, of course.
Very well
Charlotte bit her tongue, finished her chores, but clocked changes afootMr. Alexanders brother, the businessman, stopped visiting.
Abigail no longer strolled to the shops. She began to look at Charlotte with increasing discontent.
Days later, Abigail declared, Dont bother doing the washing-up. Leave it. And no more meat. Just potatoes, eggs, and milk. That sufficescook only those.
Charlotte asked, puzzled, Has something happened?
Something! Abigail burst out. This village is a bore. No shops, no cafes, no life! Nothing to do, nowhere to go!
A few days more and, knocking at the door as usual, Charlotte found it unlocked, the house in disarraystuff everywhere, ornaments and books in heaps, curtains torn down.
Oh, lordAbigail? she shouted.
She’s gone, a voice rumbled from the kitchen.
Charlotte darted in. Dishes scattered, the windows bare, Alexander sat among empties, drinking.
Whats happened? A row with Abigail?
Dont speak her name. Shes left and thats that. Said village lifes not for her.
He sighed, then lifted bloodshot eyes.
Charlie, fetch me some beef, will you? Fry it up for me?
Charlotte didnt dare say noshe ran for meat, fried it up, tidied as the kitchen warmed with familiar scents.
Alexander, roused by food, plucked hot slices from the pan with a knife.
Dont eat with the knife, sit at the table, let me serve you, Charlotte scolded gently.
He grinned, shuffling to the table. You’re something else, Charlie. Wonderful woman.
Charlotte froze; she hadn’t felt like a woman, been spoken to sweetly, in years.
Dont go. Sit; have a drink with me.
I dont drink.
She realised Alexander was well drunk, and started to excuse herselfbut he suddenly clung to her with heavy arms.
Never noticed before: youre a fascinating woman, Charlotte, he purred.
A Married Life
Charlotte felt watching eyesneighbours, acquaintancesevery time she visited the shop. Gossip hissed and whispered behind her back, but no one confronted her directly.
Except Tammy at the counter, shooting sly glances.
Charlie, whos the cigarettes for? Sausages and cheese, too, you never buy those!
For the neighbour, who else? Charlotte muttered, Told you: I work over there.
Tammy leant forward, arch. And since when do you stay over there? Breakfast and tea every day? Be careful, love. Hell chew you up and leave.
Charlotte stiffened, gathering her groceries with tight lips.
You spying on me?
The village talks, Charlie. So do I.
Charlie gave a tart laugh. Well, then let it talk. Yes, Alexander and I have something. Were in love.
Tammys eyes narrowed. Is it love? House barely gone cold, and hes warmed to you! Wake up, love.
Charlotte stood tall, her composure cracking. Finished? My change, please, quickly.
Ignoring Tammy, she scooped up her coins and left, anger burning in her belly.
People, she thought, swords sharpened on their tongues.
At the shop door, she nearly barged into Gabriel lugging bread.
She didnt bother to hold the door; Gabriel didnt ask. He grunted, managed the latch himself, and left.
Another one turned away, Charlotte sighed. Wont even say hello now.
Yet a pang pricked her heart.
Truth be told, Gabriels nervous blushes had once lightened her mood. Now, he didnt even look at her. His silence carved its own ache.
*
Turning down the lane, Charlotte didnt go to her own home, but to Alexanders. Hed promised to marry her soon; the grand new house would belong to them both. She had even grown used to managing things there. Only, the mornings shed hasten back to her old place to stoke the range and feed what remained of her flock.
Small sacrifices. After the wedding, Alexander said theyd build a proper pen for everything.
*
True to his word, Alexander sent for a cab one rainy morning. At the registry, they signed the book.
He slid a golden ring onto her hand.
How lovelya gold one?
Naturally. Mind you keep it safe.
Back home, Charlotte laid the table. Straightaway Alexander poured himself a drink.
Not a bit much these days, darling? she teased, admiring her ring.
I drink from happiness. Now, bring on some beefneeds something hearty as a chaser.
Theres none leftIve made salad
What do you mean none? Theres a cow mooing in your shed.
Thats Bessie, my darling. Cantshes my only milker. I live on her milk.
Alexander banged his fist, scowling. Enough of the scrimping. Youve a rich husband now! You cook chicken every day, but I want beef.
Killing a cow takes all day…
But Alexanders hand pounded the table again. Do as I saybring the beef!
M-E-A-T
Charlotte traipsed the village, searching for a butcher, but no one would help; bitter cold, no one would stand outside skinning a cow for love or money. Finally, Gabriel agreed.
He eyed her sternly.
Why are you putting the cow down?
She blushed, shame curling in her gut. She couldnt say her husband had simply demanded meat.
She lied. Too much work to keep her. Hays so dear nowadays…
But you just marriedwont he help with hay?
Gabriel just looked at her, bottomless. You want help or not?
She nodded. Please. I cant do it myself.
An hour later, the deed was done. Gabriel handled the heavy cutting; Charlotte ferried great shining slabs into the kitchen.
Why doesnt your man help out? Gabriel eventually blurted.
He was a city type. Not used to hard graft.
She handed him a tub of meat. This is for you. Thank you, Gabriel.
Thats quite a lot.
Gabriel straightened, eyes serious yet reverent, and Charlotte stilled.
At that moment, Alexander reeled drunkenly onto the porch.
Wife! Whos there? Dont forget me, you hear! Fry up my meat this instant! And you owe me a wedding night yet!
Gabriels jaw hardened.
You two married? he asked, quietly.
Charlotte, shivering, nodded, Yes.
Gabriel dropped the tub into the snow and, grabbing his tools, walked away.
Daughter
Married life grew tedious fast.
Alexander filled his days with whisky and meatso much so, he began cooking for himself, tossing beef into pans with lazy expertise.
Charlottes yard stood empty; only Buttercup, her lonely cat, mewed around her ankles.
That cat again. Whyd you bring it here? Chuck him out for good, Alexander whined.
Emily came to visither new stepfather snored drunk into his plate, as always.
She scolded her mother. Mum, is this what you call married?
Dont nag, love. Alexs a good man, just city life left him stressed. Its not easy moving here, you know.
