З життя17 хвилин ago

Shutting the Door on Our Own Daughter — “Why didn’t you let her in?” Veronica finally asked the question that haunted her most. “You used to always let her in…” Her mother gave a bitter smile. “Because I’m scared for you, Nicky. Do you think we don’t see the way you hide in the corner when your sister barges in at night? The way you hide your textbooks so she won’t ruin them? She looks at you and gets angry. Angry because you’re normal. Because you have a different future ahead of you, but she’s drowned hers in a bottle…” Veronica hunched over her open textbook, flinching as yet another row kicked off in the next room. Her father didn’t even take off his coat—he stood in the hallway, phone in hand, shouting into it. “Don’t try and fob me off!” he roared. “Where’s it all gone then? Two weeks after payday, Larissa! Two!” Tatiana peered out from the kitchen. She listened to her husband’s tirade, then asked, “Again?” Valery waved her off and put the phone on speaker—immediately met by sobbing. Veronica’s older sister had a natural talent for making even stones melt in pity. But their parents had developed a tough skin after so many years. “What do you mean ‘he threw you out’?” Valery started to pace the cramped corridor. “Damn right. Who’d put up with your never-ending drunkenness? Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? You’re thirty, but you look like a battered dog.” Veronica crept her door open an inch. “Dad, please…” The sobs suddenly cut out. “He put my things out on the landing. I’ve nowhere to go. It’s cold, it’s raining… I’ll come to you, okay? Just for a couple of days. Just to get some sleep…” Mother lunged for the phone, but Valery turned away. “No!” he barked. “You’re not coming in this house. We agreed last time—after you hocked the TV while we were at the cottage, the door to this family shut for you!” “Mum! Mum, say something!” came the desperate cry. Tatiana covered her face. Her shoulders shook. “Larissa, how could you…” she sobbed, avoiding her husband’s eyes. “We took you to the doctors, we… You promised. The last treatment, they said it would last three years. You didn’t even last a month.” “Those treatments are rubbish!” Larissa snapped back, her voice suddenly venomous. “They’re just taking your money! I’m suffering here! Everything’s burning inside, I can’t breathe! And you’re worried about a TV! As if I won’t buy you a new one!” “With what?!” Valery stopped, glaring at a spot on the wall. “With what, when you’ve spent everything? Borrowed from your drinking friends again? Or sold something from your boyfriend’s flat, what’s his name?” “Doesn’t matter!” Larissa yelled. “Dad, I’ve nowhere to go! What do you want, for me to sleep under a bridge?” “Go to a shelter. Go anywhere,” her father’s voice went cold. “But you aren’t walking through this door. I’ll change the locks if I see you on our street.” Veronica sat on her bed, knees hugged to her chest. Usually, when her older sister pushed their parents into rage, the anger bounced on to her. “What are you doing there, on your phone again? You’ll end up as useless as your sister!” Words she’d heard for three years. But tonight, she was forgotten. No shouting, no snipes. Her father hung up, took off his coat, and her parents moved to the kitchen. Veronica carefully stepped into the hall. “Val, you can’t…” her mother pleaded. “She’ll be lost. You know how she gets in that state. She’s not responsible for herself.” “Why should I be responsible for her?” her father slammed the kettle on. “I’m fifty-five, Tania. I want to come home and sit in my chair in peace. I don’t want to hide my wallet under my pillow! I don’t want to apologise to neighbours who saw her with dodgy characters in our building!” “She’s our daughter,” mother whispered. “She was our daughter until she was twenty. Now she’s just someone draining the life out of us. She’s a drinker, Tania. You can’t cure that if she doesn’t want to quit. And she doesn’t. She likes this life. Wake up, get a cheap bottle and pass out!” The phone rang again. The parents froze, then her father’s voice came: “Yes?” “Dad… I’m at the station. Police are everywhere. They’ll arrest me if I stay here. Please…” “Listen to me, closely,” he cut in. “You’re not coming home. Period.” “So, should I just go and kill myself then?” Larissa’s