Johnson Michael

З життя59 хвилин ago

The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?

The Recipe for Happiness… The entire block watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat, arms loaded with...

З життя4 години ago

Strangers in Our Flat Katie was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside came the sound of the TV, voices in the kitchen, and a strange smell. Behind her, Max nearly dropped the suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” she whispered, stretching out her arm. “Someone’s in there.” There were two complete strangers sprawled out on their beloved beige sofa. A man in trackies flicked through the channels, while a plump woman beside him knitted. On the coffee table—mugs, plates strewn with crumbs, packets of medicine. “Excuse me, who are you?” Katie’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, not the least bit embarrassed. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman didn’t even put her knitting down. “We’re Lynda’s relatives. She gave us the keys, said you weren’t home.” Max paled. “Lynda who?” “Your mum,” the man, finally standing, replied. “We’re from Birmingham, here with Michael for some health checks. She put us up here, told us you wouldn’t mind.” Katie wandered into the kitchen. At the hob stood a teenage boy, frying sausages. The fridge was packed with unfamiliar food. Dishes were piled in the sink. “And you are?” she managed. “Michael,” he turned. “Why, shouldn’t I eat? Granny Lynda said it was fine.” She returned to the hall, where Max was already getting his phone out. “Mum, what are you doing?” His voice was quiet, but angry. His mum’s upbeat voice came through the speaker. “Maxie, you’re back already? How was your holiday? Listen, I gave Svetlana the keys, her and Victor came up to London, Michael had to see the docs. Didn’t think it mattered—place would be empty, waste not want not. Just for the week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why should I? You weren’t here. Just tell them I’m responsible for the flat, make sure they tidy up.” Katie grabbed the phone: “Lynda, are you serious? You let strangers into our flat?” “What strangers? It’s only my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as kids.” “And? That’s our flat!” “Katie, don’t be so dramatic. They’re family. They’ll be quiet. They’ve got a sick child, you should help. Or are you just selfish?” Max took back the phone. “One hour, Mum. You come and take them. All of them. Or I’ll ring the police.” He hung up. Katie sat on the pouffe in the hallway, head in her hands, their suitcases still unpacked. The TV buzzed in the lounge, sausages sizzled, and she felt like an uninvited guest in her own home. The woman from the living room appeared looking sheepish. “We’ll start packing,” she murmured. “Lynda thought you wouldn’t mind. We’d have asked you ourselves, but didn’t have your number. She offered, we agreed. Just needed a week for Michael’s appointments.” Max stood by the window, silent, shoulders tense. “Where’s our cat?” Katie suddenly gasped. “What cat?” “Morris. Ginger. We left the keys so you could feed him.” “No idea,” Svetlana shrugged. “Not seen him.” Katie found Morris wedged under the bed, fur bristled, eyes wide. The room smelled unfamiliar; unknown medicine bottles on her nightstand, the bedding different, someone else’s slippers by the door. Max knelt down beside her. “Sorry.” “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” “For Mum being like this.” “She always does what she wants.” Voices filtered from the corridor—his mum had arrived. Katie straightened her hair and went to face her. Lynda stood in the hallway, glaring. “Max, are you mad?” “Mum, sit down,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “We’re being thrown out! Svetlana, Victor, pack up, we’ll go to mine.” “Mum, just sit.” They sat at the kitchen table, Michael finishing his sausages. “Mum,” Max said, “how did you think it was okay to let people into our flat without asking?” “I was just helping! Svetlana rang, crying—Michael’s sick, they had nowhere to stay. It’s not like you were here.” “But it’s not your flat.” “Of course it is! I’ve got keys.” “To feed the cat. Not run a B&B.” “Max, they’re family! He’s poorly, they need help. And you’d turn them out?” Katie’s hands shook as she poured water. “You didn’t even ask us, Lynda.” “Why ask? You weren’t here!” “That’s exactly why you should have.” Max’s voice rose. “You could have called. Texted. We’d have talked it over.” “And you’d have said no, I suppose.” “Maybe. Or maybe just for a couple of days. But we’d have known. That’s called respect.” Lynda stood up. “Typical. I try to help, and you throw it back in my face. Svetlana, pack up—we’ll manage at mine.” “You said your flat’s a single-bed, there isn’t room for four.” “We’ll squeeze in. Better than dealing with ungratefulness.” Katie set her glass down. “Lynda, stop. You know you did the wrong thing, or you’d have asked first.” Lynda hesitated. “You knew we’d say no, and wanted to put us on the spot. That we wouldn’t turf people out—yes?” “I thought it was best.” “No, you wanted to do things your way. That’s different.” Lynda finally looked lost. “Svetlana was so upset. Michael’s in pain. I felt sorry for them.” “We get that,” Max said. “But you can’t just use what isn’t yours. Imagine if I let my mates move into your flat without asking.” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence, the sounds of hasty packing drifting from the lounge. Michael stood in the doorway, looking at his feet. “Sorry,” the teenager muttered. “Thought it was okay. Gran said so.” Katie gave him a tired smile. “It’s not your fault. Go help your parents, love.” Lynda dabbed her eyes: “I really thought I was helping. Never occurred to me to ask. You’re still my kids—I just assumed…” “We’re not kids anymore, Mum. We’re thirty—we have our own life.” “I see.” She handed over the keys. “You’ll want these back?” “Yes,” Katie said. “Trust is broken now.” “I understand.” Svetlana’s family packed quickly. Their apologies were awkward and endless. Lynda drove them away, promising to find space. Max closed the door behind them and leaned against it. They checked the flat—unmade beds, the fridge filled with strange food, bits left behind, and their cat still cowering. Katie opened the kitchen window. “Think she’ll get it this time?” “Not sure. I hope so.” “And if not?” “Then we’ll just have to set firmer boundaries.” She hugged him, and together they stood among the chaos. “You know what hurts most?” Katie pulled away. “The cat. We did all this for him and he’s hungry and terrified.” “Did they even feed him?” “Doesn’t look like it—bowl’s empty, water filthy. They probably forgot he existed.” Max knelt by the bed. “Morris, mate, we’re not giving her the keys again.” The cat cautiously crawled out at last. Katie gave him food; he devoured it, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. They started cleaning. Threw out the strange food, changed the sheets, washed the dishes. Gradually, their flat became home again. Morris slept on the windowsill, finally settled. That evening, Lynda rang. Her voice was quiet, apologetic. “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thanks, Mum.” “Is Katie angry?” He glanced at his wife—she nodded. “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” They sat up late over tea, silent. Out the window the city darkened; their flat, finally, was quiet and theirs again. Holiday was well and truly over—suddenly and brutally.

