З життя
Доброго ранку, сонечко! Найдобрішого.
— Доброго ранку, сонечко! Найдобрішого ранку! — мама сіла біля мене на краєчок ліжка і погладила по голові. — Який же ти вже великий у мене. Майже дорослий чоловік. З днем народження, Павлусю. Мама поцілувала мене в щоку і поклала на грудях коробку. — Спасибі. — я поцілував її у відповідь, і вона вийшла з кімнати. Сьогодні 17 червня, і мені виповнилося 17 років. Розгорнувши упаковку, я підстрибнув на ліжку. Новий крутий телефон. Про такий я навіть і не мріяв! Два тижні тому на пробіжці в парку я загубив свій. А два тижні без зв’язку в нашому світі просто якийсь кошмар. Тепер треба відновити всі номери й подзвонити друзям. — Павле, бабуся телефонувала — почулося з кухні мамин голос — вона тобі на старий номер не змогла додзвонитися. Передзвони їй. — Добре, мамо, зараз. Розібравшись з телефоном, я почав згадувати номер бабусі: +38** *** 7158 чи 5871? Все-таки 7158. Трубка. Визов пішов…
Любов Миколаївна доживала свій вік у старенькій хатині на краю села. — Вже 80 років скоро виповниться. Для чого живу? Нікому не потрібна. Василька, чоловіка, вже 10 років як не стало. А рік тому дочка, зять і п’ятнадцятирічний онук Павлусь загинули в автомобільній катастрофі. — баба Люба як завжди розмовляла сама з собою. — Для чого живу? Кому потрібна? Ані сім’ї, ані родини. Сусіди радять в місто перебратися, від дочки квартира там залишилась. Велика, трикімнатна… Тільки що мені там одній сидіти? На людей хіба що з балкона подивишся… А тут повітря. Курочки. Сусіди все-таки, майже рідні, все життя пліч-о-пліч живемо. Ні, помирати треба на рідній лавці. Стара я вже, щоб місце проживання міняти.
На столі задзвонив телефон. Подарунок дочки. Любов Миколаївна за звичкою заряджала апарат, хоч дзвонити їй було нікому. От уже рік як мовчав, а тут несподівано задзвонив. Номер якийсь незнайомий. — Алло… — Бабусю, привіт! — почулося в трубці. — Вибач, що давно не дзвонив. Це тепер мій новий номер. Я старий десь загубив. Мама сказала, щоб я тобі зателефонував, бо ти хвилюєшся. Любов Миколаївна притиснула руку до лівих грудей і сіла на диван. Щось там, у грудях защеміло. — Павлусю, онучок, це ти? — прошепотіла бліднучи баба Люба. — Звісно я! Хто ж іще? — Продовжувала трубка — Ба, вибач, що ніяк до тебе доїхати не можу. Все намагаюсь, намагаюсь. І весь час щось заважає. — Павлусю, онучок, як ти там? — вже крізь сльози говорила в телефон Любов Миколаївна. — Я вже до вас зібралася. Та кіт Барсик тримає. Старий він уже. Кому без мене тут потрібен буде? — Ба, не плач. У мене тут іспити. Як складу і визначуся куди мене, так одразу до тебе на цілий місяць. Так скучив за твоїми пиріжками. Ти там тримайся. — Павлусю, квіточка моя. Дякую, що зміг подзвонити. Якщо зможеш, дзвони ще. — продовжувала плакати бабуся. — Ба, та що ти? Хочеш, буду дзвонити кожного дня? У мене тепер такий тариф хороший. Тобі безкоштовно дзвоню. — Як там батьки? — Як у раю! Мені здається, що вони переживають другий медовий місяць. Все, бабусю, мені час. Завтра подзвоню. Цілую. Бувай! В трубці почулася тиша.
Любов Миколаївна піднялася. Підійшла до ікони й перехрестилася тремтячою рукою. А потім зібралася в магазин. Борошна треба купити. І дріжджів. А як правда відпустять… Залишилося два тижні. В очах баби Люби запалилися іскри життя.
Павло натиснув «відбій». Дивна якась бабуся сьогодні. З днем народження не привітала. Плакала. Здає, певно, старенька. Треба й справді кожного дня їй дзвонити. Старенька вона вже. Скоро 60 років.
Два тижні пролетіли як один день. Павло здавав іспити. Щовечора дзвонив бабусі й довго розмовляв з нею. Розповідав про іспити. Про випускний. Бабуся, яка раніше любила давати поради онукові, тепер все більше мовчала і лише зітхала.
