З життя
My Son Skipped My 70th Birthday Claiming He Was Busy at Work—That Evening I Saw Him on Social Media Celebrating His Mother-in-Law’s Birthday at a Restaurant
The phone rang at precisely midday, slicing through the strained anticipation in my kitchen.
I grabbed the receiver, running a hand over a crease in the linen tablecloth, as if smoothing myself out.
Ben? Son?
Hi, Mum. Happy birthday.
Bens voice was tired, muffled, full of static. He sounded as though he was phoning from a cellar somewhere.
Mum, please dont be upset. I wont be able to make it. Works just too much at the moment.
I went silent. My eyes rested on the bowl of prawn cocktail salad I’d spent the morning fussing over.
What do you mean, you cant come? Ben, its my seventieth. A milestone.
I know, Mum. But somethings come up. Project deadlines this week, everythings on me. You know how it is in this line of business. My partners are putting loads of pressure on me. I cant let them down now.
But you promised
Its work, Mum, not that I want to be doing it tonight. I just cant drop it all and walk out. Honestly, I physically cant get away.
A pause, the static crackling in my ear.
Ill come by later in the week, us two. I promise. Alright? Love you.
Click. The cold, short dial tone.
I slowly placed the receiver down.
Seventy years.
Tight deadlines.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. My neighbour Helen popped round, bringing a dark Green & Blacks chocolate bar. We sat together, had a small glass of brandy to cheer up. I tried to smile, nodded along, chatted about the latest drama series. But my celebration shrank to the size of my kitchen and fizzled out before it ever began.
Later that night, having changed into my old flannel dressing gown, I picked up my tablet. I scrolled aimlessly through my Facebook feed: someones cottage, kittens, recipes.
And suddenlythere it wasa bright, glaring post.
Charlottes page, my daughter-in-law.
A new post, only twenty minutes old.
A restaurant. The Regency, or something similar. Gilded decor, waiters in white gloves, a string quartet and sparkling crystal glasses.
Charlotte. Her mother, Pauline, beaming in pearls with a massive bouquet of red roses.
And Ben.
My Ben, in a crisp pale shirt, arm around his mother-in-law.
He was smiling.
The very Ben who claimed he had a last-minute crisis and ferocious partners.
I zoomed in on the photograph, the image sharpening on those joyful, animated faces.
Caption: Celebrating our beloved mums 65th! Moved the party to the weekend so everyone could make it!
Convenient.
I clearly remembered when Paulines birthday was. Last week. On Tuesday.
Theyd moved hers. To my birthday.
To my seventieth.
I flicked through the carousel of photos.
There was Ben, raising a glass, making a toast. The group laughing with their heads thrown back. Platters of oysters and starters covering the table.
I watched my sons cheery, relaxed, satisfied face.
It wasnt the restaurant. Or the enormous bouquet, bigger than Id ever received.
It was the lie.
A quiet, practiced, everyday lie.
I closed the tablet.
The room, filled with the scent of untouched party food, felt uninhabited.
My seventieth, my special day, was nothing but an inconvenient date.
A day easily shunted aside for a mother-in-laws birthday.
Monday morning greeted me with a smell.
A stale, sour aroma of squandered celebration.
The jelly Id so carefully prepared wasnt fresh anymore. The prawn salad wilted, mayonnaise weeping. The roast pork had turned slimy.
I fetched the biggest bin I had.
One by one, plate by plate, I scraped my celebration into it.
My effort. My expectations.
In went the aubergine rolls Ben used to love. In went what was left of my famous Napoleon cake.
Every ruined morsel made a dull ache somewhere under my ribs.
It was worse than being let down. It was an erasure.
Id simply been crossed out. With a polite apology about unforeseen work issues.
I washed the dishes. Took the heavy, guilt-scented bag of rubbish out.
And I waited.
Hed promised to pop in during the week.
The phone eventually rangon Wednesday.
Hi, Mum! How are you? Sorry, things have been mental.
Bens voice, brisk and casual.
Im alright, Ben.
Listen, Ive got a present for you. Ill swing by for about fifteen minutes. Charlottes picking me up after, weve got tickets.
Tickets?
To that trendy theatre. Charlotte sorted it. You know what shes like.
He arrived within the hour.
He thrust a heavy, glossy box into my hands.
Here. Happy birthday again.
I looked at the box. An air purifier. With a nightlight. And ionisation.
