Nata

З життя40 хвилин ago

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Natalia Michaels had been persistently calling her son, who had set off yet again for another stint at sea. But there was still no connection. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made, son!” she sighed anxiously, dialing his number once more. No matter how many times she called, she knew she wouldn’t get through until he reached the next port—and that could be ages. And with all this going on! For the second night in a row, Natalia couldn’t sleep—this was the trouble her son had caused! * * * This story truly began some years earlier, when Michael hadn’t yet dreamed of working long-haul jobs at sea. He was already a grown man, but relationships with women just wouldn’t work out—none of them seemed to meet his mysterious standards! Natalia watched with a heavy heart as her son’s promising relationships with perfectly nice, respectable girls—at least, to her mind—kept falling apart. “You’re impossible!” she’d say to him. “Nothing ever pleases you! What woman is ever going to meet your demands?” “I don’t understand your complaints, Mum. You just want a daughter-in-law, and you don’t even care what kind of person she is.” “It does matter! I just want her to love you, and to be decent!” He would respond with silence—something that infuriated Natalia. How was it that the son she’d raised, who used to cry in her lap as a little boy, now behaved as if he knew more about life than she did? Who was the adult here? “What on earth was wrong with Claire?” she would erupt. “I already told you.” “Well… Claire might have been a bad example, but there’s always someone else. You said she wasn’t honest with you—though I still don’t fully understand…” “Mum! I don’t think we should discuss the details. Claire’s not someone I want to spend my life with.” “And Sophie?” “No, not Sophie either,” her son would reply calmly. “And Rachel? She was a lovely girl—quiet, home-loving, sweet. She would always ask if she could help around the house. Isn’t that right?” “You’re right, Mum. She was sweet. But it turned out she never really loved me.” “And you?” “Probably not, either.” “What about Emily?” “Mum!” “What do you mean, ‘Mum’? You’re impossible to please! You’re turning into a playboy! Why can’t you just settle down, find a wife, have children?” “Let’s stop this pointless conversation!” Michael would finally snap, and storm off somewhere. “He’s all his father—so stubborn and insistent!” Natalia would fume with frustration. Time passed, girlfriends came and went, but the cherished dream of seeing her son happily settled, and of cuddling grandchildren, never materialised. Then Michael changed careers entirely—an old friend invited him to work on the ships, and Michael agreed. Natalia tried to talk him out of it, to no avail. “Mum, it’s great pay! Do you have any idea how much the lads make? We’ll be set for life!” “What do I care about your salary if you’re off somewhere all the time and I never see you? I’d rather you started a family!” “Well I need to provide for that family first! When there are kids, I won’t be able to go to sea—I’ll need to raise them. So I’ll save up now while I can, and then do the rest!” Michael really did earn well. After his first voyage, he refurbished the flat; after the second, he opened a bank account and handed Natalia a card. “That’s so you’ll never want for anything!” “I already don’t want for anything! I just wish for grandchildren—the years are slipping by! I’m getting old!” “Oh, don’t be daft, you’re not old! You’ve still got years till retirement!” her son scoffed. Natalia didn’t touch the money. She had her modest pharmacist’s wage, which was plenty for her simple needs. “Let it sit there, as it should. Michael won’t notice anyway. Someday he’ll check and be surprised at what a thrifty mother he’s got!” she’d think. And so they lived for several years. On his short visits home, Michael made up for lost time—meeting friends, going out, partying, and dating girls her mother never even met. When she brought it up, he’d answer shortly and harshly. “This way you won’t fret later about me not marrying any of them. I have no intention of marrying girls like that, Mum!” Natalia found it hurtful, especially when her son accused her of being too trusting. “You always see the best in people, Mum! You hardly knew my so-called fiancées. They were on best behaviour for you, but that’s not what they were really like.” His words stung—being trusting apparently made her naïve, even foolish. He had called her foolish, really! But then she saw him with a girl—Natalia couldn’t resist and went straight over. Michael, a grown man, even blushed. But a mum is a mum—he had to introduce her. Natalia liked Millie straight away: tall, slim, curly-haired, pleasant in looks and manners. Seeing such a pretty woman with her son, Natalia immediately forgave him everything. “Maybe he was just unlucky before! Maybe it’s good he left all those others—he’d have never met such a lovely one otherwise!” she thought. Their romance lasted through Michael’s entire break, and, with some nudging, Millie visited several times. Natalia was delighted—Millie was talkative, clever, and easy company. But when Michael left for his next tour, Millie simply vanished. “We’re not in touch anymore. And you shouldn’t be either,” Michael said, and left. Natalia