З життя
Коли син оголосив батькам про знайомство з дівчиною, вони зраділи.
Коли Микита повідомив батькам, що хоче познайомити їх зі своєю дівчиною, вони зраділи. Мама й тато Микити були з тих, хто розумів, що рано чи пізно їхній син піде у власне життя, що йому потрібно створювати свою родину. Та й вік уже підходящий — скоро буде двадцять п’ять, дорослий вік для серйозних стосунків.
Микита жив із батьками. Але не тому, що був маминим синком або не вистачало грошей на оренду житла. Просто збирав на власну квартиру, не бажав зв’язуватись з кредитами. А батьки його підтримували. У них велика квартира, місця всім вистачало. До того ж, вони не втручались в особисте життя один одного, ніколи не вимагали звіту від сина — де він був і чому так пізно повернувся додому.
Та й Микита не зловживав. Не вимагав готувати йому їжу або прати речі. Словом, життя було комфортним для всіх, та ще й вдавалося накопичити гроші. А тут — дівчина. Перша, яку він вирішив познайомити з батьками.
— Що приготувати до столу? — спитала мама. — Що твоя Олена любить?
— Мам, особливо нічого не готуй. Вона за фігурою стежить, — усміхнувся Микита. — Смажене не їсть, жирне також, алкоголь не п’є.
— Що ж, це похвально, — посміхнулася мама. — Добре, зроблю щось дієтичне.
Олена їм сподобалася. Розумна, начитана дівчина. Вона справді майже нічого не їла, і маму Микити трохи збентежило, що Олена відмовилася спробувати легкий десерт, який мама приготувала. Сказала, що цукор — це зло, і всім варто про це задуматися.
Ще вона ненароком підмітила, що варто змінити оббивку на дивані.
— У вас непоганий ремонт, але видно, що кіт трохи подер диван. Це не так дорого, я можу дати вам контакти.
Звісно, нічого такого в цьому не було. Але до цього моменту мама Микити і не думала, що це якась проблема. Диван не був знищений, лише трохи подряпаний. Коли їхній кіт Бегемот був маленьким, кілька разів зачіпав його, але швидко зрозумів, що так робити не можна. І якщо не придивлятися, цих подряпин не видно.
Але коли Олена пішла, мама Микити раз по раз поглядала на цей диван. І ці кілька подряпаних місць тепер постійно кидалися їй в очі.
Проте в усьому іншому Олена була милою і привітною. Ввічливо себе поводила, подякувала за гостинність, і батьки Микити вирішили, що нічого страшного в тому, що вона сказала, немає. Вона ж з найкращих намірів. А вже питання з харчуванням справді надто особисте. Не варто намагатися нагодувати тим, що людина не любить або не їсть з якоїсь причини.
Кілька місяців Микита зустрічався з Оленою. Вона ще кілька разів бувала у них в гостях, але без жодних застіль.
І ось Микита наважився на розмову з батьками.
— Мам, тату, я хочу з’їхатися з Оленою. Я її люблю, і ми хочемо розвивати наші стосунки.
Батьки переглянулися. Їм здавалося, що все відбувається надто швидко. З іншого боку, це не їхня справа, тільки дітям вирішувати, в якому темпі їм рухатись далі.
— Я розумію, що вам, швидше за все, буде некомфортно, якщо я приведу Олену сюди. Та й це неправильно. Тому я візьму кредит на квартиру. У мене є половина суми, так що платіж буде невеликим.
— Що ж, якщо ти так хочеш, — знизала мама плечима.
— Так, хочу. Але квартирі, яку я знайшов, потрібен невеликий ремонт. Ми можемо пожити з Оленою у вас, поки ремонт не завершиться? Це буквально місяць, не більше.
— Звісно, синочку, живіть, — знизала мама плечима. Вона щиро вважала, що нічого страшного в цьому немає. Та й Олена їм подобалася.
Незабаром дівчина переїхала до батьків Микити. Її добре прийняли, сказали, щоб не соромилася і почувалася як вдома.
Але це була лише ввічлива фраза, яку кажуть, щоб людина розслабилася. А Олена сприйняла це буквально. І в цьому стала криється велика проблема.
За кілька днів, коли мама Микити зібралася готувати вечерю, вона не змогла знайти соняшникову олію.
— Оленко, ти не бачила, де олія? — запитала вона у майбутньої невістки.