Thank you, I said, setting it down in the hallway.
Charlotte picked it. Supposed to be very good for your health.
He went straight to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of tap water.
Mum, didnt you save any food?
I threw it out. On Monday.
Ben grimaced.
Blimey, Mum. You couldve called me, Id have picked it up
I watched the back of his head.
Despite everything, Id wanted to find an excuse for him. Charlotte convinced him. He didnt want to. He didnt know.
But he was here. And still lying.
Ben.
Yeah?
I saw the photos.
He froze, glass in hand. Turned slowly.
What photos?
The restaurant. Saturday. On Charlottes Facebook.
His face flickered, closed off, then hardened in annoyance.
Oh, that. I shouldve known.
You said you had work.
Mum, come onwhat difference does it make?
The difference is that you lied.
Ben banged down his glass so hard water splashed.
I didnt lie! I did have work! I slogged right through until Friday! Barely slept!
And on Saturday?
Saturday, Charlotte sorted her mums party. You know what shes likeeverything perfectly arranged! It wasnt up to me!
He raised his voice.
What was I supposed to do? Split myself in half? I honestly didnt want to go anywhere, I was shattered!
I looked at him.
This was my forty-year-old son.
He was shouting at me because hed been caught in a lie.
You couldve just told the truth, Ben. You could have said: Mum, Im not coming, were off to Paulines.
And what difference would that make? Youd just have gone on at me for a week!
So that was it.
Ben, this is family. My family. I had to be there. Would you really like it if Charlotte caused drama just because I didnt go?
He looked at me almost resentfully.
He was defensivemaking it my fault.
The bell rang.
Thats Charlotte. Ive got to run.
He grabbed his jacket.
Read the instructions for the purifier. Its really good for you.
He rushed out, leaving me in my kitchen.
I stared at the damp mark his glass left.
The knot inside tightened.
My attempt to talkto be reasonablehad failed.
His lie wasnt casualit was his preferred way of speaking to me.
And my milestone my milestone had just been a bother.
The week drifted by in a strange, cotton-wool fog.
Eventually I unpacked the present. Good for your health. I read the booklet, filled the tank with water, plugged it in.
The device hummed to life, a gentle blue glow spreading across the room, a steady whirring filling the stillness.
It wasnt a smell. It was the absence of smell.
My flat, always scented of books, dried lavender, my dab of vintage No.7 on the lampshade, became sterile.
Clinical. Dead.
It felt alien, as if someone had scrubbed my home with bleach, removing every last trace of myself.
I tried to get used to it. Charlotte picked it.
The machine glowed and buzzed and purified, but I found it harder and harder to breathe in that immaculate, sanitized air.
I opened the window, but the sterilised feeling lingered, mixing with the cold and making it all the more lifeless.
On Sunday I decided to dust the sideboard.
My hands were moving on autopilot when I picked up the frame.
A photo. I was fifty, Ben just out of university, hugging me tight, wild-haired and beaming.
On the back, faded ink: To the best mum in the world! Love, your Ben.
I sank to the sofa.
I stared at the smiling young man in the picture.
And listened to the monotonous, lifeless hum of the air purifier.
That was my son. The real one. The one who wrote me notes and spent his student grant on daffodils.
And then there was this good for you contraption, delivered by a stranger, simply to fulfill an obligation.
A gift bought not for me, but instead of me. To placate.
My ideals, the faith that hes a good lad, he was forced into it, dissolved.
I saw things clearly for the first time. Ice-cold, surgically clean.
I picked up the phone.
Dialled his number.
Ben, hello.
Mum? Whats happened? His voice was tense, like always.
Yes. Please pop by and collect Charlottes present.
Pause.
What do you mean, collect it?
Exactly that. I dont need it. Please come.
I hung up.
He arrived within forty minutes. Red-faced, angry.
Whats going on? Whats this about Charlottes present?
I stood in the middle of the room, calm.
I dont need it, Ben. Take it.
I nodded towards the buzzing device in the corner.
Youre joking? It cost a fortune! Its for your own good!
My wellbeing, Ben, is having a son who doesnt lie to me on my seventieth birthday.
He looked as if Id slapped him.
Here we go again! I told you already!
No. You shouted and left.
Why are you making such a fuss about this birthday? We just went to Charlottes mums. Its not a crime!
Lying is, Ben.
I lied because I didnt want to upset you!