Mum, hes a drinking layabout. Always was, always will be. Youre his skivvy, not his wife.
Look, just see this house! I would never have dreamt of living so well.
Emilys face turned hard. That house isnt yours, and you look nothing like the lady of it. Youve abandoned your own home for this parasite. If he throws you out, where will you go?
Emily left as swiftly as shed arrived.
Mum, take some meat, Charlotte said, hurrying to fetch a joint. But the pantry was locked.
She rattled the padlock, then shook Alexander awake. Whys the pantry locked? Wheres the key?
Alexander sulked. What for?
I want to send meat with Emily.
Lets make a deal: no more children round here.
Charlotte stared in disbelief. She searched his pockets and found the key, but Emily, overhearing, just pursed her lips and left.
Charlottes heart brimmed with grief.
That night Alexander awoke with a heavy sigh.
Listen here. My brother died not long ago, and the house is in his wifes name now. She wants me out.
Charlotte gasped.
She calledwarned me its time to go.
Whatll we do? she quavered.
You village typeswhat do you do? Dont budge! Have a child, two if you can; lock yourself in, fight for your homes worth. Thats what.
Charlotte shook her head. I cant. Im not that person.
Alexander downed another drink and slammed the bottle. Well, if you cant stand for the house, pack your things. Well move in with you.
He scoured the kitchen for foodfinding cold meat in a panwhich he ate, hunched and silent.
That Abigailran at the first whiff of trouble, like a rat off a sinking ship. My brother paid for it all. Soon as he died, and the money dried up, she bolted.
Charlotte stared at him.
Is that why you stopped paying me?
Exactly. You were easycall and you came running, straight into my bed.
Charlotte clenched with hurt. Dont speak to me that way.
And dont you play the martyr, either. Youre my wife nowfor better or worse. Pack your things. When we go, well strip the place. Every bulb, every rugsmash the windows as we leave! Get the butcher to help with the furniture.
Charlotte drew herself up.
So you never loved me. You only married me for convenience?
Alexander smirked. You arent so young, Charlotte. Surely you know how these things work.
You never loved me.
Nor you, me. It was the house you wanted.
He gnawed another bone, fished out a fresh bottle.
How could I have been so foolish Even Bessies gone. My living.
Resolved, Charlotte took her key, walked out, and unlocked the pantryalmost empty. She decided: divorce was the only way.
Why live beside a man who sees you as hired help and nothing more?
She was tired of his orders.
The casks of meat were almost bare.
Wheres the meat, Alex?
None of your business. I exchanged it for supplies.
For those cases of booze in the cellar, eh? That meat could have kept us a year! Whatll you live on now?
Alex grinned. Ive still got you. Youll think of something.
Go to the devil with your blatherIll file for divorce today!
Epilogue
The divorce came quickly, but the trouble didnt end.
Having lost everything, Alexander tried a new trick: he attempted to seize Charlottes house.
Sneaking in at night, he stole up to her bed, grabbing at her in the dark.
Startled, Charlotte cried out. Heavenswhos there?
Dont shout, Charlie, its me, your Alex.
Keep your hands off me!
She bolted out into the freezing night barefoot, running to Tammys house, pounding on the window.
Whos there? Tammy called.
Its me, Tammy, open up!
Charlie!? Whats happened?
Tammy ushered her into the warm. Charlotte, breathless, collapsed inside.
Worse than fire, Tammyshut the door quick before he comes
Who?
My ex-husbandoh, you were right, Tammy. What a fool Ive beenhow do I get rid of him?
Charlotte hid for weeks until Alexander went for good.
Even so, she was frightened to return. It seemed Alexander might break in at any time. But, at last, all was quiet.
Inside, her home was desolate. Cupboards bare, larder cleaned out, the cellar stripped. Potatoes and preserves, all gone.
Charlotte dropped to the table amongst empty bottles and plates, head in her arms.
Some marriage that was. Now Ive no cow, nor stockwhat next?
The door creaked. Gabriel slipped inside, Buttercup cradled to his chest.
Charlie, I had a word with your Alexandermade him leave for good. I kept your cat safe. Hes a good ladkeeps the mice down.
Charlotte sobbed. Thank you, Gabriel.
You cryin because I sent him off? That scoundrel flogged off your wood, too
She wept harder.
Charlie, forgive me.
No, Gabriel, forgive me
For what?
For disappointing you, looking down my nose
Lets light a fire, get you warm. Mums heated the bath at ours, too, baked pies. Lets go home for nowwhy sit alone in the cold?
*
Some time later, Gabriel and Charlotte married. Emily forgave her, even visiting with her husband on occasion.
Alexander moved back to the city, and, rumour had it, tied the knot with a widowed lady well past her youth.
The builders widow, inheriting the grand house next door, began spending summers in the village.
She paid a neighbourly call upon Charlotte, bringing a fresh pie. They became friends.
Chatting over tea, Charlotte asked what illness Alexander supposedly suffered from. The widow only laughed.
Alexander? Ill? Dont make me laugh. Hes as fit as an ox. His problems the bottle. When he lived in town, he drank every pub dryand my poor late husband, kind soul, felt sorry for him, sent him out here hoping the countryside might turn him sober. Fat chance. Hed drink the Thames if it was gin!They both laughedloud and true. For a moment, Charlotte felt a lightness she hadnt known in years. The sun spilled through her little window, warming her battered table, glancing off a clean kettle, glinting on the empty ring finger that no longer felt bare, but rather unencumbered, light as spring air.
Outside, Buttercup chased a butterfly across the yard, the tiniest echo of childrens laughter drifting from down the lane. In the tidy pen Gabriel had built, a flock of cheerful hens clucked in the grass, and a new calf nuzzled its mother in the shed. The world was ordinary, yet dear, stitched anew from old worry and heartbreak.
Charlotte took a deep breath, tasting a skein of hope on the airfresh, unexpected as dawn, as if happiness could, by slow and honest work, return and settle where it was once banished. She poured another cup of tea for her visitor, letting the golden liquid swirl, and caught her own reflection in the window: lined, yes, but steady-eyed and, quite suddenly, beautiful in her own weathered way.