fretted for ages about what had happened, but couldn’t discover anything. * * * A year went by. Through several visits home, Michael remained curt and cold when asked about the sweet girl. “For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with this one? What about Millie?” Natalia finally demanded. “Mum, that’s my business. If it’s over, it’s for a good reason. Please, stay out of my life!” Natalia nearly burst into tears. “But Michael, I just care about you!” “Don’t! And again—I don’t want you speaking to Millie! And stop nagging me!” Soon, Michael set off to sea again, and, with a heavy heart, Natalia returned to her usual routine during his absence. Then, one day, a young woman came into the pharmacy to buy baby formula. It was Millie! She was embarrassed, looking away, easily flustered as she tended gently to a child in her stroller. “Millie! I’m so glad to see you! Michael never explained anything—just left and told me not to ask!” Natalia burst out. “Did he?” Millie replied sadly. “Well, so be it.” Natalia grew anxious. “Tell me, dear, what happened between you two? I know my son—he’s a handful. Did he hurt you?” “It doesn’t matter… I don’t hold it against him. Well, we have errands to run…” “Pop by again sometime! Even just to work—my shifts change all the time. We can have a chat!” And Millie did, the very next shift, buying baby formula again. Slowly, Natalia coaxed the story from her. Millie had fallen pregnant by Michael; he’d told her he wanted nothing to do with a child—he was away too much, never intended a serious relationship. Then he disappeared. “Went on tour, I suppose,” Millie shrugged. “But that’s okay! We won’t be a burden to anyone. Just the two of us.” Natalia nearly wept as she kneeled beside the stroller, gazing at the little girl. “So she’s… my granddaughter?” “It would seem so,” Millie said softly. “Her name’s Annie.” “Annie…” *** Natalia couldn’t sit still anymore. She pried the details out—Millie had nowhere much to live. She was from another town, renting a flat rarely affordable without a regular salary, and was considering moving back to her parents’. The thought of her granddaughter moving far out of reach made Natalia’s heart ache. “Move in with me, Millie—with Annie! She’s my granddaughter, I’ll help in every way! You’ll find a proper job, and Michael sends so much money, there’s nothing else to spend it on. Annie will have everything she needs!” “What would Michael say?” “Who cares? He’s made a mess, abandoned his child, said nothing to his own mother! Let me try and make amends. When he gets back, I’ll have words, I promise you!” Natalia shook her fist for emphasis. So they settled in together. Natalia spared no expense or effort for her granddaughter, even cutting back her shifts to spend more time with Annie. Millie found a job, leaving Annie with Natalia—often returning late, exhausted. “It’s been a long day—so many customers, and all so temperamental!” “Never mind! Go relax. I’ll bathe Annie and tuck her in myself!” Michael’s leave was drawing near. Natalia imagined greeting her son with Annie in her arms and planned to put him straight, while Millie was growing ever more anxious. But Natalia was only emboldened—she wanted to protect Millie and her little granddaughter. “Michael will come home and kick us out—I’m scared, Natalia! I shouldn’t have moved in. Tomorrow, I’ll look for a new flat.” “Kick you out? I won’t allow it! When he gets home, he’ll get a piece of my mind!” “No, really—he’ll just say I’m after your money. I don’t want anything from you. You’re just so kind! But I should go back to my parents. We’ll stay in touch, though!” “Oh, you’re not going anywhere! I own this flat, after all! I can let whoever I please live here. Michael won’t get a say!” No matter how much Millie protested, Natalia was adamant. She wasn’t letting her and her granddaughter go. “You know what? We should deed this flat over to Annie right away! So there’ll never be any questions. Michael may never get married, but Annie should have something. After all, Michael’s not on her birth certificate, is he?” Natalia looked at Millie, who avoided her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Millie whispered. “I just thought—” “I understand. It’s just, in case, it’ll be hard to prove she’s his daughter. Tomorrow, we’ll sort it all.” “No, Natalia, that isn’t necessary. My parents have a flat…” “Don’t talk me out of it! I’ve made up my mind!” They went to do it, but the solicitor refused. “For that, your son must first cede his rights to the property.” Natalia was annoyed, but with Michael due any day, she comforted herself that it would all be resolved soon. Meanwhile, Millie’s nerves grew tauter, and she started coming home late. “Where’re you always disappearing to?” Natalia asked one evening. Millie hesitated. “Well…work. I’m hoping for an advance, but my boss says I’ll only get it once I’ve finished what he’s assigned.” “Why do you need an advance? Are you short on money?” Millie quietly changed her clothes. Natalia, following her, noticed some of Millie’s things stuffed into a large bag behind the bed. “Are you moving out?” Millie stayed silent. “Are you really going to rent?” “Natalia, I have to go. Once Michael’s here…” “I won’t let you go, with Annie! Not a chance. And enough with these late shifts! I told you where the bank card is, and its code. Use it—you don’t need to work all hours. Annie’s going to forget what her mum looks like! If you want Michael to accept you, you have to learn to be a homemaker.” Millie said nothing. Michael was due home in two days. * * * Early on the morning he was to return, Natalia decided to peek into Millie and Annie’s room—just to watch them sleep. But Millie wasn’t there; only Annie, dozing peacefully under her blanket. “Where’s she gone? It’s only six a.m.