— Мамо, я прийшов! — Павло зайшов у ванну помити руки. З кухні долинув невдоволений голос мами. — Павлусю, ми все розуміємо, що ти завантажений. Що у тебе іспити й вступ. Але ти можеш знайти хвилинку й подзвонити бабусі? Вона у нас одна залишилась. Вона телефонує мені й жаліється, що ти її забув. — Неймовірно! — Павлусь зайшов на кухню. — Ма, я їй кожного дня дзвоню. Давай зараз при тобі подзвоню і на гучному зв’язку поговоримо втрьох.
Павло набрав бабусин номер, збережений у телефоні. — Алло! Ольга Іванівна! Поясніть мені й моїй матері, дружині Вашого сина, чому Ви кажете, що я Вам не телефоную? — Павлусю, пробач мене стару. Я на третій день зрозуміла, що ти помилився номером. Ну не змогла я тобі зізнатися. І відмовитися хоча б від ілюзії щастя. Від ілюзії, що моя сім’я жива…
Через тиждень баба Люба пекла пироги. А Павлусь з батьками їхав у село, знайомитися з новою БАБУСЕЮ.
З життя13 хвилин ago
I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—Now I Regret It More Than Ever…
Managed to get my son divorcedthen rather wished I hadnt My daughter-in-law dropped my granddaughter off for the weekend again,...
З життя19 хвилин ago
Vitaly Settles Down at His Desk with a Laptop and a Cup of Coffee to Finish Some Work—Suddenly, an Unknown Number Calls: “Are You Vitaly Dmitrievich? This Is the Maternity Hospital. Do You Know Anna Izotova?”—A Shocking Death, a Daughter He Never Knew About, and a Life-Changing Decision at the Savelovsky Maternity Ward
Friday, 18th May I settled into my study laptop at the ready, a mug of Yorkshire tea by my side...
З життя1 годину ago
“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
How can you say you wont take care of my sons child? My future mother-in-law had blurted out, unable to...
З життя1 годину ago
I Shouted From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting: “I’m Doing This For You Lot, You Lazybones.” — And The Next Day My Mum Was Gone… Even Now, I Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Path, My Heart Clenches As If Someone’s Gripping It. It Was On The Second Of January I Took That Photo… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed The Footprints In The Snow — And Stopped. Snapped A Picture, Not Really Knowing Why. Now, That Photo Is All I’ve Got Left From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s As Always, All Together As A Family. Mum Was Up Early On The 31st, As Usual. The Smell Of Frying Burgers And Her Voice In The Kitchen Woke Me Up: “Love, Get Up! Help Me Finish The Salads, Or Your Dad Will Scoff Half The Ingredients Again!” I Came Down In My Pyjamas, Hair All Over The Place. She Was By The Cooker In Her Favourite Apron With Peaches — The One I Gave Her In School. Her Cheeks Were Rosy From The Oven And She Was Smiling. “Mum, Let Me At Least Have Coffee First,” I Moaned. “Coffee Later! First, The Salad!” She Laughed, Tossing Me A Bowl Of Roast Veg. “Chop It Fine Like I Like — Not Fist-Sized Chunks Like Last Time.” We Chopped And Chatted About Everything Under The Sun. She Told Me About New Year’s In Her Childhood — No Fancy Salads, Only A Herring Under Its Coat And The Tangerines Her Dad Brought Home Especially. Soon Dad Brought In The Christmas Tree — Huge, Nearly To The Ceiling. “Ladies, Come Admire The Tree!” He Announced Proudly. “Dad, Did You Chop Down The Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Walked In, Threw Her Hands Up: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Time Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Us Decorate. My Sister Lera And I Hung Up The Lights, Mum Dug Out The Old Decorations From My Childhood. I Remember Her Picking Out The Little Glass Angel. She Whispered, “I Bought This For Your First New Year, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Didn’t, Not Really, But I Nodded. She Glowed Because I Remembered That Angel… My Brother Arrived Later, As Usual — Laden With Bags, Gifts, And Bottles. “Mum, Got Proper Champagne This Year! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Time.” “Oh, Love, Just Don’t Let Everyone Get Plastered,” Mum Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Outside. Dad And My Brother Set Off Fireworks, Lera Squealed With Joy — And Mum Stood Beside Me, Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What A Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best One, Mum.” We Drank Champagne Round The Bottle, Laughed When A Firework Whizzed Towards The Neighbour’s Shed. Mum, A Little Tipsy, Danced In Her Woolly Boots To “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree,” And Dad Swept Her Off Her Feet. We Laughed Ourselves To Tears. On The First Of January, We Lounged All Day. Mum Cooked Again — This Time Dumplings And Jellied Meat. “Mum, Stop Already! We’re Going To Burst!” I Moaned. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It — New Year Celebrations Last A Week,” She Brushed Me Off. On The Second, She Was Up Early Again. I Heard The Door, Peeked Out — There She Was In The Garden With Her Shovel. Clearing The Path. Old Puffy Jacket, Scarf Tied, Working Carefully: From The Gate Right Up To The Steps — Narrow, Straight. Piling Snow Beside The Wall Like She Always Did. I Called Out The Window: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Freeze Out There!” She Turned Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Otherwise You Lazy Lot Will Walk Through Snowdrifts All Spring! Go On, Put The Kettle On.” I Smiled, Went To The Kitchen. She Came In Half An Hour Later, Cheeks Rosy, Eyes Bright. “All Done, Nice And Tidy,” She Said, Sitting With Her Coffee. “Came Out Well, Didn’t It?” “Yes, Mum. Thank You.” That Was The Last Time I Heard Her Sound So Full Of Life. On January Third, She Woke And Whispered, “Girls, My Chest Feels Odd. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried At Once. “Mum, Shall We Call An Ambulance?” “Oh, Don’t Fret, Love. I’m Just Worn Out. Cooked And Dashed About So Much. I’ll Rest, It’ll Pass.” She Lay Down, Lera And I At Her Side. Dad Went To The Chemist For Some Pills. She Even Joked, “Don’t Look So Gloomy, I’ll Outlive The Lot Of You.” Then She Turned Pale. Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I feel awful… Too Awful…” We Called An Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispered, “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Fine…” She Looked At Me, Barely Audible, “Love… I adore you all… I hate to say goodbye.” The Paramedics Came Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened In Minutes. I Sat On The Hall Floor And Howled. I Couldn’t Believe It. Just Yesterday She Danced Beneath The Fireworks, Full Of Life — Now… Barely Steady, I Went Out To The Garden. The Snow Hardly Falling Anymore. And I Saw Her Footprints. Those Same Small, Neat, Straight Prints From The Gate To The Steps And Back Again. Exactly Like She Always Left. I Stood And Stared At Them For Ages. I Asked God, “How Can It Be That Yesterday A Person Walked Here — And Today, They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, But She Doesn’t.” Maybe I Was Dreaming, But It Seemed Like On The Second Of January She Went Out For The Last Time — To Leave Us A Clear Path. So We Could Cross It Without Her. I Didn’t Let Anyone Shovel Those Prints Away, Asked Them All To Leave Them. Let Them Stay Until The Snow Covers Them For Good. That’s The Last Thing She Did For Us. Her Everyday Care Shone Through Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Covered The Path. I Keep That Photo Of Mum’s Last Footprints. Every Year, On The Third Of January, I Look At It — And Then Out At The Empty Path By The House. And It Hurts To Know That Somewhere Under All That Snow, She Left Her Last Steps. The Ones I’m Still Following…
I remember that chilly January morning I leaned out the window and called, Mum, what are you doing up so...
З життя2 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...
З життя2 години ago
The Fool Everyone thought Ann was a simpleton. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years, and they had two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sean, seven. Her husband barely hid his affairs—he cheated on her the second day after their wedding, with a waitress, and no one could count the affairs after that. Her friends tried to open her eyes, but Ann just smiled sweetly and stayed silent. Ann worked as an accountant at a children’s toy factory. Her salary, as she said, was pitifully small, but her workload reached the sky. She even had to work weekends and sometimes stayed overnight during quarterly and annual reports. Her husband earned very well. Ann, however, was a hopeless homemaker. No matter how much money she got, it was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and—at best—there was just soup and sausages with pasta. And so they lived. Everyone was amazed to see Val with yet another new girlfriend. He often came back home, as they said, “dry as a bone.” “Oh, Ann’s such a fool. Why does she put up with a philanderer?” On the day Sean turned ten, her husband came home and announced he was getting a divorce. He’d fallen in love, and the family no longer suited him. “Don’t be upset, Ann, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re as cold as a fish. If you were at least a good homemaker, but you can’t even manage that.” “That’s fine. I agree to the divorce.” Val nearly fell off his chair. He’d been prepared for a scandal, a hysterical scene, tears—he hadn’t expected such calm. “Alright, then pack your things and I won’t get in your way. I’ll come back tomorrow, just leave your key under the mat.” Ann looked at him with a strange, almost suspicious smile. It all seemed odd to Val, but he soon forgot about it, picturing his new life without his wife or the kids. The next day he came back with his new flame. There was no key under the mat, making him a bit grumpy. “No matter, I’ll change the locks, easy.” He tried his key in the lock—it didn’t fit. He knocked on the door. A big, burly man in slippers and a dressing gown opened it. “What do you want, mate?” “This is my flat, actually,” Val said, not too convincingly. “I’d argue with that, got any