For the first time in a long while, Charlotte smiledfull-hearted, undiminished by any loss, and ready, at last, for all the quiet joys yet to come.
A Child for a Friend When Lily was in the final months of her pregnancy, her younger brother left home, her father turned to drink, and from then on, Lily’s life became a living hell. Each morning, Lily aired out the house, cleared the empty bottles from under the table, and waited for her father to wake up. “Dad, you know you can’t drink. You’ve barely recovered from that stroke.” “I’ll drink if I want. Who’s going to stop me? It’s easier to bear the pain this way.” “What pain?” “The pain of knowing I’m not needed. Not even by you. I’m nothing but a burden. I’m a lost soul, Lily. Should never have been born, never should’ve married or fathered children who got nothing from me but weakness and poverty. It’s all for nothing, love. Drinking is simpler.” Lily, already in a foul mood, bristled. “Nothing’s for nothing, Dad. People have it worse, you know.” “How could it be worse, love? You grew up with no mother. Now you want to bring a poor babe into the world with no father, and more poverty awaits.” “Things aren’t as bleak as all that, Dad. Life’s changeable. Everything can turn around in a moment.” She remembered, with a pang, how she was happy once, preparing to marry Ilya. Yes, her world had fallen apart, but life had to go on. That day, her father got drunk again. Lily shouted from the heart: “Did you drink away the money I set aside? How did you find it? You tore the house apart and rummaged through my things, didn’t you?!” “Everything in this house belongs to me,” her father decreed, “including the pension you’re hiding! My pension.” “And you drank it all? Didn’t give a thought to how we’d live?” “Why should I? I’m sick. You’re grown now, your turn to look after me!” Lily searched all the cupboards. “I know there were two packs of pasta and some butter left yesterday. Now it’s all gone! What are we supposed to eat for dinner?” She sat on a chair and buried her face in her hands, devastated. How was Lily to know that Auntie Natasha had taken to plying her father with drink and robbing the house behind her back? Like a silent viper, Natasha had wormed her way in and set herself to destroying their family. That night, Lily cried herself to sleep, worn down and aching with hunger. In the morning, someone knocked at the door. In walked Natasha Anatolievna, dressed in a fashionable coat and high-heeled boots, not bothering to take them off as she waltzed in. “Hello. My friend in the council told me you’re in debt and they’ll be cutting your power for non-payment soon. What’s going on, Lily? Will you make me a cup of tea?” Without waiting for an answer, Natasha went to the kitchen and began rummaging through cupboards and the fridge. “I’ll make the tea myself—after all, you’re pregnant just like my Sveta… Listen, you don’t even have any sugar or tea left. There’s nothing here at all. Let’s go to the shop.” Lily wouldn’t meet her guest’s gaze. “Auntie Natasha, I can’t offer you tea. It would be best if you left.” But Natasha was having none of it. “You’ve got problems, I can see it. Remember I offered to have you move in with me? This time I’m not asking, I insist. Come to mine. There’s no place here for a baby, your dad’s drinking, and you’ve got nothing to eat—let alone vitamins and fruit! Pack your things and come now.” Lily sat on the stool, dizzy with it all, tears streaming down her cheeks. Natasha hugged her. “Listen, love, I know how you feel about me. I’ll never be forgiven—my daughter stole your fiancé—but I can’t stand to see you suffer. Whether you want it or not, I’ll take care of you.” After that, it all happened as if in a dream: Natasha helped Lily pack, called a taxi, and took her home. *** When Lily’s contractions began, Natasha Anatolievna stayed glued to her side. “Listen carefully, Lily. I’ve already told the hospital staff you want to give up the baby. So after the birth, don’t hold her or feed her. Don’t even look.” Lily, writhing in pain, replied, “Oh, Auntie Natasha, I don’t care. Just let this be over.” “Remember what I said—you can’t look after this baby yourself. I’ve found a nice couple willing to adopt her straight away.” A few hours later, a baby girl was born. “Three kilos, three hundred grams. She’s healthy and fine.” The nurse wrapped the squirming infant and whisked her away without showing Lily. But the paediatrician shot a stern look at the new mother. “What’s this? You have a healthy, beautiful baby girl and don’t even want to see her? Elena, bring her back—put her to the mother’s breast.” Lily shook her head desperately. “I don’t want her. I can’t even feed myself—there are people who need her more, I’ll sign the papers. Let her be adopted…” “Don’t be ridiculous—just look at her once!” Lily shut her eyes tight, but soon felt something soft and tender brush her hand. The nurse laid the newborn beside her. The tiny girl grunted, searching and gaping her mouth. At last, Lily looked at her daughter. The small, helpless baby gazed up, squinting curiously and reaching out her tiny hands. “There you go, Mum, feed your little one,” the paediatrician smiled. She perked up, seeing Lily overcome by the power of that first meeting. “She needs you—not adoptive parents, understand?” Lily broke down in tears, cradling her child and nodding. For the next two hours, Lily couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter. That was when her mother’s instinct awoke. “There it is—the meaning of my life: my daughter. Doesn’t matter if Ilya’s gone or Dad’s lost his way…my daughter needs me, so I’m staying with her.” *** Lily woke to Natasha’s voice. Natasha Anatolievna, wrapped in a dressing gown, had entered the ward and stood over Lily’s bed. “Did you forget our agreement?” she whispered. “You promised to give up the baby. I’ve got people ready to take her right now.” “Natasha Anatolievna, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not giving her up.” “But you haven’t got a penny—you’re practically homeless! Where will you take that child?” “Home. I won’t trouble you anymore. I’ll manage.” Lily watched her visitor’s face twist into something devilish. “Have you gone mad? You haven’t got a penny to your name! What are you going to do—beg on the street?” The baby, woken by Natasha’s outburst, started to cry. Lily moved to comfort her. “Don’t touch! I’ll rock her and give her a bottle. Just tell the nurses you haven’t any milk,” Natasha