—Millie never leaves this early!” Natalia went to the kitchen to finish preparing Michael’s favourite dishes, all the while rehearsing how she’d greet him with Annie and make him apologise to Millie. At last, the doorbell rang. Michael stood in the doorway, frozen at the sight of his mother holding a young child. “Hello, Mum. Whose child is this? What did I miss while I was away?” “You should know that yourself!” “I don’t get it,” Michael muttered, stepping inside. “So, tell me: what adventures have you had while I’ve been away?” “Adventures? I found my granddaughter, Annie! That’s what!” Natalia declared, staring him down. “What granddaughter? Do I have siblings I’ve never heard of?” Michael asked, perplexed. “Stop playing games, Michael! Millie told me everything! I didn’t raise you to act like this. I’m ashamed of you!” “Millie? What? First, I asked you not to contact her. Second, what does she—or this child—have to do with me?” Enraged, Natalia blurted out everything, scolding him all the while. Michael listened, exasperated. “Oh, Mum!” he finally exploded. “Are you going to call me foolish again? Go on then. But I—” “She’s not my child, Mum! Millie tricked you! You’re so— You’re just too trusting! Wait—she just wanted your money, I realised that long ago… what did she take?” “Nothing! You—” “Mum! Check your savings—Millie’s probably done a runner with them already!” “She just went to work!” Natalia insisted. They argued for hours, until Michael agreed to wait for Millie to return so everything could be sorted. They waited until late, during which Natalia recounted everything—how she’d met Millie, how they’d all lived together, even her plans to deed the flat to Annie. Michael kept insisting they’d been taken in, but— “I don’t believe you! Millie’s a lovely girl—” “She’s a charming con artist, more like. How could you be so naïve?” “Enough! When she comes back, you’ll see! I’ll play with my granddaughter till then.” “She’s not your granddaughter!” Natalia glowered at him. “In the end,” he added, “a DNA test will clear this up.” “Exactly what we’ll do!” Natalia declared, storming off. Night fell. Millie never came home. Nor did she the next day. Her phone rang unanswered. Natalia went to the address where she claimed to work—with Annie in tow—only to learn Millie had never worked there. No one recognised her from the photo. Natalia hurried home and, just as Michael advised, checked her savings. No money, no bank card—only Annie’s things were left. Reality crashed down. “How could this be? I can’t believe she’d just leave Annie and run!” “She could do worse,” Michael muttered. “People warned me. And then I heard from Fred that she robbed him blind… But I still brought her home to meet you. Then she turned up pregnant—from who knows who. Claimed it was mine… but everyone said she was seeing lots of blokes.” “How naïve I am!” Natalia sobbed. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have known what sort of woman she was!” “I didn’t want to upset you—you’re always too open-hearted.” “What now?” “We call the police! Thank goodness you didn’t manage to sign over the flat to Annie—otherwise you’d be out on the street.” They filed a report, but Millie had disappeared without a trace. Months passed, with no news. But she hadn’t managed to take much—a quick-thinking Michael had blocked the card. It was later found at a train station some distance away. While the search continued, Annie was allowed to stay with Natalia. She quit her job to care for the toddler, with Michael’s generous salary covering everything. DNA testing showed Michael wasn’t the father, but Natalia was already too attached to Annie to ever part with her. Together, she and her son decided to raise Annie as their own. With no trace of Millie, her parental rights were revoked in absentia. The legal process of establishing guardianship was long and arduous: Michael was denied, and Natalia had to return to work, organising childcare and navigating endless bureaucracy. Eventually, though, they found a rhythm. They became a family. A year later, Michael returned from another voyage—with a wife. “Mum, meet Sophie. She’s moving in with us.” “But what about—” Natalia faltered, gesturing to the nursery, unsure if Michael had told his new wife everything. But Sophie beamed. “So lovely to meet you, Natalia! Michael has told me all about everything—and, honestly, I admire what you did! If you’ll let me help raise Annie, I’d be delighted, because—” she glanced at Michael. “I’m ending my time at sea,” Michael said, “and we’ll formally adopt Annie together. Now we won’t be refused!” Natalia beamed with joy: “Oh, what happiness! Come in, the table’s set—I’ve cooked for an army! Let’s all have a proper meal together. I’m so happy!”—and she wiped a joyful tear from her cheek.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter 15th April Mum keeps ringing my phone, desperate to get through. But theres no signal out here,...