No, you lied because it was easier for you, I said quietly. You didnt want to explain why Pauline was more important than your own mum.
There it was. Right on target.
He opened his mouth just as his mobile vibrated.
He glanced at me, then at the screen. Kittenwhat he called Charlotte.
He answered.
Yes, Char.
Im at Mums. Yes, shes doing her nut about the present.
Oh, how should I know? Ill be home soon.
He hung up.
This time, for just a second, I saw something in his eyessomething like shame.
He was stuck between me, calmly telling him the truth, and his wife, breathless with impatience about theatre tickets.
Mum, I he faltered. Its not like that
Go on, Ben, I said. Charlottes waiting.
I stepped towards the window, signalling our talk was over.
He hesitated, shrugged, grabbed his coat and left.
I unplugged the air purifier.
The regular hum died.
My familiar scents crept back.
Two days later, the good for you box sat accusingly by the door.
Ben didnt call. He didnt collect it. He waited for me to cool off and give in.
I realised he wouldnt come.
I phoned a courier.
Gave the reception address. The business centre where Ben was Head of Department.
I paid in pounds and watched in silence as two men carried out the heavy, gleaming box.
I shut the door behind them.
It was an actionsilent, but definite.
I wasnt just returning a thing. I was returning their sterile world, their dishonesty, their pay-off.
That evening, the phone rang.
I knew straight awayCharlottes number.
Mrs White?! Her voice nearly trembling with anger.
Yes, Charlotte.
Whats this about? You sent back our present? The courier dumped it right in Bens office! All the secretaries saw!
It didnt suit.
Didnt suit? We paid two hundred pounds! It was a proper giftfrom us!
A gift, Charlotte, comes from the heart. Its not to make up for lying.
For a momentsilence.
How dare you! she screeched. Ben nearly missed his deadline for you, slaved over that project, and you You always were so self-centred! Nothing was ever good enough for you!
You always were so self-centred.
Goodbye, Charlotte.
I hung up.
I knew exactly what was happening in their flat then.
Knew what kind of row Charlotte was having with Ben.
But for the first time in my life, I didnt care. I cut that rotten thread.
He came late that night. Nearly midnight.
Alone.
One timid tap at the door.
I opened up.
And there he wasnot the angry, red-faced man, but my Ben. Worn down, grey under the eyes.
He sat down in the kitchen.
I stood nearby, not turning on the main light.
She she said if I came tonight I shouldnt come back.
He was staring at the table.
Mum. Im sorry.
He finally met my eyes.
I didnt mean to lie.
But you did.
Charlotte said youd be upset either way. That if we told you the truth, youd sulk for ages, but if we lied, youd just get on with it. That it was easier.
I didnt reply.
There it wasthe web of manipulation. Easier.
She said your birthday wasnt really a big thing. Not like her mums. That Pauline has guests, standing, and you have what? Helen from next door?
And you? I asked quietly. Is that how you felt too?
Ben sat in silence for a long time.
Im just tired, Mum. So tired.
He put his face in his hands.
I just wanted everyone to be happy. And look what happened
He sobbed, just once, silently.
Sorry I didnt come I should have. Im so, so sorry.
I looked at his slumped, broad back.
My ideals werent entirely shattered. He was still my boy. Just lost. Just weak.
I went over and rested my hand on his shoulder.
Not to forgive instantly. But to give him something to hold onto.
Ben, its up to you. How you live.
I I dont know.
But with meonly the truth.
He nodded without looking up.
Can I just stay here for a bit?
Stay as long as you like.
I fetched our oldest teapot, found his old favourite mug.
Ill put the kettle on.
Six months went by.
The clinical, foreign smell of that good for you thing long since gone from my flat.
It still smelt the sameof books, a hint of Rescue Remedy, dried chamomile.
After that night, things changed.
No, Ben never left Charlotte. I hadnt expected it. They had a mortgage, their routines, their intertwined lives.
Manipulators dont let go easily.
But Ben himself changed.
He started to come over.
Not just drop by for fifteen minutes, but really visit.
Every Saturday, in the afternoon. He brought cottage cheese from the market, or my favourite cherry roulade.
We sat in the kitchen.
He talked about his work. About wanting to change his car. About the new lad in his office.
He never once complained about Charlotte.
And he never lied again.
I changed too.
My idealistic belief in my sons infallibility faded.
I didnt wait for his calls like a verdict any more. I just lived.
