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Anna, Your Daughter Should Keep Studying – She Has a Rare Gift for Languages and Literature. You Should See Her Work!
Oh, Annie love, you really must let that girl keep studying. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. Ive never seen such a gift for language and literatureyou should read her essays!
My daughter was just three when I found her in the mud under the bridge. Raised her as my own, though people whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, and here I still am in my little cottage, turning memories over like precious beads.
The floor creaked under my feetI kept meaning to fix it, but never got round to it. Sat down at the table, pulled out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tree tapped its branch against the window as if asking to come in.
Whats all this fuss? I said to it. Hold on, springs coming.
Silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything starts to feel alive. After those terrible times, I was left a widowmy Stephen was gone. I still kept his last letter, faded and worn at the folds from how often Id read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy A week later, I got the news.
No childrenmaybe it was for the best. In those years, there was barely enough to feed yourself. The head of the village council, Nicholas, would try to comfort me:
Dont fret, Annie. Youre still young, youll marry again.
No, Id say firmly. Loved once, thats enough.
Worked dawn till dusk on the farm. The foreman, George, used to shout:
Annie, time to go home, its late!
Ill manage, Id say. As long as my hands work, my soul wont age.
Didnt have muchjust a stubborn goat named Daisy, and five chickens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbor, Clara, used to tease:
You sure youre not a turkey? Why do your hens crow before anyone elses?
Kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, turnips. Everything from the earth. Come autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. Open a jar in winter, and it was like summer came back inside.
Remember that day like it was yesterday. March was wet, miserable. Drenched by morning, frozen by evening. Went to the woods for firewoodplenty of fallen branches after winter storms. Gathered an armful and was heading home past the old bridge when I heard crying. Thought it was the wind at first, but noclear as day, a childs whimper.
Went under the bridge, and there she wasa little girl, covered in mud, dress soaked and torn, eyes wide with fright. She went quiet when she saw me, just trembling like an aspen leaf.
Who do you belong to, love? I asked softly, not to scare her more.
No answer, just blinking those big eyes. Lips blue with cold, hands red and swollen.
Frozen through, I muttered. Lets get you home, warm you up.
Picked her uplight as a feather. Wrapped her in my shawl, held her close. Kept thinkingwhat kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge? Couldnt make sense of it.
Had to leave the firewoodno time for it now. She stayed silent all the way home, just clinging to my neck with those icy little fingers.
Neighbors came running fast as gossip travels. Clara first:
Lord, Annie, whered you find her?
Under the bridge, I said. Abandoned, seems.
Oh, what a shame Whatll you do with her?
Do? Keep her.
Lost your mind? Old Martha chimed in. Whered you get the means to feed a child?
God provides, I snapped.
Got the stove roaring, heated water. She was covered in bruises, skin and bones. Bathed her, wrapped her in an old jumperno childrens clothes in the house.
Hungry?
A shy nod.
Gave her yesterdays soup, a slice of bread. She ate hungrily but neatlynot a street child, then.
Whats your name?
Silence. Too scared, or maybe couldnt speak.
Put her to sleep in my bed, took the bench myself. Woke up twice in the night to check on her. Curled up like a kitten, whimpering in her sleep.
Next morning, straight to the council. The head, John, just shrugged:
No missing child reported. Maybe someone from the city left her
What now?
By law, she goes to the childrens home. Ill ring the district today.
My chest tightened:
Wait, John. Give it timemaybe her parents will turn up. Till then, she stays with me.
Annie, think this through
Nothing to think about. Its done.
Named her Mary, after my mother. Waitedno one ever came. And thank GodId already grown to love her.
At first, it was hard. She didnt speak, just stared around the house like she was searching for something. Woke up screaming at night, shaking. Id hold her, stroke her hair:
Hush now, love. Its alright.
Made her clothes from old fabricdyed them blue, green, red. Simple, but cheerful. Clara gasped when she saw:
Annie, youve got golden hands! I thought you only knew a shovel.
Life teaches, I said, glowing at the praise.
But not everyone was kind. Old Martha especiallycrossed herself whenever she saw us:
Bad luck, Annie. A foundling brings sorrow. Apple doesnt fall far
Enough, Martha! I cut in. Who are you to judge? Shes mine now.
Even the councilman frowned at first:
Annie, maybe the childrens home? Theyll feed her proper, clothe her.
And wholl love her? I asked. That place has enough orphans.
He shrugged but started helpingsent milk, flour.
Mary slowly thawed. First words, then sentences. Remembered her first laughId slipped hanging curtains, groaned, and she burst out giggling, clear as a bell. I forgot the pain instantly.
Tried to help in the gardengave her a tiny spade. She marched about importantly, mostly trampling weeds into the soil. Didnt scold herjust glad to see life in her.
Then came the fever. She burned for days. Our local medic, Sam, just shook his head:
What medicine, Annie? Three aspirin for the whole village. Maybe theyll bring more next week.
Next week? I shouted. She might not last till morning!
I ran to the townnine miles through mud. Shoes ruined, legs blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex, took one look at medirty, soakedand said:
Wait here.
Brought back medicine, showed me how to dose it.
No charge, he said. Just get her out of there.
Three days by her bed. Whispered prayers, changed compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered:
Mum Water.
Mum. First time shed called me that. I criedfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with her small hand:
Mum, why you crying? It hurt?
No, I said. Happy tears, love.
After that, she bloomedchatty, affectionate. Started school, and her teacher couldnt praise her enough:
Such a bright girl! Picks up everything so quick.
The village warmed to her. Even Martha softenedstarted bringing pies. Especially after Mary helped her light the stove in freezing weather. The old woman had a bad back, no firewood. Mary insisted:
Mum, lets help Granny Martha. Shes cold all alone.
They became unlikely friendsthe grumpy old woman and my girl. Martha told her stories, taught her to knit, and never mentioned bad blood again.
Years passed. Mary was nine when she first spoke of the bridge. Evening, me darning socks, her rocking a cloth doll.
Mum remember when you found me?
My heart lurched, but I kept steady:
I do, love.
I remember a bit. It was cold. Scared. A woman was crying then she left.
My needles clattered. She went on:
Dont remember her face. Just a blue scarf. And she kept saying, Forgive me
Mary
Dont worry, Mum. Im not sad. Just remembering. She suddenly smiled. Im glad you found me.
Held her tight, throat aching. How often I
“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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