З життя40 хвилин ago

Grandson Not Wanted — Mum thinks Irina is fragile, — my husband finally blurted out. — She believes she needs more help because she doesn’t have a husband. But with us, everything seems… stable… — Stable? — Vera spun around. — Slava, I gained fifteen kilos after giving birth. My back is killing me, my knees are cracking. The doctor said: either I start looking after my health, or next year I won’t even be able to pick up Pavlik. I need to go to the gym. Twice a week, an hour and a half each time. You’re always at work, your schedule is all over the place. Who am I supposed to ask to look after our son? Your mother doesn’t want a grandson—she already has a granddaughter! Slava stayed silent. And really, who is there? Vera pressed her forehead against the cool window pane, watching as the tatty old Ford Fiesta pulled away from their drive. The red rear lights flickered a final goodbye and disappeared around the corner. The kitchen clock struck exactly seven o’clock. Nadya, his mum, had spent exactly forty-five minutes at theirs. In the living room, Slava tried to amuse their one-year-old son. Little Pavlik busily spun the plastic truck’s wheel, occasionally glancing at the door, where his grandma had just left. — Has she gone? — Slava poked his head into the kitchen, rubbing his aching neck. — Flown off, — Vera corrected, still not turning. — She said Pavlik was “getting fussy from tiredness”, and she didn’t want to mess up his routine. — He did whimper a bit when she picked him up, — Slava tried to smile, but it came out all wrong. — Of course he whimpered, he barely knows her. We haven’t seen her in three weeks. Three! Vera abruptly turned from the window and started piling dirty mugs in the sink. — Come on, Vera, — Slava stepped behind her, tried to hug her waist, but she deftly dodged, reaching for the sponge. — Mum’s just… she’s used to Lizzie. Lizzie’s older, four now, she’s easier. — Not easier, Slava. She’s just more interesting for your mum. Lizzie—Irina’s daughter. Irina—the favourite child. And us… we’re just… the spare parts family. Last Friday, the same scene all over again. Nadya popped in “for a minute”, brought a cheap plastic rattle for Pavlik, and then kept glancing at the door. Slava barely managed to say he’d be on site Saturday and it would be great if Mum could watch Pav for a couple of hours while Vera popped to the chemist and shops. — Oh, Slava, I can’t possibly! — Nadya flapped her hands. — Lizzie and I are off to the puppet theatre, then Irina wants me to have her for the whole weekend. Poor girl is so tired from work, she needs to get her private life sorted. Slava’s sister raised her child “by herself,” but “by herself” was a rather loose term. While Irina “found herself” and rotated through boyfriends, Lizzie would spend weeks with Granny. Granny picked her up from nursery, took her to ballet, bought designer snowsuits, and knew all the dolls’ names in her bedroom. — Did you see her post? — Vera nodded toward the phone on the table. — Have a look at what your mum uploaded. Slava reluctantly picked it up, scrolled. Photos scrolled by: Lizzie eating ice cream, Granny pushing her on the swing, them together playing with Play-Doh on Saturday night. Caption: “My greatest joy, my darling girl.” — She spent the entire weekend with them, — Vera bit her lip, fighting back tears. — With us—ten minutes! With them—bliss! Slava, Pavlik’s only a year old. He’s her grandson. Your son. Why does she treat them so differently? Slava said nothing—he didn’t know what to say. He suddenly remembered how his mum rang last month, almost in tears: “The tap’s burst and the whole place is flooding!” He dashed across town in the night to fix it. He remembered covering a payday loan for his mum, who’d taken it to buy Irina a new phone for her birthday. Remembered slogging every weekend in May digging Granny’s garden, while his sister and niece sunbathed on loungers. — Let’s ask Mum one more time, — Slava suggested uncertainly. — I’ll speak to her, explain it’s about your health, not a whim. Vera said nothing. She knew nothing good would come of it. *** The conversation happened Tuesday evening. Slava put his phone on speaker so Vera could hear everything. — Hi Mum. Listen, it’s about Vera. She needs to go to the gym, doctor’s orders. Her back is really bad… — Oh, Slava, what gym? — Nadya’s voice bounced cheerily through the phone, Lizzie’s laughter in the background. — She can do exercises at home. Eat fewer buns and her back’ll be fine. — Mum, it’s not up for debate. Doctor’s said: exercise and physio. Could you watch Pavlik on Tuesdays and Thursdays from six to eight? I’ll drive you back each time. Silence on the line. — Slava, you know my routine. I pick Lizzie up from nursery at five. Then we’ve got classes, then a walk in the park. Irina works late, she depends on me. I can’t leave Lizzie on her own so Vera can swan about in the gym! — Mum, Pasha’s your grandson too. He needs you. You see him once a month! — Don’t start. Lizzie’s a little girl, she looks up to me, she loves me. Pasha’s still a baby. He doesn’t notice a thing. When he’s older, we’ll bond. Right now I’m busy, we’re about to paint. All right, bye then. Slava slowly replaced the phone on the table. — Did you hear that? So my son needs to earn her attention? He has to reach some level before Grandma notices him? — Slava, I knew she’d say that… — Well, I knew! — Vera snapped. — Ever since the day we got out of hospital, and she was two hours late because Lizzie urgently needed new tights! Slava, I don’t care what she thinks about me. Fat, lazy, whatever. But I do care for Pashka. One day he’ll ask: “Mum, why is Granny Nadya always with Lizzie, and never with me?” What am I supposed to say then? That his aunt is the golden child, and his dad’s just a wallet and handyman for his own mum? Slava began pacing the kitchen. After ten frenzied minutes, he suddenly stopped. — Remember the kitchen renovation we planned for her? Vera nodded. They’d put money aside for six months to surprise Nadya for her