snapped. Lily shook her head. “This isn’t your business—it’s my daughter. I told you, I’ve changed my mind!” “You can’t! You promised!” Natasha sputtered uselessly. “Just go.” Natasha left. Lily’s neighbour, quiet until then, raised her head. “Who was that?” “My aunt.” “Horrible. You did the right thing sending her away. I’m Lera. If you need help, let me know—there’s goodness in this world yet.” “I’m Lily.” “Nice to meet you, Lily. That woman looked like she wanted to snatch your baby and run off. Really strange.” *** Before discharge, Lily had another visitor. She wasn’t allowed onto the ward, so Lily met her in the corridor. Her former friend Sveta was waiting, hands over her very round belly. “Hello.” Lily sat cautiously on a bench. Sveta joined her. “I heard you had the baby.” “Yes. A girl.” Sveta’s eyes darted. “Lily, mum found a couple wanting to adopt your baby, you know.” “So?” “They’re really good people—wealthy, desperate for a baby.” Sveta grabbed Lily’s hand. “They’re offering a million—for your daughter! Just think—you could buy a flat or pay for university!” “A million, huh?” Lily nodded. “If you care so much, why not sell them your child instead?” Sveta’s lips tightened, but she didn’t let go. “Wait, Lily. Give your baby to me! I’ll look after her—she’s Ilya’s daughter, after all.” “You want to raise two children?” “You don’t understand, Lily! My family is falling apart!” Lily leapt up and turned to go, Sveta clinging to her sleeve, her gaze wild. “I need that child, Lily!” “Let go.” …A couple hours later, Ilya himself burst into the ward. Lily shrank back. “You’ve had the baby? Can I see her?” “No, you can’t! You’ll soon have a baby with Sveta—go hang around her.” “We need to talk, Lily. Since you gave birth, I can’t rest. I want to take my daughter—just give her up, and I promise I’ll adopt her myself.” Lily shook her head. “I’m not like you—I’ll never abandon someone who needs me. You wasted your journey, you’re not taking my daughter!” But Ilya remained oddly persistent, refusing to leave. “Give me the baby! You had no right to have her without me! She’s mine and I’m taking what’s mine!” “You? Mummy’s boy? Ask your mother first for permission!” She shoved her ex aside, scooped up her daughter, and went to the nurses’ station. “Could you make sure no one visits me anymore? I don’t want to see anyone—honestly, it’s like Grand Central Station!” Epilogue On the day she was discharged, Lily left the hospital clutching her baby daughter. She wasn’t alone—her roommate Lera was also going home, greeted by her husband and mother. Lily paused on the steps, seeing the Resnikovs’ car. Out of the vehicle came Ilya’s mother, Valerie Jacqueline, craning her neck and peering at Lily. A chill ran down her spine. Her would-be mother-in-law eyed her like a wolf sizing up prey. Lera spotted her friend’s face and stepped up. “Who’s that, Lily?” “Ilya’s parents.” “She’s watching you, lying in wait. It’s weird how they’re all circling you—something’s not right here. I told you Mum set up a room for you at ours—come with us.” Lily nodded. She felt unease as well. *** Living with her new friends, Lily found unexpected happiness—Lera’s cousin Ivan, a lifelong bachelor, began courting her. Ivan turned out to be a kind and good man, marrying Lily, adopting her daughter, and even helping her father-in-law. As for Sveta and Ilya, their marriage fell apart. It turned out Sveta had faked her pregnancy, wearing a fake belly and fooling the whole Resnikov clan. Natasha Anatolievna, keen to protect her daughter, confessed to her son-in-law that Sveta had miscarried early, but suggested a solution. “Ilya, don’t be angry at my girl—true, she lost the baby, but you’ve not been perfect either. You’ll soon have a child elsewhere. Why not take Lily’s baby as your own? She’s your flesh and blood, after all. We just pretend nothing’s happened, tell everyone Sveta’s still pregnant, and when Lily gives birth, take the baby and say it’s Sveta’s.” Ilya liked the plan. And everything would have worked, if only Lily hadn’t “kicked up a fuss,” refusing to leave her baby girl behind at the hospital and sending her old friend and her mother back to square one. Ilya’s mother, Valerie Jacqueline, disappointed by her daughter-in-law’s deception, kicked Sveta out and demanded her son divorce. A Child for a Friend—A Story of Betrayal, Motherhood, and Unbreakable Bonds
A Child for a Friend As Emily neared the final months of her pregnancy, her younger brother left home, and...
We’re Moving Into Your Flat — Polly’s got a brilliant flat in the city centre. Freshly renovated—can’t ask for more! — It’s a lovely place for a single woman, — Rustam smiled patronisingly at Inna, as if she were a child. — But we’re planning to have two—maybe even three kids, one after another. It’s noisy downtown—not enough air, no parking. And most importantly, there are only two rooms. Here? You’ve got three. Quiet street, nursery right outside. — The neighbourhood is really good, — agreed Sergei, still unsure where his future son-in-law was leading. — That’s why we chose to settle here. — Exactly! — Rustam snapped his fingers. — I keep telling Polly: why should we cram ourselves in, when there’s a perfect solution? There’s three of you—including your daughter—and honestly, this place is far too big. What do you need all this space for? You don’t even use one of your rooms; it’s just storage. It’d suit us perfectly. Inna tried to squeeze the vacuum cleaner into the tiny hallway cupboard… * * * After five years of peaceful family life and a fair inheritance split—Sergei got his gran’s spacious three-bed in a quiet part of town, his sister Polly got a two-bed in the central “Golden Triangle”—Olya and her fiancé Rustam arrive with big news: They’re getting married and have come up with a “fair” proposal: “We’re moving in here, and you can go live in Polly’s flat.” What follows is a tense family standoff, as Rustam insists they swap homes for his future family’s “perspective,” dismissing Inna’s work from home and the couple’s daughter’s routines. Loyalty, inheritance, entitlement, and family bonds are all thrown into the mix as battle lines are drawn—and even Polly starts doubting where her loyalties should lie. We’re Moving Into Your Flat: When Family Drops By With an Unbelievable Proposition and One Pushy Fiancé Tries to Swap Your Life Out From Under You
Were Moving Into Your Flat Emilys got a fantastic flat right in central London. Its practically spotlessmove in and start...