Saw him for who he wasnot Ben the student, but a grown, weary man, fighting to keep his balance.
Our relationship, now cleansed of lies, became more complicated. But honest.
I hadnt got my son backbut Id got my dignity.
One Saturday, as we sat over tea and that cherry roulade, Bens phone rang.
I saw the word on the screenKitten.
I tensed inwardly, but continued stirring in my sugar.
Ben sighed and answered.
Yes, Char.
He listened. His face paled, just like that night.
No. Im at Mums.
Charlotte, I said Id be here Saturdays. We agreed.
It doesnt mean I dont care. It just means Im with Mum. Ill be home this evening, like I said.
He ended the call and put his phone face down on the table.
A small silence followed.
Sorry, Mum.
Its alright, son, I said calmly. Have more cake.
He looked at me.
There was gratitude in his eyes.
He didnt ask for help. He didnt complain.
Hed just made his choice. To sit there, in my kitchen, drinking tea.
I watched his hand reach for another slice of roulade.
I realised that night was not an ending.
It was a beginning.
The seventieth birthday he skipped was the day my son finally grew up.
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Just a Childhood Friend — Are you seriously planning to spend all Saturday sorting junk in the garage? The entire Saturday? — Alena speared a piece of cheesecake with her fork, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the tall ginger-haired man. Ivan leaned back in his chair, warming his hands around a mug of cooling cappuccino. — Alena… That’s not junk, those are childhood treasures. I’ve still got a collection of “Love is…” gum wrappers in there somewhere, I’ll have you know. Can you imagine what riches those must be? — Oh my God. You kept gum wrappers? Since when? Alena snorted, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This little café, with its worn-out plum-colored sofas and eternally steamed-up windows, had long ago become their personal territory. The waitress, Mary, never even asked what they wanted anymore — she just brought out Ivan’s cappuccino, Alena’s latte, and the dessert of the day for them to share. Fifteen years of friendship had rehearsed this ritual into muscle memory. — Fine, I admit it, — Ivan toasted her with his mug, — the garage can wait, and so can the treasures. By the way, Chris invited us for a barbecue on Sunday. — I know. He spent three hours last night picking out a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes would bleed from boredom. Their laughter dissolved into the whirr of the coffee machine and the gentle hum of conversation at the neighbouring tables… …There were never awkward silences or unspoken words between them — Alena knew Ivan as well as her own palm. She still remembered how skinny little Ivan, shoes perpetually untied, was the first to talk to her in the new class. Ivan remembered how she was the only one who didn’t laugh at his thick-rimmed glasses. Chris had accepted their friendship without questions or suspicion from the very first day. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the calm confidence of a man secure in himself and those he loved. On their Friday nights of Monopoly and Uno, Chris laughed the loudest when Ivan lost to Alena for the hundredth time at Scrabble, and poured the tea while those two squabbled over game rules. — He’s cheating, that’s why he wins, — Alena declared once, tossing a handful of cards at her husband. — That’s called strategy, my dearly beloved, — Chris replied placidly, collecting the scattered cards. Ivan watched them with a warm smile. He liked Chris — grounded, reliable, with that dry humour that left you guessing, joke or not. Alena blossomed with Chris, grew softer and happier, and Ivan was genuinely glad for her, as only a true friend could be. The balance was upset when Vera barged into their close-knit world… …Chris’s sister appeared at their flat’s doorstep a month ago, eyes puffy, determined to start afresh. Divorce had wrung her dry, leaving bitterness and a gaping emptiness where there’d once been a semblance of stability. That first evening, when Ivan dropped by for their traditional games, Vera looked up from her phone and studied him appraisingly. Something clicked in her brain, like a rusty mechanism springing to life. Here was a man — steady, kind eyes, a smile you couldn’t help but answer. — This is Ivan, my friend from school days, — Alena introduced. — And Vera, Chris’s sister. — Lovely to meet you, — Ivan offered his hand. Vera held his hand a moment longer than etiquette called for. — Likewise. From that point, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She popped up at their café sessions precisely when Ivan and Alena were there. She waltzed in with a plate of biscuits just as Ivan arrived. She sat at the game table so close their shoulders touched. — Could you pass me that card there? — Vera leaned across his arm, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oh, sorry. Ivan shifted politely away, mumbling something courteous. Alena