— Я її викинула, — вона хлопнула очима.
— Навіщо?
— Я подумала, що буде краще, якщо ми всі почнемо харчуватися правильно. І, чесно кажучи, мене завжди нудить від запаху смаженого.
Мама Микити зітхнула. У чомусь вона, може, і має рацію, але вони звикли жити по-іншому. Наприклад, тато Микити обожнює котлети, які готує його дружина. Та й смажену картоплю вони всією сім’єю люблять.
— Олено, пробач, звісно, але ми звикли до смаженого. Я не змушую тебе їсти те, що я готую, але і ти не змушуй нас змінювати свої смаки.
— Вибачте, я не хотіла, — потупила очі Олена. — Я просто про здоров’я піклуюся.
Мамі Микити одразу стало якось незручно.
— Це похвально. Але ми такі, які ми є. І не потрібно нас виправляти.
— Гаразд, я зрозуміла.
Звісно, мама Микити купила нову олію, але тепер щоразу, коли вона щось смажила, її мучило сумління. Ніби хтось нав’язав їй почуття вини.
Але це був лише початок. Якось мама Микити повернулася з роботи і виявила, що на вікнах у вітальні більше немає її улюблених штор. І замість них висить щось тонке, незрозумілого сірого кольору.
— А де штори? — запитала вона у Олени.
— Вони вже зовсім старомодні. Я повісила свої, ми їх у вас і залишимо. Зразу стало свіжіше у вітальні, чи не так?
Мама Микити важко зітхнула. Ні, не свіжо, а сіро й понуро.
— Олено, мені подобалися старі. Куди ти їх поділа? Сподіваюся, не викинула?
— Ні, — надулася дівчина, — але я думала, вам ці сподобаються.
— Це не моє, — м’яко сказала майбутня свекруха. — Заберіть їх собі.
Незабаром з’ясувалося, що частини посуду просто немає у шафі. Мама Микити вже чудово знала, хто доклав до цього руку.
— Вони були якісь старі, ми вам на свято подаруємо сервіз, а то якось некрасиво зустрічати гостей з різними тарілками. І, до речі, я викликала майстра, який перетягне вам диван. Тканину обрала на свій смак, у мене добре розвинене почуття стилю.
Мама Микити кипіла. Але посваритися з майбутньою невісткою не хотіла. Розуміла, що вона все це робить не зі зла. Чи то мудрості їй не вистачає, чи то вона прикидається такою наївною.
— Олено, послухай, — посадила дівчину на диван мама Микити. — Я розумію, що ти хочеш внести свою лепту в наш спільний побут. Але ви з Микитою скоро переїдете, а це наш з чоловіком дім. І мені б не хотілося, щоб у ньому щось змінювалося без моєї згоди.
— Я ж із найкращих міркувань, — сказала Олена.
— Я знаю. Але нічого більше не роби. І майстру скажи, щоб не приїжджав.
Олена образилася. Ввечері висловила все Микиті, що її старання ніхто не цінує. А вона ж хотіла, як краще.
Але хлопець її не підтримав.
— Оленко, але це справді їхнє життя і їхній дім. І, думаю, ти б не хотіла, щоб у твоїй оселі щось змінювали без твоєї згоди.
— Якби зробили краще, я б була тільки рада, — не погоджувалася вона.
— «Краще» — поняття розтяжиме. Для тебе добре одне, для моїх батьків інше.
Олена розсердилась, але сперечатися більше не стала.
А мама Микити несподівано зрозуміла, що чекає-не дочекається, коли Микита закінчить ремонт. Вона завжди вважала, що може ужитися з ким завгодно. Вона ж сама по собі не конфліктна, тож ніяких проблем виникнути не мало б. Але вона і не думала, що біда прийде звідти, звідки й не чекали. І, начебто, нічого поганого у Олени в намірах не було, а так нею втомилась.
Олена ж припинила все змінювати. Але, мабуть, їй і справді хотілося хоч якось допомогти, тому вона затіяла генеральне прибирання. «Щоб відробити своє проживання» — так вона говорила. І, наче, в цьому немає нічого поганого, але й тут Олена вчинила необачно.
Кожен очищений метр площі не обходився без її коментарів.
— Я сьогодні під ванною прибралася. Ви там, певно, ніколи не прибирали? Напевно, забуваєте про це місце. Але, нічого, я там все вимила.