paperwork? If you do, best show it.” Of course, Val had no documents on him. Suddenly, he remembered the proof of registration in his passport. He fumbled and finally found it. “Here’s my passport—the address is inside.” The man in the dressing gown flicked through the papers, then smirked and handed it back. “When did you last open this booklet?” Val, sensing something wrong, turned to the registration page. There were two stamps—one for moving in, one two years ago for moving out. What happened? He didn’t argue with the giant. He tried to call his wife, but she was out of reach. He decided to wait for her after work. But here too, he failed. Ann had left her job a year ago. Their daughter had gone abroad to study, and their son should still be at school. But even at school, he got nowhere—Sean had transferred last year, and they wouldn’t give details to a father who didn’t know where his son went. Utterly defeated, Val sat on a bench, head in hands. How could this happen? His meek, mousy ex had orchestrated this? And how did she sell the flat? Well, he’d sort it out in court—divorce was a week away. He arrived at the divorce hearing angry, determined to expose her and get back what was his. At the hearing, everything fell into place. He’d completely forgotten signing a general power of attorney to his wife two years ago—at the time, he was so smitten with Eliza, his new paramour, that he’d signed whatever his then-wife asked for, to help their daughter with paperwork for studying abroad. He’d handed over everything himself. Now he was left with nothing, on the street, and, worst of all, with no flat, Eliza vanished too. “At least she’ll file for alimony, then I’ll teach her a lesson!” he thought. But disappointment struck again. Instead of a summons for child support, he received one challenging his paternity. Turns out, both children were not his. On their wedding day, Ann had seen her husband cheating with a waitress. Something short-circuited inside her. She couldn’t explain what happened, but she chose a unique path for revenge. First, an affair for an affair. Then she started saving. Every penny her husband gave for groceries, she hid. The fridge stood empty, but the kids had nice clothes and ate at their grandmother’s. Ann’s mother shook her head and tried to talk her daughter out of it. “Revenge will destroy you, and shatter the children’s minds,” her mother warned. But Ann stayed obsessed with her goal—and reached it. She did DNA tests on the kids, though she already knew they weren’t her husband’s. That was a knockout blow for Val. Losing the flat didn’t hurt as much as finding out neither child was his. Never underestimate a wronged woman—in anger, she is capable of anything.
Silly Girl Everyone considered Emily a silly girl. She had been married to her husband for fifteen years, and they...
З життя3 години ago
“I Never Invited You! – The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke as She Faced Uninvited In-laws on Her Birthday”
I never invited you! The daughter-in-law’s voice finally trembled. I didnt ask you to come! Matthew stood in the kitchen,...
З життя3 години ago
The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new residents moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the supervisor of a key factory in a small provincial English town. “Why would they choose an old building to live in?” pensioner Mrs. Nina Anderson asked her friends. “With their connections, they surely could’ve snatched up a new-build somewhere fancy.” “Don’t judge by yourself, Mum,” replied her unmarried thirty-year-old daughter Anna, her make-up bright. “This is a proper period flat—high ceilings, big separate rooms, a spacious hallway, and the balcony’s almost a full room on its own! Besides, they had a phone line put in right away—not many of us do; just three phones among nine flats…” “You just want to chat on the phone all the time,” her mother chided. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t you dare bother these serious people—they lead busy lives…” “They aren’t so serious, Mum—they’re young. Their daughter Natasha is only nine. They’re my age, maybe five years older,” Anna insisted. The new neighbours turned out to be polite and friendly. Lydia worked as a school librarian, while Ivan already had a decade of factory experience. Anna relayed all this to the women on the communal bench where her mother and the other ladies chatted each night. “And how do you already know all this?” they teased her. “You’re like a regular detective!” “I pop in to use their phone—they let me, unlike some people,” Anna hinted, recalling neighbours who pretended not to be home to avoid her hour-long gossip sessions. So, Anna got to know the newcomers and grew increasingly fond of dropping by to chat to her friends or colleagues—sometimes in her smart new outfits, sometimes in cosy house clothes—always on the lookout for friendship. One day she noticed Ivan firmly shutting the sitting room door when she arrived to make a call. It happened more than once. Anna would smile at