exchanged looks with Chris, who shrugged — his sister had always been a bit much. The flirting grew more obvious. Vera held Ivan’s gaze, paid him compliments, found reasons to touch him. She laughed so loud at his jokes that Alena’s ears rang. — You have such lovely hands, such elegant fingers, so aristocratic, — Vera remarked one evening, catching his hand atop the game tokens. — Play an instrument? — Er… I’m a software developer. — Still, very nice hands. Ivan gently extricated himself and feigned intense concentration on his cards. His ears turned pink. After the third invitation for “just a friendly coffee chat,” Ivan relented. He liked Vera — she was vibrant, exuberant, alive. Maybe, he thought, if they dated, she’d stop looking at him like a starving wolf at every encounter, and things would go back to normal. Their romance began well enough. Vera glowed with happiness, Ivan relaxed, family game nights became family game nights again. But then Vera noticed what she wished she hadn’t. She saw how Ivan lit up when Alena arrived. How his face softened, became warmer. How easily they picked up each other’s jokes, finished one another’s sentences, shared a bond she couldn’t reach. Jealousy blossomed inside Vera, poisonous and wild. — Why are you always with her? — Vera blocked his way to the door, arms crossed. — She’s my friend, Vera. Fifteen years. That’s… — But I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The arguments came in waves. Vera sobbed, accused, demanded. Ivan explained, placated, reassured. — You think about her more than me! — Vera, that’s absurd. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Ivan’s phone rang every time he met Alena. — Where are you? When will you be home? Why aren’t you answering? With her again? He learned to put his phone on silent, but Vera started tracking him. She’d appear at the café, in the park, outside Alena’s house — wild-eyed, tearful with rage. — Vera, please, — Ivan rubbed his temples, weary. — This isn’t healthy. — What’s not healthy is you spending more time with someone else’s wife than with your own girlfriend! Alena grew tired too. Each meeting with her childhood friend became a test. How long before Vera showed up, with what accusations, what scene this time? — Maybe I should see you less— — Alena began once, but Ivan cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life over her tantrums. None of us will. But Vera had made her decision. If honesty won’t work, then maybe dishonesty would… Chris was on the kitchen when Vera glided into the room. — Hey, big brother… I need to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …Bit by bit, she spun her lies, punctuated with practiced sobs. Secret meetings. Lingering looks. How Ivan held Alena’s hand when he thought no one was looking. Chris listened silently, without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When Alena and Ivan returned an hour later, the atmosphere in the lounge was thick as molasses. Chris reclined in his armchair like a man awaiting a gripping show. — Sit down, — he said, gesturing at the couch. — My sister’s just shared a fascinating story about your secret affair. Alena froze mid-step. Ivan’s jaw clenched. — What the— — She claims she’s seen some pretty compromising things. Vera hunched down, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. Ivan spun towards her so sharply that Vera recoiled. — That’s enough, Vera. I’ve put up with your drama way too long! His face blanched with anger. The patient, kind Ivan was gone — in his place stood a man at boiling point. — We’re done. Right now. — You can’t— This time, her tears were real. — It’s her! — Vera jabbed a finger at Alena. — It’s always her! You always pick her over me! Alena paused, giving her sister-in-law time to empty her venom. — You know, Vera, — she said evenly, — if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t created drama out of nothing, none of this would have happened. You destroyed what you were trying to save all by yourself. Vera snatched up her bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Chris laughed — genuine, from deep in his chest, head thrown back. — Thank God, at last. He stood and pulled Alena close, wrapping her in his arms. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Alena asked with her face against his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like seeing brother and sister argue over who ate the last chocolate. Ivan exhaled, the tension finally leaving him. — Sorry for dragging you into all this circus. — Nonsense. Vera’s a grown woman — her choices are her own. Now let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold and I refuse to reheat it just because of someone else’s drama. Alena laughed softly, relieved. Her family was whole. Her friendship with Ivan was unbroken. And her husband had once again proven his trust was stronger than any rumour. They headed into the kitchen, where the lasagne’s golden crust gleamed in the light, and life took its usual, comforting shape again.