big birthday. Slava had found the cupboards, the workers, brokered a deal on the price. It was a decent sum—the same as a year’s pass at Vera’s dream gym with personal trainer and pool. — No renovation, — Slava said squarely. — Tomorrow I’m cancelling the order. — Are you serious? — Vera stared wide-eyed. — Dead serious. If my mum only has the time and energy for one grandchild, then she can fix her own problems too. Let Irina help her sort out the house, fix the taps, haul the potatoes, clear the debts. We’ll hire you a nanny for your gym sessions. *** Next morning, Nadya called herself. — Slava, darling… You said you’d come this week and look at the extractor fan? It’s out again, smoke everywhere! And Lizzie misses you—“Where’s my uncle Slava?” she keeps asking. Slava, sitting at his desk, closed his eyes. Once he’d have dropped everything and rushed to B&Q. Now… — I’m not coming, Mum, — he said calmly. — What do you mean, not coming? — instantly the wounded voice. — And the fan? I’ll get smoked out! — Ask Irina. Or her new boyfriend. I’m busy now—Vera’s health comes first, so all my free time is booked solid. I’ll be with my son. — Over this nonsense? — his mum scoffed. — You’re abandoning your mother because of your wife’s little whims? — I’m not abandoning anyone. Just setting my priorities. Same as you. Your priorities: Lizzie and Irina. Mine: Pasha and Vera. Seems pretty fair. — Are you being rude to me? — she gasped. — I did everything for you! Raised you! Made you the man you are! — Did everything, Mum? — Slava said quietly. — Helped Irina with my money? Gave her time to chill while I broke my back in your garden? You know what, we were thinking… that kitchen suite we were going to give you for your birthday… I’ve cancelled it. The money’s going to our family—we need a nanny since Pavlik’s granny is too busy for her own grandson. Three seconds later, she was screaming down the line: — How DARE you! I’m your mother! I gave my whole life for you! And now this, because of that Vera of yours! Lizzie’s the real orphan here, she needs all the love she can get! Your Pasha’s already living the good life! Why do you think I’m supposed to love him too? My heart belongs to Lizzie, she’s everything to me! Ungrateful! Don’t call me again! Don’t you dare set foot in my house! Slava quietly pressed the red button. His hands shook, but inside he felt oddly light. He knew this row was just the beginning. Now his mother would ring Irina, who would bombard them with angry messages about being selfish and cold. There’d be tears, curses, emotional blackmail. And there were. That evening, when he got home, Vera met him at the door. She already knew—his mum had left her a five-minute furious voicemail, “snake in the grass” being the politest phrase. — Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? — she whispered, when Pavlik was asleep and they sat down for dinner. — She is your mum, after all. — A real mum loves all her children and grandchildren, Vera. Not just her favourites, while using the others for errands. I turned a blind eye for too long. Thought, well, “that’s just the way she is.” But when she said she didn’t care about your health or Pasha because she’s got “Lizzie’s schedule”… No. Enough. ** The rows went on. Irina and Nadya, cut off from handouts, rang Slava and Vera non-stop: shouting, begging, threatening, trying guilt and shaming. 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This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house she’d grown up in since childhood. At eighteen, she was already disillusioned with life. Why did fate have to be so cruel? Her grandmother had died, she’d failed to get into university because the girl sitting next to her during the entrance exams had copied all her answers—then was first to hand in her paper, and whispered something to the examiner. He frowned, checked Alena’s work, and announced she was being expelled for cheating. There was no way to prove her innocence. Later, she learned that very same girl was the daughter of the local bigwig. How could an ordinary girl like Alena possibly win such a fight? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother suddenly arrived—with two half-brothers in tow and a new husband. Where had they all been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had disappeared after she turned four. She had no happy memories of her mum—while her father worked, her mother would leave her alone at home to go out and enjoy herself. Even when married, she was always looking for “a real man” and made no secret of it, even after Alena’s father died unexpectedly. After becoming a widow, Tamara barely grieved. She packed her things, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat she’d inherited from her late husband, and vanished. Alena’s grandmother tried in vain to appeal to her conscience. Tamara would occasionally show up, but she wasn’t interested in Alena. The last time was when Alena was twelve—Tamara brought seven-year-old Sviatoslav and demanded that her mother transfer ownership of the house to her. “No, Toma! You’re not getting anything!” her mother retorted. “When you die, it’ll be mine anyway!” Tamara snapped, glaring at Alena through the door, collecting Sviatoslav, and slamming out. “Why do you always argue when she comes?” Alena asked her grandmother. “Your mother’s selfish! I obviously didn’t raise her properly—should’ve whipped her more!” Granny Raissa replied irritably. When her granny fell ill, it happened suddenly. Raissa Petrovna had never complained about her health. One day, Alena came home from school to find the ever-busy granny pale and still, sitting in her chair on the balcony. Alena had never seen her just sitting, doing nothing. “Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously. “I don’t feel well… Call an ambulance, Alenushka…” Granny said quietly. Then came the hospital, IV drips… and then death. Raissa Petrovna spent her last days in intensive care, no visitors allowed. Nearly losing her sanity with fear for her only relative, Alena desperately