Yv Vika

З життя24 хвилини ago

On the Edge of This Summer Working in a quiet village library, Dana always considered her life hopelessly dull—after all, when most people could find answers with a quick online search, visitors were few and far between. She would dust off paperbacks and rearrange shelves, the only upside being that she’d devoured a staggering number of books: romances, adventures, philosophy… Yet by the age of thirty, she was painfully aware that the great love stories she read passed her by in real life. A sensible age to settle down, a plain face, a modest wage—none of these had ever urged her to change jobs. Her customers were mostly the odd student, a rare schoolchild, or an elderly patron. Recently, an unexpected twist: she’d entered a county-wide professional contest and, to her astonishment, won—a fully paid two-week seaside holiday. “Brilliant! I’m definitely going—there’s no way I could afford such a getaway on my salary!” she beamed to her best mate and her mum. As summer waned, Dana wandered a windswept beach while most tourists lurked in beach cafés, keeping dry from the wild surf. It was her third day, and she craved a peaceful stroll and a little daydreaming. Suddenly, a young man was swept off the pier by a rogue wave. Instinctively, not thinking of herself, Dana dashed to the rescue—luckily, he was close enough to save, and childhood swimming lessons paid off. By the time she dragged him ashore, her once-pretty dress clinging to her damp skin, Dana realized he was just a tall, awkward boy, perhaps fourteen at most. He murmured thanks and staggered away, leaving her bemused. The next morning, Dana awoke to glorious sunshine and the sparkling promise of a gentler sea. After breakfast she headed to the beach, basked in the warmth, and by evening wandered into a nearby funfair. She tried her luck at the shooting range—her first shot missed, but the second was spot on. “See, son, that’s how you shoot!” came a friendly voice behind her. To her surprise, it was the same boy from the pier—accompanied by a tall, affable man, who introduced himself as Anton. They spent the evening together—ice creams, a ride on the Ferris wheel—and Dana felt oddly at home. Funnily enough, both father and son lived in the same town as she did; they laughed at the coincidence. The beach days grew magical as the trio became inseparable. Anton’s easy wit, the boy’s newfound confidence, and Dana’s quiet warmth began to feel like something more than friendship. Home was just a train ride away, but matters of the heart cared little for geography. As her holiday drew to a close, Dana and her new friends had to say their goodbyes. Anton promised to meet her at the airport, his messages now filled with the tender hope of something lasting. By summer’s end, Dana had moved in with Anton and his son. Their simple happiness felt as unexpected and wonderful as winning that holiday—and for young Jen, nothing could be better than seeing his dad, himself, and Dana become a family at the edge of summer.

On the Edge of This Summer Working at the local library in Brighton, Id often found myself believing my life...