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Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden in a soft layer of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a giant German Shepherd, was behaving strangely. Instead of curling up in the spacious kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right on the snow. Watching from his window, Andrew felt a pang in his chest—Duke had never acted like this before. Each morning, when Andrew went out to him, Duke fixed him with a tense stare. Every time Andrew neared the kennel, the dog wedged himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling softly and gazing at him pleadingly, as if to say, “Please, don’t go in there.” This behaviour—so out of character after years of close friendship—left Andrew unsettled. What was his best friend hiding? Determined to get to the bottom of things, Andrew came up with a plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting steak. While the big dog, locked indoors, barked at the window in protest, Andrew carefully approached the kennel and crouched down to take a look inside. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that chilled him to the bone… …Inside, huddled in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes opened with difficulty, and its little body trembled from the cold. Duke must have found it somewhere—and instead of chasing it off or leaving it to fend for itself, he had taken it in. He’d slept outside so as not to frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as though the kennel sheltered a precious treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached in gently and gathered the little creature to his chest. At that moment, Duke rushed over and pressed himself by Andrew’s shoulder—no longer growling, just quietly, ready to help. “You’re a good dog, Duke…” Andrew whispered, holding the kitten tight. “Better than many people I know.” From that day on, there weren’t just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel, lovingly built, regained its purpose—as a tiny house for rescued souls.
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Every Love Has Its Own Shape On a blustery September day, little Annie stepped outside into the chill without her coat, shivering as the wind slipped right through her thin jumper. She stood at the garden gate, casting quiet glances around, not even noticing the silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” came a gentle voice. She jumped, finding Mikey, the boy from next door, a little older, with his hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just…” Annie fibbed, wiping her eyes. Mikey watched her for a moment, then dug three sweets from his pocket. “Here—don’t tell anyone, or all the kids will come running. Off you go, get inside,” he said firmly, and Annie obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not even hungry… just…” Mikey understood and simply nodded, walking off. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank too much. He often went to the only shop in the village to ask the shopkeeper, Val, for credit until payday. Though she scolded him, she still gave him what he asked for. Annie returned home, her stomach rumbling. The house was quiet—her father was out cold on the sofa, empty bottles on the kitchen table and floor, a heaviness filling the air. She opened the cupboard, but there wasn’t a crumb of bread. Weak with hunger, Annie ate the sweets Mikey had given her and moved to her homework, perching on a stool and pulling her knees to her chest. Numbers blurred in her maths book as she gazed at the wind whipping golden leaves around the yard. Out the window stood the vegetable patch—once lush and green, now grey and unkempt, the strawberry bed empty and even the old apple tree withered. Her mum used to care for it all, making sure every sprout thrived. The apples, always sweet, were picked early this summer by her dad, and sold at market with a muttered, “Need the money.” Once, life had been full of laughter—her dad cheerful, her mum baking apple jam buns and magic heart-shaped rolls that granted a wish if eaten warm from the oven. But when her mum’s heart failed, she vanished into the hospital and never came home. “Mum’s watching from above now,” her father cried, clutching Annie tight, before he started to drink, drifting away, and letting strangers fill the house. Clutching her battered old bunny, Timmy—her mum’s last gift—Annie whispered, “Do you remember Mum, Timmy?” She thought he must—just as she did—and closed her eyes to comforting memories of her mother in her apron, hair tied back, making heart-shaped rolls and promising that “every love has its own shape.” On weekends Annie wandered to the edge of the woods, to the long abandoned gardener’s cottage, where she would gather fallen apples and pears from the late old Mr. George’s garden, reassuring herself, “I’m not stealing, they’re only rotting on the ground.” This time, as Annie picked up an apple, a woman’s voice stopped her short. “Oi, who’s that over there?” The lady in the long coat approached. “Who are you?” “Annie… I was just picking up fruit from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore. I didn’t mean any harm…” “I’m George’s granddaughter, Anna. I just moved in. How long have you been collecting fruit here?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice broke and her tears fell. Anna wrapped an arm around her. “Come inside, love. Let’s get you warm. I’m Anna, just like you—but when you grow up, everyone will call you Anna too.” Inside the tidy kitchen, bowls of steaming chicken soup and thick slices of bread revived Annie, followed by a basket of heart-shaped vanilla rolls, just like the ones her mother made. “They’re just like Mum’s buns,” Annie said, tears stinging her eyes. Anna insisted on walking her home. Annie pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone what our house is like. Dad’s good—he just can’t pull himself together, not since Mum left. If they find out, they’ll take me away, and I couldn’t stand to leave him.” “I promise, love,” Anna said and hugged her close. Time passed. Annie, now with neat plaits, a smart new coat, and shiny boots, hurried to school, friends asking if it was true her dad had remarried. “It’s true,” Annie smiled proudly. “Now I have another mum—Auntie Anna!” Her dad, Andrew, finally stopped drinking with Anna’s help, and their house became warm and cheerful again. Annie grew up, went off to university, and always came home at holidays, rushing through the door with a shout, “Mum, I’m back!” Anna would greet her with a tight hug: “Welcome home, my clever girl!” And in the evening, Andrew would join them too, all of them happy—and Annie knew indeed: every love has its own shape.
Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie steps out into the garden and shivers as a biting wind cuts straight...
To See With Her Own Eyes After a devastating tragedy in which Ksenia lost her husband and six-year-old daughter in a car accident, she struggled to recover. She spent nearly six months in a clinic, refusing to see anyone, with only her patient mother by her side. One day, her mother gently told her: “Ksenia, your husband’s business may be on the brink of collapse—Yegor is barely managing. He called me and asked that I tell you. Thankfully, Yegor is an honest man, but…” These words finally sparked something in Ksenia. “Yes, Mum, I need to keep busy; my Denis would have been glad to see me continue his work. Thankfully, I understand the business—he must have sensed it, bringing me into the office.” Ksenia returned to work and managed to save the struggling family business. Yet, despite her professional success, she missed her late daughter terribly. “My dear, I want to suggest you consider adopting a little girl from an orphanage—someone who has it even harder than you. You can help her, and someday, you’ll understand that this is your salvation.” After careful thought, Ksenia realised her mother was right. Soon she visited the orphanage, knowing she could never replace her own child but hoping to help another. Arisha had been almost completely blind since birth. Her parents, both well-educated and from respectable families, abandoned her when they learned of her diagnosis, unwilling to shoulder the responsibility. Even the most upstanding can succumb to cowardice and betrayal. Thus Arisha came to the nursery, where she was named Arina. She grew up hardly able to see, perceiving only faint shadows. At the orphanage, she learned to read, adored fairy tales, and believed that one day a kind fairy godmother would come for her. On the eve of her seventh birthday, her fairy arrived—a beautiful, striking, wealthy, but deeply unhappy woman. Arina couldn’t see her clearly but sensed her kindness. When Ksenia came to the orphanage, the director was surprised that anyone would ask for a child with health issues. Ksenia avoided explaining, fearing misunderstanding, and gave the usual assurances that she had the resources and desire to help a disabled child. A caretaker led Arina out by the hand. Ksenia, upon seeing her, instantly knew—this was her child. She was angelic, with golden curls and huge blue eyes—pure, deep, and sightless. “And who is this?” Ksenia asked, unable to tear her eyes away. “Our Arisha—such a lovely, gentle soul,” the caretaker replied. “She’s mine. That’s certain,” Ksenia decided at once. Ksenia and Arina became devoted to each other, filling essential roles in each other’s lives. After Arina joined the family, Ksenia’s world changed and gained new purpose. Upon consulting doctors, she learned that an operation might restore Arina’s sight, though she’d need glasses. Clinging to hope, Ksenia arranged the operation before school started. Though Arina’s vision saw little improvement, another chance awaited when she was older. Time passed. Ksenia lavished love on her daughter, while her business flourished; though young and beautiful, she had no interest in men—her life revolved solely around Arina. Arina blossomed into a rare beauty and graduated from university. Grateful and unspoilt, she began working for her mother’s company. Ksenia guarded her daughter’s circle warily, fearing that some opportunist would prey on Arina’s naivety and covet her dowry—ample though it was—and always made it clear such schemes would never succeed. Then, Arina fell in love. Ksenia met Anton and, seeing nothing amiss, approved of their relationship. Before long, Anton proposed, and wedding preparations began. Six months after the wedding, Arina was scheduled for her final eye operation. Anton was affectionate and attentive, though occasionally Ksenia sensed something off, which she dismissed. The young couple visited the countryside restaurant where their wedding would be held to discuss décor. It was nearly empty that afternoon. Seated at a table, Anton placed his phone down, but then the alarm on his car went off, prompting him to step outside. While Arina waited, his phone rang persistently. At first, she hesitated to answer, but the ringing continued. She picked up and, before she could speak, heard the booming voice of Anton’s mother, Inna Sergeevna. “Son, I’ve figured out how we can rid ourselves of that blind girl quickly. My friend at the travel agency has two tickets held back for you. After the wedding, tell your little wife you want to see the mountains together. Go hiking, just