phoned her mother. At first, her mum refused to come, but once Alena said granny was in intensive care, she finally agreed—but only made it in time for the funeral. Three days afterward, she shoved a will in Alena’s face: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be here soon. I know you never got along with him—so why don’t you stay with Aunt Gail for a while, all right?” Her mother’s voice was ice-cold, not a hint of grief. She almost seemed glad Raissa Petrovna had died—after all, she was now the heir! Broken by grief, Alena couldn’t fight her mother. And the will left no room for argument. So she temporarily moved in with Aunt Gail, her father’s sister—a flighty woman still on the hunt for her dream man. The house was constantly full of rowdy, half-drunk guests, and Alena couldn’t bear it. Worse, some of them began showing interest in her, which terrified her. She confided in her boyfriend, Paul. His reaction surprised and cheered her: “I’m not having strange old blokes leering at you or trying to put their hands on you!” he said firmly, despite being only nineteen. “I’ll ask Dad. We have a one-bedroom flat on the edge of town. He promised I could live there once I got into uni—well, I kept my end of the bargain, now it’s his turn.” “I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Alena stammered. “What do you mean? We’ll live there—together!” “Do you really think your parents will agree?” “They won’t have a choice! As of today, I’m officially proposing—will you be my wife and live with me?” Alena almost burst into tears of joy. “Of course—yes!” Aunt Gail was delighted about the wedding, but Alena’s mother nearly ground her teeth to dust: “Getting married, are you? Clever girl! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re using your wiles instead! Let me tell you, I’m not giving you any money—and that house is mine! You’re getting nothing!” Her mother’s spiteful words wounded Alena deeply. Paul could barely make sense of her tearful explanation, but he took her home, where his parents comforted her with tea and sympathy. Paul’s father, Andrew, listened carefully to her story, astonished by all she’d endured in a few short months. “Poor thing! What sort of woman is that?” Paul’s mother exclaimed horrified by Tamara’s behaviour. “What intrigues me,” mused Andrew, “is why she’s so obsessed with claiming the house, if she really has the will.” “I don’t know,” Alena sobbed. “She always fought with gran about this house. She wanted it sold and the money given to her, then she demanded gran sign it over. Gran always refused, saying if she did, we’d end up on the street.” “Strange. Tell me, did you go to the solicitor after your granny died?” “No, why should I?” Alena was surprised. “To establish your right to inherit.” “But the heir is my mum—I’m just the granddaughter. Mum has a will. She showed me.” “It’s not that simple,” Andrew replied. “After the weekend, we’ll go down to the solicitors together. For now, try and rest.” Meanwhile, Tamara brought some papers round and tried to force Alena to sign, but Paul intervened: “She’s signing nothing!” “And who are you to tell her what to do?” Tamara retorted angrily. “I’m her future husband and I think this could be harmful to her. So for now, no signing.” Tamara exploded with insults, but left empty-handed—making Andrew even more suspicious. A few days later, as promised, Andrew accompanied Alena to the solicitors. “Listen carefully, but double-check everything before signing,” he advised. But the solicitor was scrupulous. He accepted Alena’s application and the next day informed her that inheritance proceedings were open in her name. Raissa Petrovna had left a small savings account for her granddaughter’s studies, which Alena had never known about. “And what about the house?” Andrew inquired. “The property was transferred to the girl as a gift some years ago. There are no other documents.” “A gift deed?” Alena gasped. “Your grandmother came to the office some time back to make sure the house would be yours when you turned eighteen.” “And the will?” “It was drawn up seven years ago but cancelled thereafter. Your mother probably doesn’t know. The house is yours. You have full right to live in it.” Andrew’s suspicions were confirmed. “So, what now?” Alena asked, bewildered, outside the solicitor’s office. “What else? Tell your mother this is your house, and she has to leave.” “She’ll never do it! She’s already packed my things to throw me out!” “Well, that’s what the police are for.” Tamara wasn’t pleased to hear the news. “You little wretch! You mean to throw your own mother out? You get out! Who put this nonsense in your head? That fiancé of yours and his old man? No way! I’ve got a paper giving me the right! Your grandma wrote a will making me the heir!” “Exactly!” Oleg chipped in, glaring hatefully. “Get out now, or I’ll make sure you do! The house is being sold! Buyers are coming!” But instead of buyers, the police turned up. After hearing the story, they ordered the trespassers out, warning of prosecution if they refused. Tamara and her family were furious but could do nothing. Alena was finally able to return to her home. Paul moved in with her, fearing her mother’s husband might threaten her. He was right. Tamara and Oleg wouldn’t leave Alena alone for some time. Upon realising Raissa had left a bank account, Tamara tried to claim a share—which was legally possible. Part of the money ended up with her, but the house she never managed to win, no matter how hard she tried. She only gave up after seeing every lawyer she could find. Only then did she pack up and leave for good. Alena never saw her again. Alena and Paul married. The following summer, Alena enrolled in her dream course at university, and by her third year, she had their first child. She was grateful to her husband and his family for supporting her during a difficult time, and went on to live happily ever after. Author: Odette

This Isnt Your Home Emily looked around the house shed grown up in, overcome with sadness. At eighteen, she already...