Sarah was the first to open the door, halting on the threshold. From within the flat drifted the sound of...

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Stories By Johnson Michael

My Daughter-in-Law’s Phone Ringtone Made Me Rethink Helping My Son’s Young Family Find a Home

“You’re Not a Wife, You’re a Servant—And You Don’t Even Have Children! An English Mother-in-Law’s Relentless Criticism Unites Her Son and His Wife During a Turbulent Home Renovation”

“My Wife’s Mum Is Loaded—We’ll Never Have to Work!” My Friend Antony Declared. But His Dream of a Life of Leisure Didn’t Go As Planned

We Should Have Got Ready for the Baby Sooner! My Return from Hospital Was a Nightmare—My Husband Didn’t Prepare Anything, the House Was a Mess, and I Was Embarrassed in Front of Our Family. Whose Fault Was It That We Weren’t Ready?

I Paid the Price for My Son’s Happiness: How I Chose the Perfect Daughter-in-Law and Found My Son’s True Love with a Little Help and a Secret Deal

For about an hour, I observed young would-be parents who had only just left sixth form.

I Lost the Will to Help My Mother-in-Law After Discovering What She Did—But I Also Can’t Bring Myself to Leave Her Alone

This Is Exactly What I Did When I Found Two Cruise Vouchers in My Husband’s Pocket—One of Them Was in Another Woman’s Name

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Foolish Anna: For 15 Years Everyone Called Her Simple – Her Husband Cheated Openly Since Their Wedding Day, While She Endured With a Smile. Little Did He Know, the Quiet Toy Factory Accountant Had a Master Plan That Would Turn His World Upside Down on Their Son’s Tenth Birthday

I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—Now I Regret It More Than Ever…

“How Can You Refuse to Look After My Son’s Child?”: An English Mother-in-Law’s Outburst – Family Tensions Flare as Rita Stands Her Ground on Parenting, Work–Life Balance, and Respect in a Modern Blended Family

“I Never Invited You! – The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke as She Faced Uninvited In-laws on Her Birthday”