voice held a note of challenge. “Is that what you want? A call from the morgue?!” Veronica froze. That was Larissa’s classic trump card— when nothing else worked, threaten tragedy. It always worked before. Mum would break down, dad would clutch his heart, and Lari would get money, a bed, food, and a clean-up. Not tonight. Her dad didn’t bite. “Stop with the threats,” he said. “You love yourself too much for that. Here’s the deal. I’ll find you a room. The cheapest I can, at the edge of town. I’ll pay a month’s rent. Some food money. That’s all. After that, you’re on your own. Get a job, shape up—you can manage. If not, in a month you’re back on the street. That’s it for me.” “A room?! Just a room, not a flat? Dad, I can’t do it on my own. It’s scary. The neighbours might be weird. And I don’t even have bedding—he kept it all!” “Mum will pack you some. I’ll leave it with the concierge. Collect it, but don’t even try upstairs. I’ve warned you.” “You’re animals!” Larissa screamed. “Chuck your own daughter out! Living comfortable in your three-bed while I have to crawl into some hovel?!” Mum couldn’t take it, snatching the phone. “Larissa, that’s enough!” she shouted, making Veronica jump. “Listen to your father! This is your only chance. Take the room, or it’s the streets. Choose now, or he won’t even pay for that!” Silence came from the other end. “Fine,” Larissa finally snapped. “Send me the address. And money. I’m starving.” “No money,” Valery cut in. “I’ll send you food. I know exactly what your ‘food’ budget goes on.” He hung up. Veronica decided now was the time. She tiptoed to the kitchen for a drink, expecting a backlash. Her dad would comment on her scruffy t-shirt. Her mum would chide her indifference—how could she just wander the house with all this going on? But neither even looked at her. “Veronica,” her mum said quietly. “Yeah, Mum?” “In the wardrobe, top shelf. Old bedsheets and pillowcases. Pack them in the blue bag from the cupboard.” “Okay, Mum.” Veronica found the bag and emptied it, dazed. How would Larissa live alone? She couldn’t boil pasta, let alone stay off the bottle… Veronica returned, climbed on a stool, and started packing the linen. “Don’t forget towels!” called Dad. “Already packed,” Veronica replied. She saw her father stomp out, grab the bags, and leave. Off to find this “hovel,” presumably. Veronica wandered into the kitchen. Mum sat, unmoving. “Mum, want me to get you a tablet or something?” she whispered. Mum looked up. “You know, Nick,” she began, her voice hollow, “when she was little, I thought: she’ll be my helper. We’ll talk about everything. Now all I can think is—please, let her remember the address, let her get there…” “She will,” Veronica perched beside her. “She always manages.” “Not this time,” Mum shook her head. “Her eyes… they’re empty now. She’s just a shell that needs its poison.” Veronica fell silent. She’d always thought her parents didn’t notice her fear, too busy saving ‘lost’ Larissa. “I thought you stopped caring about me,” she whispered. Mum reached out, stroked her hair. “We care. But we’re out of strength. It’s like on a plane—you put your own mask on before the child’s. We tried putting a mask on her for ten years, Nick! Rehab, quacks, expensive clinics. Nearly suffocated ourselves in the process.” The doorbell rang. “Is it her?” Veronica asked. “No, Dad’s got the keys. Probably the food delivery.” Veronica fetched the shopping—groceries, tinned goods, basics. Nothing extra. “She won’t eat this,” Veronica said, setting aside buckwheat. “She only eats takeaways.” “If she wants to live, she’ll cook,” Mum snapped, her old firmness returning briefly. “No more coddling her. Our kindness is killing her.” An hour later, Dad came home, haggard. “Found it,” he grunted. “Keys are here. Landlady’s an old retired teacher, strict as they come. She said one whiff of drink or any trouble, she’ll boot her straight out. I told her, ‘Do it.'” “Valery…” Mum sighed. “What? I’m done lying. She deserves to know.” He grabbed the bag, picked up the groceries and left. “I’ll drop this at the concierge. If she calls, don’t answer the house phone.” He left. Mum locked herself in the kitchen and wept. Veronica’s heart ached. How did it come to this? A sister not really living, only existing for the next drink—and parents barely surviving her… *** Her parents’ efforts failed—within a week, the landlady rang Valery. The daughter, with three men, partying all night: thrown out with the police. Still, the parents couldn’t abandon her. Larissa was sent to a secure rehab centre that claimed to ‘cure drinkers in a year.’ Maybe this time, there’ll be a miracle? **Shutting the Door on Our Own Daughter: When Love Fights to Survive Addiction’s Grip in an English Family**