З життя4 години ago

Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a gentle chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but a booming, belly-clutching roar wholly inappropriate for a hospital ward, a sound she’d despised all her life. The culprit: her bed-neighbour, phone pressed to ear, waving her free hand in the air as if her caller could see the gesture. “Len, you’re having a laugh! Seriously, he actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Fifteen precious minutes of peace before the day’s bustle—a last chance to gather herself for surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, the neighbour was already here, briskly tapping at her phone. A curt “good evening” was their entire exchange. Helen had been grateful for the quiet—until now. “Excuse me,” she said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down?” The neighbour swiveled. Round face, short grey hair unapologetically natural, a garish red-polka-dot pyjama set—honestly, in hospital! “Oh, Len, I’ll ring you back—someone’s schooling me in manners.” She popped her phone away, beamed. “Sorry. I’m Kate. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before surgery. That’s why I ring round everyone.” “Helen. If you can’t, others might still want to rest.” “But you’re not sleeping now, are you?” Kate winked. “Right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She didn’t. By breakfast she’d made two more loud calls. Helen buried herself under her blanket, furious. “My daughter rang,” Kate explained over uneaten porridge. “Poor thing—she’s worried silly. I have to calm her down.” Helen stayed silent. Her own son hadn’t called. She hadn’t expected it—he’d said he had an early meeting. It was how she’d raised him: work first, work is responsibility. Kate went in for surgery first, breezing down the corridor and waving, cracking jokes at the nurses. Helen rather hoped she’d be in a different room after the operation. Helen’s own surgery was difficult, as always. She woke aching, sick. The nurse reassured her: all went well, it would pass. Helen was stoic; she always was. By evening, Kate was back, ghostly pale, silent for once, drifting between sleep and pain. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking. Kate managed a wan smile. “Alive. You?” “Same.” They drifted into silence. The IV dripped. The light faded. “Sorry about this morning,” Kate whispered into the dusk. “It’s nerves—I babble when I’m nervous. Drives people mad.” Helen wanted to retort but was too tired. “That’s all right.” Neither slept that night—the pain was too much for both. Kate stayed hushed, but Helen could hear her sniffling. Once, she might have been crying into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor came, checked their wounds, declared them both model patients. Kate immediately grabbed her phone. “Len! I’m fine, honestly. How are my lot? Kirky still got a temperature? Oh, it’s gone? See, I told you it wasn’t serious.” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My lot” meant grandkids, she realised. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s things?” and “Text me when you’re up to it.” Last night, when she’d still been too dizzy to reply. She texted: “All fine.” Added a smiley. Her son liked those; said messages came off as cold without them. Three hours later, a reply: “Great! Big hugs.” “Your family not coming?” Kate asked after lunch. “My son’s working. Lives miles away. And really, there’s no need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Kate nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll cope.’ Why bother visiting if all’s well, right?” But her eyes were strangely sad behind the smile. “How many grandkids have you got?” Helen asked. “Three. Kirky’s the oldest—he’s eight. Then Mash and Leo—three and four.” She fished for her phone. “Want to see photos?” For twenty minutes, Kate scrolled through snaps—kids at the beach, at home, with cake. In all of them, Kate was there—hugging, pulling faces, part of the action. Her daughter was never in a single pic. “She takes the photos,” Kate explained. “Hates being in them.” “Do you see them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter works, my son-in-law too, so I…well, I help. School runs, homework, dinner.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same in the early days with her own grandson. Now visits were infrequent, maybe once a month—if schedules aligned. “And you?” “One grandson, nine. Bright, sporty. I see him…sometimes Sundays. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Right,” Kate murmured, turning to stare out the rainy window. “Busy.” Later, Kate said quietly: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Kate sat, knees hugged to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve been thinking, and I don’t.” She faltered. “Why would I? I get there, and it’s Kirky with his homework, Masha with her sniffles, Leo’s torn his trousers, daughter working late, son-in-law away as always. And then it’s: cook, clean, fetch, fix…and they don’t even—” she paused, voice cracking, “don’t even say thank you. Because it’s just Grandma—it’s her job.” A lump formed in Helen’s throat. “Sorry,” Kate wiped her eyes. “I’m being silly.” “Don’t apologise,” Helen whispered. “I… when I retired five years ago I thought at last, time for me. I wanted the theatre, exhibitions, signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “Daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, asked for help. I’m Gran, I don’t work, it’ll be easy. I couldn’t say no.” “And then?” “Three years, every weekday. Then nursery—every other day. Then school—once a week. Now… Now I’m hardly needed. They’ve got a nanny. I’m just at home, hoping they’ll ask. If they remember.” Kate nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit last November. I scrubbed the house, baked. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kirky’s got club, can’t come.’ Didn’t come. Gave the cakes to my neighbour.” They sat in a hush as the drizzle tapped the glass. “You know what hurts?” Kate murmured. “Not that they don’t come. That I still wait. Clutching the phone, hoping—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need a favour.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Whenever the phone goes, I hope…maybe he just wants a chat. But it’s always for something.” “We always say yes,” Kate smiled ruefully. “Because we’re mums.” The next days passed in pain and slow recovery. Dressing changes were brutal; both lay silent afterward. Then Kate said: “I always thought I had the perfect family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, happy grandkids—I was needed. Irreplaceable. Turns out, they manage just fine. My daughter’s chirpy, not complaining. They’re just…fine. A granny is simply convenient—free childcare.” Helen pushed up on her elbow. “Know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son Mum’s always available, always waiting, her plans don’t matter, yours are everything.” “I did the same. Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Helen said slowly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Kate let that sit. “So what now?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Helen was up unaided. Day six she made it down the corridor and back. Kate was always a day behind but stubbornly kept up. They shuffled together, clinging to the rails. “When my husband died, I felt so lost,” Kate admitted. “My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids.’ So I made that my purpose. Only…it’s a one-way street. I’m there for them; they’re there for me only when it suits.” Helen talked about her divorce—thirty years ago, raising a boy alone, studying at night, working two jobs. “Thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. Give everything, he’d be grateful.” “He grew up, got his own life,” Kate finished. “Yes. Maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel this lonely.” “Me neither.” Day seven, Helen’s son turned up, unannounced. Tall, well-coiffed, smart coat, bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! The doctor says you’ll be discharged in a few days. Fancy staying with us? Guest room’s free, Olesia says.” “Thanks—but I’ll be fine at home.” “As you like. But ring anytime; we’ll fetch you.” He talked about work, grandson, a new car, offered money, promised to visit next week. Left briskly—almost relieved. Kate pretended to sleep through it all. When he’d gone: “That was yours?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as marble.” Helen couldn’t reply. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Kate whispered, “I reckon we need to stop waiting for their love. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, got their lives. And we need to find our own.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what else is there? Keep sitting, hoping they’ll remember us?” “What did you tell your daughter?” Helen found herself switching to ‘you’, as if an old friendship had begun. “Told her I’d need at least two weeks’ rest after discharge—doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “How did she react?” “Furious at first. I said, ‘Len, you’re an adult, you’ll cope. I can’t right now.’ She sulked.” Kate grinned. “But you know what? I felt lighter. Like dropping a heavy load I never wanted.” Helen closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no and they get offended—they’ll stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “See? Can’t get worse. Might get better.” On day eight they were discharged—together, as if fate had arranged it. They packed in silence, as if saying a final farewell. “Let’s swap numbers,” Kate suggested. Helen nodded. They tapped contacts into their phones, gazed at each other. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “And you. I’ve not had a heart-to-heart with anyone in thirty years,” Kate smiled. “Not like this.” “Me neither.” They hugged, awkwardly, careful of the stitches. The nurse brought discharge forms, called a taxi. Helen left first. The house was quiet, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Ring when you get in”, “Don’t forget your meds.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set her phone aside. Rising, she opened a folder untouched for years: French course brochure, a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the flyer, thinking. Her phone rang. Kate. “Hi. Sorry I’m ringing so soon. Just—I wanted to hear your voice.” “I’m glad. Really glad.” “Listen, fancy meeting up? When we’re up for it. Coffee, or just a walk.” Helen eyed the course brochure, then her phone. Back to the brochure. “I’d love that. Actually…let’s not wait. How about Saturday? I’m sick of this sofa.” “Saturday? Are you sure? Doctors said—” “They said. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to do something for me.” “Then it’s a date. Saturday.” Helen ended the call and picked up the French flyer again. Classes started next month. Enrollment was still open. She opened her laptop and started filling in the registration form. Her hands trembled, but she kept typing, right to the end. Outside, the rain still fell—but a pale shaft of autumn sun broke through the clouds. And for the first time, Helen thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. She clicked ‘submit’.

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