It Doesn’t Seem Fair That Your Children Have Their Own Flats, While My Son Has Nothing – Let’s Get Him a Home with a Mortgage! Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have their own flats, while his son doesn’t, and now we need to figure out how to make sure his son gets one too. To clarify, my children are both mine and Anthony’s, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it be my responsibility to worry about finding a place for his son to live? Of course, I always knew Anthony had been married before and had a child. That’s one reason I didn’t rush into marrying Anthony. We lived together for three years before we got married. I watched carefully to see what his feelings were towards his ex-wife and his son. A year after we married, I had a boy. Two years later, I gave birth to our second son. I’m perfectly happy with Anthony – both as a husband and a father. He spends time with me and the children. He’s the main breadwinner. Of course, we argue sometimes – but what family doesn’t? We were living in the flat I’d inherited from my father. My mother divorced him when I was still at nursery. She’s now remarried, but had no children with her second husband. Anthony and his first wife always rented. For years they tried to save for a mortgage but never managed it. After their divorce, his ex-wife moved back in with her parents and Anthony rented a flat. When we married, he moved in with me. We didn’t focus on whose name was on the flat. We just lived in my place and did everything together: renovations, new furniture. Then, about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers died in quick succession – my mum’s and my dad’s mothers. Both left me their flats in their wills. While my boys are still small, I’ve decided to rent the flats out. Later, each of my sons will inherit one. For now, the money from one goes to my mum as a pension top-up, and the money from the other supplements my salary. Extra cash is always handy. My husband never interfered with the flat situations – after all, they’re nothing to do with him. I told him from the start that when our boys grow up, I’ll give each a flat. He agreed. That was that, as far as I was concerned. Then suddenly, my husband said to me: —My son will finish sixth form in a few years. He’s nearly an adult; he needs to start thinking about his future! I didn’t really get where he was going, but I listened anyway. —Your children have their own homes. My son doesn’t. Let’s get a mortgage and buy my son a flat!—he blurted out. I was shocked! I had so many questions. The first thing I asked was why our children – mine and Anthony’s – were suddenly just “my” children? Anthony told me not to get hung up on wording. —But my son will never inherit anything. I want him to have a place of his own! —That’s good that you care! But your son has a mother and a father. Isn’t this their responsibility? Why isn’t your ex-wife taking care of it? My husband explained that his ex-wife’s income is very low, her parents help her, and he himself can’t afford a mortgage. But if I helped, everything would be fine. It turns out I’m supposed to agree to Anthony taking out a mortgage for his son’s flat, but WE would pay it back, even though the flat would be in his son’s name. “We both have good salaries and rental income! We’ll manage!” said Anthony. We might, but we’d have to tighten our belts. Anthony also pays child maintenance for his son. When the boy goes to uni, Anthony plans to support him again because his ex-wife can’t afford it. So because of his son, my children and I won’t have holidays, won’t travel to the seaside, will always have to save. For what? Just so Anthony looks like the perfect dad? I would understand if Anthony had provided both our children with flats, and now wanted to do the same for his eldest son. But the truth is, I secured homes for our boys with no help from Anthony. Why should I pay for a mortgage on top? I told Anthony straight away – if he’s that worried, let his ex-wife take out the mortgage, and pay it off with the child maintenance money. —But I’m not getting involved!—I said. My husband’s furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me for a week. It’s a shame he can’t see my side.
It doesn’t look right that your children will have their own flats and my son wont. Let’s sort out a...
He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself to be weak-willed and spineless. Each day depended on the mood with which he woke. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and bright, cracking jokes all day and laughing loudly. But mostly, he spent his days in gloomy contemplation, drinking copious amounts of tea and wandering around the house with a stormy face, as was typical for people in the creative professions. Victor Dudley belonged to that sort: he worked at the village school, teaching art, woodwork, and, occasionally, music lessons when the music teacher was off sick. He had an affinity for the arts. School didn’t let him fulfil his creative ambitions, so the house became his canvas—Victor made himself a studio, taking over the largest and brightest room. Which, as it happened, Sophie had earmarked as a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered paint tubes and clay everywhere, and set to work—painting feverishly, sculpting, creating… He could stay up all night working on a strange still life, or spend the entire weekend crafting a puzzling sculpture. He never sold his “masterpieces.” They filled the house, the walls thick with paintings that—truth be told—Sophie didn’t like; the cupboards and shelves buckled under the weight of his clay figurines. If the things had been truly beautiful, it might have been different—but they weren’t. The few artist and sculptor friends from Victor’s college days who visited would fall silent, avert their eyes, and sigh quietly as they looked at his creations. Not one ever complimented him. Only Leo Peabody—the oldest in the group—burst out, after finishing a bottle of rowanberry liqueur: “My word, what a load of meaningless daubs! What is all this? I haven’t seen a single worthwhile thing in this house—except, of course, your wonderful wife.” Dudley couldn’t stand the criticism. He shouted, stamped his feet, and told his wife to show the rude guest the door. “Get out!” he yelled. “You philistine! It’s you who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, I see it now! You’re just angry that you can’t hold a paintbrush in your shaky drunk hands! You simply envy me, so you belittle everything!” Peabody barely made it down the steps, and paused at the gate, almost tripping, when Sophie caught up and apologised for her husband’s behaviour. “Please don’t mind him. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should have warned you.” “Don’t make excuses for him, dear child,” nodded Leo. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab and head home. I do pity you, though. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings ruin everything! And those horrid figurines… they should be hidden, not shown off. But knowing Victor, I can only imagine how difficult your life must be. You see, for us artists, the things we create reflect our souls. And Victor’s soul is as empty as his canvases.” He kissed Sophie’s hand in farewell and left the unwelcoming house. Victor did not recover emotionally for a long time—he yelled, smashed some of his own “sculptures,” tore up paintings, and raged for a month before he calmed down. *** Still, Sophie never opposed her husband. She decided that, in time, children would arrive and her darling would set aside his hobbies. He’d turn the studio into a nursery, but until then, let him amuse himself with still lifes. Shortly after their wedding, Victor played the part of the model husband—bringing home fresh fruit and his wages, caring for his young wife. But he soon lost interest. He became distant, stopped sharing his pay, and Sophie had to take care of the home, her husband, the vegetable patch, the henhouse, and her mother-in-law. When Sophie became pregnant, Victor was delighted. But their joy was short-lived: a week later, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and suffered a miscarriage. When Victor heard the news, he changed immediately—becoming whiny, nervous, and shouting at Sophie before locking himself in the house. Sophie left the hospital a shadow of herself. No one met her, but the worst was yet to come: Victor wouldn’t let her in. “Open up, Victor!” “No, I won’t,” he sniffled from behind the door. “Why did you come back? You were supposed to carry my child. But you failed! And today my mother ended up in hospital with a heart attack—because of you!” You’ve brought nothing but trouble. Get off the doorstep—I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision went black and she sat down on the porch. “Oh Victor… I’m suffering too, let me in!