the two of you, and arrange a little ‘accident’—she slips, she falls. Then go to the police and say your wife’s missing. Say you argued and she stormed off alone. Cry, act devastated, demand a search. When they find her, they’ll think she fell. Who’s going to investigate a foreign tourist’s accident? I know you can play the grieving husband—everyone will believe you, even her mother. If they restore her sight, it’ll be harder to get rid of her—don’t lose all that money, son. Think about it. I’ll hang up now.” Inna Sergeevna disconnected. Arina, shaking, dropped the phone as if it had burned her. “So Anton and his mother want me dead,” Arina thought in horror. A moment ago, she’d been a blissful bride-to-be. Now, the people she and her mother had come to trust were plotting her murder. Arina realised Anton hadn’t overheard the call and tried to keep her composure as he returned. “That’s odd—the alarm must’ve been a cat, but there’s no sign of damage,” Anton said, picking up his phone as it rang again. “Yes, Roman, I’ll be right there,” he said into the phone. Hanging up, he added, “Bad luck—Roman needs me urgently at the office.” “Go ahead,” Arina whispered, “I’ll wait for Mum and we’ll sort everything out.” “Right, I’ll head off. See you.” Arina sat weeping at the table. The restaurant manager, Katya, came over, recognising her. “Arina, are you all right? Where did Anton dash off to—you were just discussing—?” “It’s okay, Katya. Mum’s on her way, just a misunderstanding. Anton was called into work.” “Shall I bring you some tea? You seem shaken.” Arina nodded. Ksenia knew her daughter was meeting Anton at the restaurant and was surprised by Arina’s call. “What could have happened? My poor girl sounded distraught,” she thought, driving over. Twenty minutes later, she joined Arina at the table. “Arina, I was worried sick driving here.” “Mum, Mummy—” Arina’s tears flowed. “They want to kill me.” “Who?” her mother asked, bewildered. “Anton and Inna Sergeevna. I heard it myself. She called, and he’d left his phone on the table when he went outside. She told him to take me to the mountains and push me off a cliff. She pushed him to hurry, so we wouldn’t have time for the operation.” “Darling, what are you saying? Are you sure? Are you okay?” “Mum, please believe me, I heard it myself. Inna Sergeevna never realised she was speaking to me instead of Anton. I hung up before she suspected. Anton was called in to work.” Ksenia was in shock. Had they been so wrong about Anton? What now? As they discussed their next move, Anton phoned Arina. “Well, Arisha, did your mum arrive? Have you sorted out the décor?” Ksenia took the phone. “Hello, Anton. Good thing we learned about your and your mother’s plans in time. Listen carefully—your trips, your plans in the mountains…” “What plans? What trips?” Anton either truly didn’t understand, or he was playing the part very well. “You know—the mountains, where Arina was meant to die in a tragic accident. You realise if your phone goes to the police, they can retrieve everything, even deleted messages. Understand?” There was a pause. “I understand, but it wasn’t me, it was my mother…” “Right. Not only a scoundrel, but a coward too. Goodbye, Anton.” The next day, Anton fled town, blaming his mother for ruining their scheme, grabbing her money, and disappearing, terrified that Ksenia and Arina would go to the police. Inna Sergeevna left as well, rushing to a friend in another city. Shocked by What She Saw With Her Own Eyes At the eye clinic, Arina underwent another operation. Ksenia remained by her side, the bandages still covering her daughter’s eyes. Dr. Dmitry Igorevich, a young surgeon, took great care of Arina—the surgeon who’d performed her operation—and gently supported his beautiful patient. Dmitry blushed when speaking to her, obviously taken. Ksenia watched protectively, yet he seemed sincere and smitten. When Arina’s bandages were finally removed, he brought her a huge bouquet of roses. Arina was overwhelmed when she could truly see for the first time—she wept, finally able to take in the beauty of the flowers and the handsome, tall blond man with grey eyes. “Oh, I’m so happy—I can finally see everything!” Arina sobbed as Dmitry rushed to console her. Arina needed glasses for life, but that hardly seemed a hardship now. Time passed. Arina and Dmitry’s wedding was beautiful. A year later, they had a lovely daughter with her father’s grey eyes. Arina is truly happy—with a caring, reliable husband who will never let harm come to her. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you happiness in your own life!
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