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The Carer for the Wife — What do you mean? — Lida thought she must have misheard. — Where am I supposed to go? Why? What for? — Oh, can we just skip the dramatics, please? — he grimaced. — What’s not clear here? There’s no one left for you to take care of. Where you go is none of my concern. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? Weren’t we planning to get married…? — That was your idea. I never said any such thing. At 32, Lida decided to turn her life around and leave her small hometown. What was left for her there? Endure her mother’s nagging? Her mother simply couldn’t stop scolding Lida about the divorce, constantly asking how she managed to “lose” her husband. Yet Vas’ka wasn’t worth a kind word—drunk and a womaniser! How did she end up marrying him all those eight years ago? Lida wasn’t at all upset about the divorce—in fact, she felt she could finally breathe again. But she argued constantly with her mum about it, and they also fought about money, which was always in short supply. So, she’d head off to the county town and land a great job there! Look at Svetka—her old school friend—she’d been married for five years to a widower. Who cares if he’s 16 years older and hardly a heartthrob, at least he has a flat and a decent income. And Lida reckoned she was just as good as Svetka! — Well, thank heavens! You’ve come to your senses! — Svetka encouraged her. — Pack your things, you can stay with us for a bit, and we’ll sort out the job situation. — Won’t your Vadim Petrovich mind? — Lida was unsure. — Don’t be silly! He does whatever I ask! Don’t worry, we’ll get by! Still, Lida didn’t want to stay long at her friend’s place. After just a couple of weeks and her first wages, she rented her own room. And just a couple of months later, she had a stroke of luck. — Why is a woman like you working in the market? — said one of her regulars, Edward Boris, with concern. Lida knew all her regulars by name by now. — It’s cold, it’s hard work—not ideal. — Gotta earn money somehow, — she shrugged, — unless you have another offer? Edward Boris wasn’t exactly a dreamboat in her eyes—twenty years older, a bit pudgy, starting to bald, and with a shrewd look in his eye. He was always particular about choosing his vegetables and paid to the penny. But he dressed well and drove a nice car—definitely not a down-and-out, not a drunk. He also had a wedding ring, so she never considered him as husband material. — You strike me as responsible, steady, and clean, — Edward Boris switched to a familiar tone, — have you ever cared for anyone who was ill? — I used to look after a neighbour, actually. She had a stroke, her children live far away, so they paid me to help. — That’s great! — he exclaimed, and then put on a somber face: — My wife, Tamara, has had a stroke too. The doctors say she has little chance of recovery. I’ve brought her home, but I haven’t got time to look after her. Will you help? I’ll pay you properly. Lida didn’t have to think long—much better to be in a warm flat changing bedpans than freezing on the market for ten hours a day serving picky customers! He even suggested she live there, so no more rent. — They’ve got three spare rooms! You could play football in there! — she delightedly told her friend. — No children either. Tamara’s mother was a real madam—even at 68, she acted half her age. She’d just remarried and was busy with her husband. No one else to care for the invalid. — Is she really that sick? — Oh yes, poor thing can’t move or speak. She won’t get better. — You almost sound happy about it, — Svetka eyed her. — Of course not, — Lida looked down, — but once Tamara’s gone, Edward Boris would be free… — Are you for real, Lida? Wishing someone dead for a flat?! — I’m not wishing anyone dead—I’m just not going to miss my chance! Easy for you to say, you’ve got it