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie waited until nightfall. Finally, the door creaked open. Victor, thin with grief, locked the door with a bolt, but couldn’t find the key—he never knew where anything was, usually asked Sophie. He mulled it over, then left for the gate, not looking at his wife. When he was gone, Sophie entered quietly. She waited for him all night. The next morning, a neighbour brought dreadful news: her mother-in-law hadn’t survived the heart attack. The loss devastated Victor. He quit his job, took to bed and told Sophie, “I never really loved you. I only married you because my mother wanted grandchildren. But you ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Those words hurt, but Sophie resolved not to leave him. Time passed, but things did not improve. Victor became bedridden, refusing food, claiming he had an ulcer, until finally he stopped getting up at all. And then he filed for divorce; the Dudleys separated. Sophie wept bitterly. She tried to hug Victor, to kiss him, but he pushed her away, whispering that he’d throw her out as soon as he recovered—that she’d ruined his life. *** Sophie couldn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. Her own mother, delighted to have married her daughter off early, quickly moved to the seaside to live with her new husband—after hastily selling the family home. So Sophie was left trapped by circumstance. *** Eventually, the food ran out. She scraped together the last bits, boiled a final egg from the only surviving hen, and fed Victor watery porridge and mashed yolk. Life had dealt her a cruel hand—she might have been feeding a child by now (had she not been hauling water and logs on her own), but instead had to please her ex-husband, who didn’t value her at all. “I’ll pop out for a bit—the market’s in town from the next village. I’ll try to sell the hen, or trade her for food.” Victor, staring emptily at the ceiling, croaked: “Why sell her? Boil her up for broth. I’m sick of porridge, I want a proper meal.” Sophie pulled at her only dress—it was the one she’d worn for graduation, then at her wedding, and now on hot days: she had nothing else. “You know I can’t… I’ll sell or trade. I could give her to the neighbours, like the others, but I think this hen would keep coming back. She’s too attached.” “‘Penny’—” Victor sneered, “you name your hens now? For goodness’ sake… but what can one expect of you…” Sophie bit her lip and looked down. “You said you’re going to market? Take some of my paintings or figurines—maybe someone will buy them.” She tried to refuse, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two whistling clay birds and a large piggy bank—Victor’s pride—and bolted outside, hoping he wouldn’t demand she lug out the paintings as well. Statues she could rustle up the courage to offer; the paintings, never. They were just too awful. She was too ashamed to take them out in public. *** It was a hot day. Despite the light dress, Sophie was slick with sweat. Her face shone, her fringe stuck to her forehead. It was the village fête. Sophie couldn’t remember when she last went out, gazing in wonder at the bustling crowds around the stalls. There was honey of every kind, colourful silk scarves, children’s sweets, the irresistible aroma of barbecue, music, laughter. She stopped by the last stall, holding her hen close. She hated to part with the old bird, but she truly loved her. Years ago, she’d nursed this hen back to health, and Penny had become a beloved pet, always limping after Sophie. Now, she tried to poke her beak out from Sophie’s bag, pecking at her hand curiously. *** An elderly stallholder eyed her. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Stainless steel, silver, even a few gold chains.” “No, thanks. I’m here to sell a live hen, an excellent layer,” Sophie replied politely. “A hen… what would I do with it…” Then a young man at the stall piped up: “Let’s have a look at your hen.” Sophie carefully handed him the bird. “She limps a bit, but she’s a fine layer.” “How much? So cheap—what’s the catch?” Sophie flushed under his steady look, feeling sweat prickle anew. “She’s just lame, nothing else.” “Alright, I’ll buy her. And those?” He gestured at her clay figures. “Oh, these… figurines. Whistles and a piggy bank.” He laughed at the pig. “Handmade, eh?” “Yes, very much so. I’ll sell them cheap—I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller rolled her eyes: “What do you need all that for, Dennis? Off to play with toys now? Your brother could use your help on the barbecue stand.” Sophie backed away, startled: “You—work on the barbecue stand? Then I can’t sell you the hen!” She tried to snatch Penny back, but Dennis dodged and laughed. “Take your money back, please! Penny isn’t for barbecue—she’s not a meat bird!” “I know. She’ll go to my mum—she keeps chickens. And of course you can visit Penny any time.” … Sophie was almost home when Dennis pulled up in a car. “Excuse me, miss—have you any more clay figurines? I’d like to buy them for gifts and such.” Squinting against the sun, Sophie smiled: “You’re in luck! There are plenty more back home.” *** Back home, Dudley lay groaning at voices in the hall. “Who’s there, Sophie? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” The visitor glanced at bedridden Victor and turned away, looking at the paintings. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Who painted this—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she walked past with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor leapt from the bed. “And I didn’t just paint! Children paint with chalk on the pavement—I *compose*!” He sat up, watching the stranger. “What do you care about my paintings?” he demanded. “I like them. I’d like to buy one. And these sculptures—yours as well?” “Of course!” Victor cried, shoving Sophie aside. “Everything here is mine!” He jumped up, limped about, showing off canvases and figurines—all the while, Dennis glanced at Sophie, noting the blush in her cheeks, her shy glance. Epilogue Sophie was surprised by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery.” As it turned out, Dudley had never been ill! As soon as someone paid attention to his “art,” he was a new man. The mysterious visitor—Dennis—came every day, buying painting after painting. When the canvases ran out, he bought up all the figurines. Victor, thrilled, shut himself in the studio to make more. He never realised that Dennis was interested not in the “art,” but in the ex-wife. Each day, Dennis left with another “masterpiece,” then waited at the gate to chat with Sophie. Something blossomed. And soon enough, Dennis walked away from that house with just what he’d wanted—Dudley’s ex-wife. And that was why he’d come at all. Back home, Dennis tossed Victor’s paintings in the fire and bagged up the clay “grotesques,” unsure what to do with them. But he remembered Sophie’s lovely face. He’d noticed her at the fair in that light dress, from the moment she appeared—and he’d known instantly she was his fate. He’d learned of her miserable life with a madcap fool who fancied himself an artist—but nowhere to go. So Dennis visited daily, snapping up “art,” just to see her. In time, Sophie understood everything. Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis vanished once Sophie left with him; Dudley heard they’d married and he was left feeling utterly bitter at being so easily deceived. After all, finding a good wife is no easy thing—and Sophie was just that. It took time for him to realise he’d lost the most precious thing in his life: a caring, loyal wife. He’d never find another one like her—Sophie had not only endured him, but pitied him, cared for him almost like a mother. And what a woman she was! And like a fool, he’d let her slip away. Dudley considered wallowing in self-pity—but then realised: there was no one left to feed him eggs, or bring him water. No one to take over the house and garden…
Coveting Another Mans Wife Living together, Victor Dudley revealed himself to be a man of weak character and little willpower....
