З життя
As Katya Settled the Bill, Sergei Drifted Away. Just as She Began Arranging Her Groceries, He Slipped Out. Upon Leaving the Shop, Katya Spotted Sergei Having a Smoke.
While Emily was paying at the till, Simon wandered off. By the time shed started packing the shopping bags, hed already slipped out of the shop entirely. Stepping outside, Emily found Simon leaning against the wall, puffing on a cigarette like he hadnt a care in the world.
Simon, grab the bags, will you? Emily said, holding out two heavily laden shopping bags.
Simon looked at her as if shed just asked him to rob a bank. What about you? he shot back, baffled.
Emily blinked. What on earth did he mean, *what about you*? Since when did a woman hauling groceries while her husband strolled empty-handed seem remotely fair?
Theyre heavy, she pointed out.
So? Simon dug in his heels, scowling.
He could tell she was getting cross, but on principle, he refused to lift a finger. Quickening his pace, he strode ahead, knowing she wouldnt catch up. *Carry the bags? What am I, a pack mule? Im the manI decide what I do! Let her manage; it wont kill her,* he thought smugly. Today, he was in the mood to put her in her place.
Simon, where are you going? Take the bags! Emily called, her voice wobbling.
The bags *were* heavySimon knew that perfectly well, since hed been the one piling the trolley high. The flat wasnt farjust a five-minute walkbut with arms full of groceries, it felt like a marathon.
Emily trudged home, fighting back tears. She half-expected Simon to turn around, laughing it off as a joke, but nohe just got farther ahead. Part of her wanted to dump the lot in the street, but on autopilot, she kept going. Reaching their building, she collapsed onto the bench by the entrance, exhausted. She wanted to screamor crybut crying in public was mortifying. Swallowing her pride, though? No. He hadnt just annoyed her; hed humiliated her on purpose. And this from a man whod once bent over backwards to impress her.
Hello, love! A familiar voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Ohhi, Mrs. Wilkins, Emily forced a smile.
Mrs. WilkinsMartha, to her friendslived one floor down and had been like family ever since Emilys gran passed. With her mum up in Manchester with her new husband and kids, and her dad long out of the picture, Mrs. Wilkins was the only steady presence in her life.
Without a second thought, Emily decided to offload the shopping on her. At least it wouldnt go to waste. The pension didnt stretch far, and Emily loved spoiling her with little treats.
Come on, Mrs. Wilkins, let me help you upstairs, Emily said, hefting the bags again.
In the old womans kitchen, she unloaded tinned salmon, pâté, peaches in syrupall the luxuries Mrs. Wilkins adored but couldnt afford. The older woman teared up, making Emily feel guilty for not doing this more often. They said goodbye with a peck on the cheek, and Emily headed up to the flat.
Inside, Simon was rooting through the fridge, chewing on something.
Wheres the shopping? he asked, as if nothing had happened.
What shopping? Emily replied, sweet as pie. The one you helped me carry?
Oh, come off it, dont be daft! He tried to laugh it off. Youre not seriously still upset?
Nope, she said calmly. Just drawing conclusions.
Simon tensed. Hed expected shouts, slammed doors, maybe tears. This icy composure threw him.
What conclusions?
I dont have a husband, she sighed. Thought Id married one, but turns out I married a twit.
Thats a bit harsh, he huffed, playing the victim.
Is it? She met his eyes squarely. I wanted a *man* for a husband. Seems you wanted a *bloke* for a wife. Pause. So what you *really* need is a husband.
Simons face flushed crimson, fists clenching. But Emily didnt seeshe was already in the bedroom, tossing his clothes into a suitcase.
He fought to the bitter end. The thought of moving out was unthinkable. How could something so petty wreck a marriage?
This is mad! Whats the big deal about carrying a few bags? he protested as she flung his jeans into the case.
Hope you can carry *this* bag on your own, Emily said, tuning him out.
She knew this was just the first warning. If she let this slide, the disrespect would only grow. So she ended it there and thenshutting the door firmly behind him.
A Parent’s Love: Family Gatherings, Christmas Surprises, and a Lesson in Protectiveness on a Winter’s Day
Parental Love Mum always said, Children are the flowers of life, shed laugh, and Dad would grin and add, Flowers...
Igor Never Returned From His Holiday: When Your Husband Disappears by the Seaside, a Wife’s Search, Tense Family Reunion, and the Painful Truth That Comes Home
Since his holiday, Stanley never came back Hasnt your husband written or called yet? Not a word, Vera, not after...
“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…
Im so fed up with you! Nothing I do is right for you! The way I eat, what I wearits...
Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming From You? A Chance Encounter, a Perfectly Laid Bathroom Tile, and a Second Wind: How Rita’s Life Changed at 53 When a Homeless Stranger with Sapphire Eyes Built Her Happiness and Challenged Her Son’s Inheritance Plans
– Excuse me, sir, please dont push. Oh, goodness. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man muttered,...
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.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming From You? A Chance Encounter, a Perfectly Laid Bathroom Tile, and a Second Wind: How Rita’s Life Changed at 53 When a Homeless Stranger with Sapphire Eyes Built Her Happiness and Challenged Her Son’s Inheritance Plans
– Excuse me, sir, please dont push. Oh, goodness. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man muttered,...
“My Grandchildren Only See Fresh Fruit Once a Month, But She Buys Expensive Food for Her Cats!”: My Daughter-in-Law Accuses Me of Being Cold-Hearted for Putting My Pets First, but I Won’t Let Her Guilt Me into Supporting Their Growing Family
My grandchildren only see fresh fruit once a month, yet she spends a fortune on fancy cat food, my daughter-in-law...
Oxana, Are You Busy? – A Festive New Year’s Eve Tale of Family, Holiday Hustle, a Mishap in the Snow, and an Unexpected Encounter with a Doctor That Changed Everything
Annie, are you busy? her mum calls, poking her head through the door to her daughters room. Just a second,...