З життя33 хвилини ago

My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage for Christmas, But I Refused to Give Them the Keys — “So, we’ve been talking and decided: why let your cottage sit empty? We’ll head there with the kids for the Christmas holidays. Fresh air, sledging hill nearby, we’ll fire up the sauna. You’re always at work, Lena, and Vitya could use some rest—but he turns us down, says he just wants to catch up on sleep. So just hand over the keys, we’ll pop in tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my sister-in-law, was speaking so loudly and matter-of-factly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, towel-drying a plate, struggling to process what I’d just heard. My husband’s relatives’ cheek had long become a running family joke, but this was a new level of audacity. “Hold on, Svetlana,” I replied slowly, trying to keep the irritation from trembling in my voice. “What do you mean, you decided? With whom? The cottage isn’t some public holiday camp—it’s our home, mine and Vitya’s. And for your information, we were planning to go there ourselves.” “Oh, come off it!” She brushed off my protest—for all I knew, chewing something at the other end. “You were planning! Vitya told Mum you’d be home with the telly. You’ve got loads of space – two floors! We won’t be in your way, even if you decided to show up. But better not—it’s going to be a noisy crowd. Gena’s inviting mates for barbecue and music! You and your books would just be bored anyway.” I felt my face flush. I could picture it instantly: Gena, her husband, a fan of drunken singalongs; their two teenage kids who’d never heard the word “no”; and my poor cottage, into which I’d poured my soul and every penny I’d saved these last five years. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “You’re not getting the keys. The cottage isn’t ready for guests, the heating system needs an expert touch, the septic tank isn’t easy. And frankly, I don’t want a crowd of strangers partying in my home.” “Strangers?!” my sister-in-law shrieked, finally pausing her chewing. “Family! Your husband’s own sister and nephew and niece! What’s happened to you and your accountant’s heart? I’ll tell Mum exactly how you welcome family!” The dial tone sounded like gunshots. I lowered the phone to the table, hands trembling in betrayal. I knew this was just the beginning. Soon the heavy artillery would arrive—my mother-in-law, Nina Petrovna, and a full-blown assault would begin. Viktor entered the kitchen a minute later, offering a guilty smile. He’d overheard, of course, but had chosen to hide in the lounge, hoping I’d handle it. “Lena, isn’t that a bit harsh?” he tip-toed in, trying to put an arm around my shoulders. “Svetka’s a bit much, sure, but they’re family. Don’t want to hurt them.” I shrugged him off and turned. The exhaustion and resolve in my eyes made him fall silent. “Vitya, do you remember last May?” I asked quietly. He winced, like a toothache had flared up. “Well, yes…” “‘Yes’?” I raised my voice. “They came for two days ‘to barbecue’. Result: your nephew broke the apple tree my father planted; the lounge carpet’s still got burn marks; a week spent scrubbing congealed, greasy dishes because Svetka said ‘I’ve got a manicure and you’ve got a dishwasher’, though they didn’t even turn it on! Smashed vase? Trampled peonies?” “Well, kids… they played…” Viktor mumbled to the lino. “Kids? He’s fifteen. She’s thirteen. Not toddlers! Those two set the sauna on fire by not opening the flue! We nearly burned down! And now you want them there alone—for a week—in winter?” “They promised to be careful… Gena said he’d keep an eye out.” “Gena will keep watch only that the vodka doesn’t run dry!” I snapped. “No, Vitya. I said no. It’s my home—legally and in fact. I put my inheritance into its renovation. I know every nail. I won’t let them turn it into a pigsty.” The rest of the evening passed in tense silence. Viktor tried putting on the telly, switched it off, went to bed. I sat in the kitchen, sipping cold tea, remembering how we built that house. It was more than a cottage—it was a dream. We’d inherited the old cabin and rebuilt it over three years, scrimping on everything. No new clothes, no seaside holidays, every penny for our sanctuary. I sanded logs myself, painted the walls, sewed the curtains, chose the fireplace tiles. To me, it was a sacred place, an escape from city stress and work. To his relatives? Just a ‘free holiday base’ with amenities. Next morning, just as I knew it would, the bell rang. I checked the spyhole and sighed heavily. On our doorstep stood Nina Petrovna, the full force of mother-in-law: fur hat, bright lipstick, huge bag poking with a frozen fish tail. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she thundered, not bothering with hellos. Nina sailed in like an icebreaker, filling the hallway. Viktor poked his head out, half-relieved, half-anxious. “Mum! No warning?” he squeaked. “What, do I need an appointment now?” She snorted, dumping her coat on him. “Put the kettle on—and the valerian, my heart’s been hurting for two days over you two!” Sat in our kitchen like a tribunal chair, I poured the tea, sliced cake, braced for what was coming. “So, dear daughter-in-law,” Nina Petrovna began, “what’s up with Svetochka? Your husband’s flesh and blood. All they asked was to rest at your place. Their own flat’s a mess, can’t breathe for the dust, and your palace just sits empty. Why so stingy?” “Nina Petrovna,” I answered calmly, “it’s not a palace but a regular house that needs care. Their renovations have dragged on five years, that’s not a reason to occupy our property. And I remember their last visit perfectly. The tobacco stench still hasn’t left the guest curtains, even though I begged them not to smoke inside.” “Who cares if they smoked!” she waved her hands. “Open the windows! You care more about stuff than people, Lena, that’s materialism! We raised Vitya to be generous and kind, now you’re turning him into a miser! You can’t take the cottage to your grave!” “Mum, Lena put so much into it…” Viktor tried. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Your wife’s got you under her thumb. Do you want your sister and nephews out in the cold? Gena turns 45 on the third—they wanted a family celebration, already bought the meat, invited friends. Now what, cancel it all? Be the laughingstock?” “That’s not my problem if they invited guests without asking,” I shot back. “That’s called bad manners, Nina Petrovna.” She turned purple—she wasn’t used to anyone arguing, especially not Viktor. But I was made of sterner stuff. “Bad manners?” she gasped theatrically, clutching her heart. “So that’s how it is? I treat you like a daughter and you… Vitya! Hear how your wife speaks to me? If you don’t hand those keys to Svetka right now, I’ll… I’ll curse that house! My foot will never cross its threshold again!” “Hardly sets foot there now, you hate weeding,” I couldn’t help but mutter. “You snake!” She jumped up, knocking over a chair. “Vitya, give me those keys! I’ll give them to Svetka. Who’s head of this family?” He glanced miserably between her and me. Torn apart. He feared his mother’s wrath, had always obeyed, but also loved me—and the cottage too. He remembered fixing the porch Gena broke, dragging a barbecue in during a storm. “Mum, Lena has the keys,” he mumbled. “And maybe we’ll go ourselves.” “A liar!” she declared. “Right, Svetka’s coming round tomorrow. Have the keys on the table—with instructions for the boiler! If not, you’re not my son. And you,” turning to me, “remember this day. What goes around comes around!” She left, slamming the door. Silence settled, broken only by the clock ticking. “You won’t give them the keys, will you?” Viktor whispered half-an-hour later. “I won’t,” I said. “In fact—Vitya, we’re going to the cottage tomorrow morning. Ourselves.” “But we hadn’t planned… you had reports…” “Plans have changed. If we don’t occupy it, they’ll lay siege. I know your sister. She’d climb in the window if she decided she ‘needed’ it. If we’re there, she’ll have to go.” “Lena, that’s war…” “It’s defending our borders, Vitya. Pack your bags.” We left at dawn. The city was sparkling under Christmas lights but our mood was anything but festive. Viktor anxiously checked his phone—on silent, as I’d requested. An hour later, we arrived. The village dozed under snowy blankets; our house, with its bright wooden walls and snow-topped roof, looked like a Christmas card. I breathed out—sanctuary. We warmed the house, switched on the underfloor heating, unpacked Christmas decorations. The smell of pine and clementines filled the air; tension began to fade. Viktor went out to shovel snow; I watched through the window as he enjoyed it. He needed this peace too, but had been afraid to admit it. The peace shattered at three in the afternoon. The blaring of car horns at the gate. I peeked out and froze—Gena’s old jeep and another unfamiliar car. A crowd tumbled out: Svetlana in bright puffer, Gena, their kids, a strange couple with a huge Rottweiler, and Nina Petrovna—a general amongst troops. Viktor hesitated by the gate, shovel in hand. “Vitya, let us in—we’re freezing!” Svetlana yelled, yanking the handle. “Lena, what’s keeping you? We came to surprise you! If you’re here—even better! Let’s celebrate together!” I put a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. He hesitated. “Hello. We weren’t expecting guests,” I said loudly. “Oh, stop pretending!” Gena waved, his voice already slurring. “Surprise! We’ve brought meat, a crate of vodka—everyone’s here. Let us in!” “A dog?” I snapped as the Rottweiler lifted its leg on my precious juniper. “Get him off my plants!” “Oh leave it, it’s just a tree!” Svetlana laughed. “Come on! Kids need the toilet!” “There’s a loo at the petrol station five miles down,” I said crisply. “I told you yesterday—the cottage is occupied. We’re resting. No room for ten guests and a dog.” A pause. They’d assumed if they just showed up, with mother-in-law in tow, we’d give in—classic family blackmail. “You’re not letting us in?” Nina Petrovna shrilled. “Leaving your own mother out in the cold? Vitya! Say something!” He turned to me, pleading. “Lena, please… they’re already here, how can we…?” “Like this,” I said firmly. “If you open that gate, in an hour it’ll be drunken chaos. The dog’ll dig up my garden and foul the carpets, the kids will destroy the upstairs, your sister will teach me how to cook in my own kitchen, and your brother-in-law will smoke cigars in the lounge. Our peaceful holiday—ruined. Is that what you want? Or would you prefer a quiet New Year with me? Make your choice. Right now.” Behind the gate, Gena was kicking his tyre, Svetlana was screaming insults, the kids were throwing snowballs at the window, Nina Petrovna clutched her heart theatrically. And suddenly, Viktor remembered. Three days fixing the swing last visit, the shame over the burnt rug, wishing simply to nap by the fire instead of running out for Gena’s vodka. He straightened, stepped to the gate, and, quietly but very firmly, declared: “Mum, Svetka. Lena’s right. We said there’d be no keys and no guests. Please leave.” “What?!” the whole clan roared. “You heard me. This is my home too. No circus. Please go.” “You—you—” Gena started, hand trying to force the latch. “Go, Gena,” Viktor gripped his shovel. “I’ll call security.” “Security?!” Nina Petrovna wheezed. “We’re family! I curse you, Judas! And your snake wife! I’ll never set foot here again!” “Let’s go!” Svetlana yanked her husband. “They’re mad! Let’s go to Tolyan’s place—he may be half-built but at least they’re welcoming!” Finally, engines revved, wheels spun, cars reversed out through the snow. Svetlana showed me a very rude gesture, Nina Petrovna’s stare like granite. Five minutes later, only silence—and a yellowed patch on my winter-wrapped juniper for proof. Viktor rammed the shovel into a snowdrift, sat heavily on the steps, face in hands. “Oh God, what a disgrace,” he whispered. “My own mother…” I sat beside him, put my arms around him, rested my cheek to his shoulder. “It’s not disgrace, Vitya. It’s growing up. Today you protected our family—the two of us. Not their clan, but us.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She will. The moment she needs something—money for medicine or help with a job. They’re like that. They don’t stay upset if it’s inconvenient. But now they’ll know—there’s a line. And start respecting you. Not right away, but they will.” “You think?” “I know. And if not… well, we’ll have more peace. Come in, or you’ll freeze. I’ll make us mulled wine.” We went inside, drawn the curtains, shutting out the cold and angry words. In the evening, by the fire, we watched the flames in a silence that was cosy, not bitter. The next three days passed in blissful quiet. Woodland walks, barbecues—for ourselves—sauna, books. The phones silent—the family had declared boycott. On the third of January, just as I’d predicted, Viktor’s phone pinged: a message from Svetlana. Not an apology—just a photo: some sort of shed, a battered gas stove, empty vodka bottles and blurry, drunken faces. Caption: “Having a great holiday without you. Jealous much?” I looked at the battered table, Gena’s puffy face, and then at my husband asleep with a book, relaxed, peaceful, content. “Nothing to be jealous of, Svetka,” I whispered, deleting the message so as not to wake him. A week later, back in the city, Nina Petrovna rang herself. Her voice was cold and hurt, but she needed Viktor to drive her to the clinic. She didn’t mention the cottage. The boundary was drawn. There’d be the odd skirmish, but our citadel stood firm. Sometimes you need to be ‘bad’ for others to be good for yourself, and to protect your own family. And from then on, the cottage keys sat not on the hallway shelf, but locked in my safe. Just in case.