Recently, I Met a Woman Taking a Stroll Down the Street with Her 18-Month-Old Daughter, Completely Oblivious to Everything Around Her
Not long ago, I met a woman strolling down the street with her eighteen-month-old daughter, seemingly lost in her own...
For Better, For Worse (A Story of Love, Loss and New Beginnings in the English Countryside)
Both in Sorrow and in Joy Charlotte was widowed early, at forty-two. By then, her daughter, Emily, had already married...
A Fiancée and a Father Karina only pretended to want to meet Vadim’s parents. Why would she need to bother with them? She wasn’t planning on living with them, and as for his supposedly well-off father, he seemed like nothing but a source of problems and suspicion. Still, if you’re going to play the part, you have to play it to the end—especially when you’ve decided to get married. Karina dressed up, but kept it understated, wanting to come across as the sweet, girl-next-door type. Meeting your future in-laws is always a minefield, but navigating clever and perceptive parents is a true test of character. Vadim believed she just needed some reassurance. “Don’t worry, Karina—seriously, don’t. Dad’s a bit moody, but he’s reasonable. They won’t say anything horrible, and I just know they’ll love you. Mum’s the life of the party, of course, and Dad’s… well, a bit odd,” he said as they stood outside his parents’ house. Karina only smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her shoulder. So, Dad was gruff, Mum was a social butterfly—a classic combination. She stifled an inward laugh. The house held no surprises. She’d been to grander ones before. They were met at the door straight away. Karina felt little anxiety. Why fret over meeting ordinary people? She knew from Vadim that his mum, Nina, was a lifelong housewife, who sometimes went on girly trips but otherwise wasn’t particularly noteworthy. His father, Valery, was reputedly rather dour but at least silent—a mixed blessing. Only his name had sounded oddly familiar… They were greeted… And Karina froze at the threshold. This was the end. She didn’t know her future mother-in-law, but she recognized her future father-in-law in an instant. They’d met before—three years ago. Not many times, but enough, and on mutually agreeable terms. In bars, hotels, restaurants. No one—neither Valery’s wife nor his son—knew about their past. Well, this was a disaster. Valery recognised her too. A flash of something—surprise, alarm, or a deeper, more calculating look—crossed his eyes, but he said nothing. Vadim, blissfully unaware, beamed as he introduced her. “Mum, Dad, this is Karina. My fiancée. I’d have brought her sooner, but she’s just so shy.” Oh dear… Valery offered his hand. His handshake was firm—verging on harsh. “Very pleased to meet you, Karina,” he said, and there was a note in his voice Karina couldn’t immediately decode. Was it anger? A warning? Or something else? Karina wondered how long she had before Valery revealed her past. “It’s a pleasure, Valery,” she replied, matching his tone, doing her best not to give the game away. She squeezed his hand and adrenaline surged. What would happen next? But… nothing. Valery forced a polite smile and even pulled a chair out for her at the table. Maybe he’d bring the drama later… But nothing happened. Then it dawned on Karina—he wouldn’t say anything. If he exposed her, he’d expose himself to his wife. Once she relaxed, the atmosphere was oddly relaxed. Nina told childhood stories about Vadim, while Valery seemed to take a genuine interest in Karina, asking about her job. Ha—he already knew plenty. His subtle irony didn’t bother her anymore. Once or twice he even cracked a joke, and, to her own surprise, Karina laughed. But there were double entendres only she and he understood. For example, while looking at Karina, Valery remarked: “You remind me of a former… colleague. Very clever. She had a knack for handling people—all sorts of people.” Karina didn’t miss a beat. “Everyone has their own talents, Valery.” Vadim, giddy in love, gazed at Karina, oblivious to the undercurrents. He truly loved her. That was perhaps the sweetest—and the saddest—part. For him, anyway. Later, when talk turned to travel, Valery looked at Karina and mused, “I’m fond of quiet places. Somewhere you can sit and think—with a good book, of course. How about you, Karina? Where do you like to go?” He was baiting her. “I prefer crowds and noise—life and energy,” Karina replied coolly. “Although, sometimes too many ears can be dangerous.” For a moment, it seemed Nina noticed something and frowned, but she brushed off the thought. Valery knew Karina wasn’t one who craved peace and quiet. And he knew why. When the evening wrapped up, and they prepared for bed, Valery hugged Vadim. “Take care of her, son. She’s… special.” It sounded both like praise and a warning. Only Karina understood the hidden meaning. She felt the room’s temperature plummet. “Special.” He’d chosen his word carefully. *** That night, when the house fell silent, Karina couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, thinking over this unforeseen encounter and wondering how to navigate her new reality. The future was looking bleak. Karina suspected Valery was just as sleepless as she was—he, over this sudden reckoning; she, over the difficult conversation looming. Everything, really. She got up, threw on her favourite hoodie over top and quietly padded downstairs. She deliberately let her footsteps fall just heavily enough that anyone else awake would notice. She slipped outside to the veranda, anticipating this would lure out Valery. She didn’t have to wait long. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, approaching from behind. “Not tonight,” said Karina. A faint breeze carried Valery’s distinctive cologne. He examined her closely. “What do you want from my son, Karina?” His pleasant mask was gone. “I know what you’re capable of. I know how many men like me you’ve known. And I know you’ve always chased money. You never hid your price—however discreetly stated. Why Vadim?” If he wouldn’t reminisce, she wouldn’t play nice. “I love him, Valery,” she purred. “Why not?” He didn’t buy it. “Love? You? That’s a joke. I know your type, Karina. And I’ll tell Vadim everything. What you did. Who you really are. Think he’ll marry you then?” Karina closed the distance between them, stopping just out of reach. She tilted her head, scrutinizing him as if she hadn’t seen enough already. “Go ahead, Valery. But then your wife will learn our little secret too.” He hesitated. “This isn’t blackmail. It’s equality. If you reveal how we met, you can’t hide what we did. Trust me, I’ll fill in the details.” “It’s not the same…” “Really? Is that what you’ll tell your wife?” Valery froze. Karina’s bluff had succeeded—he realized he was trapped with her in this. “What would you tell her?” “Not just her. Everyone. Vadim, too. I’ll tell them what kind of family man you are, where you really spent your late nights. The whole story. I’ll have nothing left to lose. You want to save your son from me? Try it.” A tough call—getting his son to call things off would trigger his own divorce. “You wouldn’t dare.” “You think I wouldn’t?” Karina scoffed. “You’d dare, but I wouldn’t? Try me—if you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you. You know NIna values loyalty above all.” Once, far too drunk, he’d confessed to Karina his guilt about cheating on his faithful wife. Nina would never forgive him—ever. Which meant he really would have to choose. He knew Karina wasn’t bluffing. “Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll keep quiet. And you…. you too. No one says anything. We forget the past.” That’s why Karina hadn’t been worried. He stood to lose much more than she did. “As you wish, Valery.” The next morning, they left Vadim’s family home. Under Valery’s venomous gaze, Karina said goodbye to his wife—who now called her “daughter.” Valery twitched. He longed to warn his son about this scheming bride-to-be, but he couldn’t risk exposing himself. Losing Nina would cost him more than a wife—it would cost him much of his wealth. She’d never leave the marriage empty-handed. And Vadim might never forgive him… Another time, Karina and Vadim stayed another fortnight with his parents. The holiday was in full swing. Valery avoided Karina, claiming endless work. But one day, alone at home, curiosity got the better of him. He decided to snoop through Karina’s handbag. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find leverage. He rummaged through her things—makeup bag, diary, notebook—and then he spotted something blue and white. A pregnancy test. Two clear lines. “I thought my son’s marrying you was a catastrophe,” he muttered, replacing the test. “No, THIS is a catastrophe!” But he hadn’t closed the bag before Karina entered. “Really, Valery, you shouldn’t poke about in a lady’s belongings,” she scolded wryly—though she didn’t seem bothered. Valery didn’t try to hide his snooping. “You’re pregnant by Vadim?” Karina took her bag from him, looked him in the eye and said, “Well, you’ve spoiled the surprise, Valery.” Valery was furious. Now Karina would never leave his son. If he told the truth now—well, that would bring everything crashing down. Now he had to keep silent. Hard as it was to bite his tongue, watching his son walk into a trap. *** Nine months passed… and then six more. Vadim and Karina were raising Alice. Valery did his best to stay away. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn’t consider the child truly his granddaughter. Karina unsettled him—her coldness to Vadim, her shady history. And now, again… Nina decided to visit Vadim and Karina. “Valery, are you coming?” “No. I’ve got a headache.” “Again? You know, I think this might actually be serious.” “It’s just tiredness. You go ahead.” Valery, as ever, played the invalid—migraine, cold, earache, weak legs—always some excuse. He even popped a few pills for effect. He couldn’t bear seeing Karina, but he couldn’t tell the truth either. The evening dragged, interrupted only by his anxious thoughts. He lounged. He read a bit. Eventually, he realised how late it was. Past eleven, and Nina wasn’t home. No answer on the phone. He called Vadim in alarm. “Vadim, is everything okay? Has Nina left already? She’s not home yet.” “Dad, you’re the last person I want to talk to right now.” Click. Valery was about to drive over when, outside, Karina’s car pulled up. Seeing her almost made his knees give way. “What are you doing here? Tell me—what’s happened?” he demanded, shaken. Karina seemed unbothered. She poured herself a glass of his wine, took a sip, then settled in. “Everything’s collapsed.” “What do you mean?” “Our shared disaster. Vadim found old photos of us on the website of a café he was going to book for our anniversary. That party at The Lily, remember? Some blasted photographer uploaded every picture. Vadim’s hit the roof. Your Nina’s threatening divorce. And, well—you got your wish, I’m probably divorcing Vadim too.” Valery stared, replaying the events in his head. That party, those photos… He’d warned them not to take pictures, but who’d have predicted this? He sank onto the floor beside her. “So why come to me?” “I needed to get out for the evening.” Karina smiled. “It’s chaos at home. Alice is with the nanny. Want some wine?” She offered him his own bottle. They sat on the veranda, drinking. Only the hum of crickets united them. “This is all your fault,” Valery muttered. Karina nodded, eyes on her glass. “Yup.” “You’re insufferable.” “That’s true.” “You don’t even pity Vadim.” “I do—but I pity myself more.” “You only love yourself.” “I won’t deny it.” He reached out, lifted her chin, made her look at him. “You know I never loved you,” he whispered. Karina shrugged. “I believe you.” *** In the morning, when Nina finally arrived—ready to forgive her husband, even if it cost her half her sanity—she walked in on Karina and Valery asleep together. “Who’s there?” Karina stirred. “It’s me,” said Nina, gazing at the ruin of her life. Karina just smiled serenely. Valery woke up a moment later, but he didn’t go after his wife.
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