made! They had a huge fight and didn’t speak for half a year—until Lida confessed to Svetka her romance with Edward Boris. They couldn’t live without each other, but of course, he’d never leave his wife—not that type! So for now, she’d remain his lover. — So you’re shacking up with him while his wife is dying in the next room? — her friend was appalled. — Do you even see how vile that is? Or are you that blinded by his money—if he’s even got it? — Trust you to never say a kind word, — Lida retorted. They stopped talking again, but she barely felt guilty—well, perhaps just a bit. She cared for Tamara with real diligence, and since her affair with Edward Boris began, she took on all the housework too. After all, a man needs more than just a woman in his bed—he wants a good meal, crisp shirts, a clean flat. Lida thought her lover was very content, and she was enjoying her life too. She barely noticed Edward had stopped paying her for caring for his wife. Not that it mattered now—they were almost like husband and wife! He gave her money for shopping, and she managed the budget, not realising it was tight. And his job paid well enough—but never mind, once they got married it would all become clear. With time, the spark between them dulled, and Edward lingered less at home, but Lida put it down to the strain of having a sick wife. She pitied him, even though he barely spent a minute a day checking on Tamara. Even so, Lida wept when Tamara finally passed away. She’d given a year and a half of her life to that woman—you can’t get that time back. She organised the funeral too—Edward was “too grief-stricken.” He gave her the bare minimum for expenses, but she did everything properly. No one could accuse her of a thing. Even the neighbours, gossiping about her and Edward—nothing escapes them!—nodded approvingly at the funeral. His mother-in-law too seemed satisfied. So Lida never expected what Edward said next. — You understand there’s no need for your services anymore, so I’m giving you a week to move out, — he said on the tenth day after the funeral. — What do you mean? — Lida’s voice faltered. — Where should I go? Why? — Please, do we have to have this scene? — he sighed. — There’s no one left for you to care for, and where you go is none of my business. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? We were supposed to get married… — That’s your fantasy. I never said anything of the sort. Next morning, after a sleepless night, Lida tried to talk again, but he just repeated the same words and urged her to move quickly. — My fiancée wants to renovate before the wedding, — was all he said. — Fiancée? Who’s that? — None of your business. — Oh, none of my business?! Well, I’ll move out, but you’ll pay me for my work first. You were meant to pay forty grand a month. I only got paid twice. So you owe me £8,000. — You can do the sums, can’t you! — he snorted. — Don’t get carried away… — And you owe for cleaning too! I won’t nit-pick, just pay me ten grand and we’ll call it even. — Or what? You’ll go to court? There’s no contract. — I’ll tell Tamila—remember, your mother-in-law owns this flat. Edward’s face changed, but he recovered quickly. — Who’d believe you? — he huffed. — You know what? I don’t want to see you. Get out now. — You’ve got three days, darling. No ten grand, and there’ll be a scandal, — Lida replied, heading for a cheap hostel. She’d managed to save some of the housekeeping money. On the fourth day, having had no answer, Lida went back to the flat. Tamila, the mother-in-law, was there. Lida could see from Edward’s face she’d never get paid. So she told Tamila everything. — She’s making it all up! Don’t listen! — the widower protested. — Well, well, I’d heard rumours at the funeral, but I didn’t believe them — Tamila’s stare was fierce. — Now it all makes sense. And you, my dear son-in-law, don’t forget who owns this flat? Edward froze. — So, I want you out of here within the week. No—within three days. Tamila turned to leave, then paused at Lida. — And you, standing there like you expect a prize? Get out! Lida bolted from the flat, realising there’d be no money for her—not now. Back to the market again; there’d always be work there… **The Carer’s Devotion: Betrayal Behind Closed Doors in Suburban England**

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