So, we were just chatting, and had a thought: why just let your cottage sit gathering dust? Well pop down...

З життя1 годину ago

There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence Four years had passed since Agatha’s mother died, but she still remembered the unbearable grief, especially the evening after the funeral, with her father crushed by sorrow in their big, solid English home. At sixteen, Agatha did her best to adapt; years later, after qualifying as a paramedic, she lived alone in the family house while her father, Ivan, now remarried, settled with his new wife Kate and her two children in a nearby village. On her father’s birthday, Agatha arrived in a beautiful dress and heels, smiling as she handed over a gift—only to be met with Kate’s blunt announcement: “Your father won’t be supporting you anymore; you’re old enough to manage, he has a new family now.” Ivan tried to defend his daughter, but was silenced by Kate’s complaints. After a fraught celebration, Ivan and Kate soon visited Agatha to propose selling her beloved family home. Kate, cold and sharp, insisted it was only fair—her own children needed space, and Agatha, now an adult, could manage alone. Hurt, Agatha refused, standing her ground. Ivan, torn between loyalty to his daughter and his new wife, grew increasingly uneasy. Things darkened further when Agatha was unexpectedly abducted near her home by a stranger who threatened her into signing away her share of the house. “In our business, there are no coincidences,” he sneered, forcing documents into her hands. But police, alerted by Agatha’s fiancé Arthur—a local officer—arrived in time to rescue her. The plot, it turned out, was masterminded by Kate and her lover, desperate to claim Agatha’s home and the money it would bring. With the truth revealed, Ivan divorced Kate and returned to his daughter, filled with regret but hopeful for the future. Agatha found happiness with Arthur, and their family—though smaller—grew closer than ever within the cherished old house. A reminder that in life, there’s no such thing as coincidence—only choices, love, and the courage to stand by what matters most.

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