Lydia in the kitchen and thank her after her calls, but Lydia only nodded and asked her to pull the door shut as she left. “Can’t close behind me, hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would say. “The lock clicks itself—French, you see.” “Ooh, baking again? More pies? You always have something in the oven… I never learned how,” Anna admitted. “Yes, I’m prepping cheese danishes for breakfast. No time in the mornings, so I do it now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would leave, sulking at their lack of warmth. “Lydia, you find it hard to tell her no, but our phone’s always busy thanks to her—my mates can’t get hold of me,” Ivan once remarked. “I did notice she’s making herself far too comfortable, treating our home like a drop-in centre,” agreed Lydia. That evening, Anna, dressed up and with bright lipstick, was again perched on the hallway stool gossiping into the receiver. “Anna, are you nearly done? We’re expecting a call,” said Lydia after ten minutes. Anna nodded and hung up, but then produced a bar of chocolate. “I’ve brought a treat for tea—let’s celebrate getting to know each other!” She headed for the kitchen, placing the chocolate on the table. “Please, take it away,” Lydia said. “If Natasha sees, she’ll be tempted, but she’s allergic—no sweets allowed. No tea for us, sorry; chocolate’s taboo here.” “What? Taboo? Well, suit yourself. I meant well,” said a flustered Anna. “No need for gifts. And use the phone only if it’s for something important—a doctor, an emergency. That’s different, even in the middle of the night—we understand. But otherwise, please, not so often,” Lydia said as kindly as she could. Anna took back her chocolate and left without a word, confused by their coldness and blaming Lydia’s jealousy. “She can see I’m younger and prettier, Mum—that’s why. I only wanted some friendly company over tea,” Anna lamented. “You’re stubborn and foolish,” sighed Mrs. Anderson. “Stop pushing into other people’s homes. Make friends on your own terms—get your own phone, invite neighbours to yours if you must!” Anna’s last attempt at befriending Lydia came when she arrived with a notepad, asking for the danish recipe. “You’d best ask your mother—she knows all the recipes,” Lydia replied, surprised. “I don’t use exact amounts, I do it by eye. My hands just remember,” she smiled, hurrying out. Anna blushed and went home. Of course, her mum had an old recipe notebook stuffed in a kitchen cupboard with scribbled-down instructions for everything—salads, pies, even festive fish terrine. Anna didn’t want to bake herself, but with her own mother’s baking days long past, she finally gave it a go. She found the recipe, to her mother’s amazement. “Are you really going to bake something?” Mrs. Anderson exclaimed. “Why is that so surprising?” Anna asked. “Perhaps things with Slav are getting serious…” her mum guessed. “What if they are?” Anna retorted. “So be it—you’re long overdue! Want advice with the recipe?” “No need. Just preparing myself,” came the reply. But when her mother returned from her walk a few days later, the warm scent of fresh pastries filled the flat. “Goodness‒pies!” Mrs. Anderson exclaimed. “You must be in love; nothing else explains it!” “Shh, not so loud,” Anna smiled. “Taste for yourself—these are cheese danishes, just like the old days.” The teacups were out, and a plate piled with golden sunburst treats awaited. “You haven’t lost your touch,” her mother praised. “It’s like old times.” “Don’t just say so—do they taste right?” Anna asked. “Try for yourself! There’s nothing wrong with them—your father used to say ‘that’s edible’ and it was the highest praise!” Anna pondered. “Maybe I’ll invite Slav for tea soon—what do you think?” “Oh, he’ll love them, I’m sure. I won your father over with danishes too—couldn’t get enough of them or me!” Mrs. Anderson chuckled. “You keep baking, and I’ll go watch a film with the neighbour. Time you settled down—curls and dresses alone won’t catch a man!” Soon, Anna’s boyfriend Slav started coming round. There were fewer arguments, and her mother grew used to the couple’s laughter and busy kitchen. When Anna announced they’d put in for the register office, her mother even shed a tear of joy. Anna had slimmed for the wedding, and Slav joked: “Have you stopped baking danishes for good? Will we have pies at the wedding feast?” Wedding preparations were a family affair, with Anna, her mother, and aunt cooking for two days, though just twenty close relatives were invited. The newlyweds had the largest room in the shared flat. Within a year, the whole building was equipped with telephones. Anna called everyone at first—but kept her chats brief. “Sorry, Rita, have to dash—the dough is ready and Slav will be home soon!” Now, with a baby on the way, Anna kept baking—her husband’s favourite cheese danishes, always fresh and homemade. And he adored her, for her warmth, her treats, and their happy home.
The Recipe for Happiness Everyone in the block was watching as the new family moved into the second-floor flat. It...