— Дякую, Олено, — зітхала мама Микити.
— Ой, я цілий день розбирала комору. Нічого, що я частину речей викинула? Повірте, там такий мотлох був, не здивуюся, якщо все це зберігається ще з дитинства Микити.
— Нічого, Олено…
— Я ледве відсунула диван. Під ним клубки котячої шерсті! Так і до алергії недалеко. Коли ми поїдемо, ви не забувайте це робити. Бо шкідливо дихати всім цим.
— Добре, Олено…
Мама з усім погоджувалась і рахувала дні до того моменту, як вони з’їдуть. В якийсь момент вона просто махнула рукою. Олені не пояснити, вона щиро не розуміє, що можна озвучувати вголос, а що не варто. Недарма кажуть, що простота — гірше за крадіжку.
І коли син з нареченою від’їжджали, мамі Микити хотілося влаштувати свято.
Перед від’їздом Олена підійшла до мами Микити й обняла її.
— Дякую вам за гостинність. Мені було дуже приємно жити з вами.
— І мені з тобою, Олено, — усміхнулася майбутня свекруха.
Вони зачинили за молодими двері, і мама Микити поглянула на свого чоловіка.
— Хороша вона дівчина, – посміхнулась вона. — Просто ще зовсім молода.
— Нічого, життя навчить її своїм правилам, — усміхнувся тато Микити. — І, зізнатися, прибралася вона у нас дійсно добре.
— Так. Правда, тепер доведеться купити новий посуд і тобі шапку. Бо Олена твою викинула, вирішивши, що це старий мотлох.
— А я давно говорив, що пора змінити стиль, — розсміявся тато Микити.
Насправді, стосунки між невісткою і свекрухою надалі були хорошими. Просто вони не жили разом. І мама Микити знала, що, щоб не трапилося, цей досвід вона повторювати не буде. Мир дорожче.
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You Simply Don’t Understand Your Own Happiness — Half a million? — Karen stared at the phone notification, rereading it three times before the numbers made sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? David was on the sofa, fixated on his smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing really, just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her pipes are leaking, floors warped, wallpaper peeling… — Hold on. — Karen sank onto the edge of the armchair, legs refusing to hold her. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave all of it to your mother. Without saying a word to me? David finally looked up. His face showed only genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something entirely obvious. — Karen, it’s my mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else is going to help her? — And you couldn’t discuss it with me? — Karen yelled, unable to stop herself. — Ask my opinion? At least warn me? — You would’ve argued, — David shrugged. — And Mum needed it urgently. Four years. Four years she’d put up with the woman who called every evening to check what David had for dinner. Who’d arrive unannounced and critique their cleaning, who’d orchestrate family dinners so Karen ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, — David kept his calm tone. — We’ll be fine. Pay it off fast, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears streamed down. Karen wiped them with the back of her hand, smearing mascara. — Family? Am I family? Or just an add-on? Remember when your mum decided it was time for a new car and you sold ours without asking me? Or when she cleared my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep surrounded by strangers’ junk”? Or how on my birthday, you left with her to buy her a fridge? — It’s nothing, — David waved her off. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at this man—tall, gentle features, dimples she once thought cute. Now she saw only a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the cord. — We’ll get through this, — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen rose without a word and went to the bedroom. Two large duffel bags sat in the closet—the same ones she’d moved in with. She dragged them out, tossed them on the bed, and began opening cupboards. David appeared at the door twenty minutes later, just as one bag was stuffed full. — What are you doing? Karen, this is ridiculous. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer, quietly folding jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down the jewellery box—gifts from her parents and friends, she wouldn’t take anything from him. — Where will you go? To your mum? She’s up in Manchester! Zipping the second bag. Checking her purse—passport, bank card, the keys to her mum’s flat she’d always kept “just in case.” — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She looked him in the eye, sharp and long. Then picked up her bags and walked out. …Next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, clutching her completed divorce papers. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds low over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen jumped awake on the sofa at her friend Leah’s, not immediately sure where she was. — We need to talk, — David’s rapid breathing, scattered words. — I get it now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You are my whole life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one long, tearful, full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you, forever.” A week later, David began appearing outside her office. Karen would leave for lunch and there he’d be, hovering by the coffee kiosk. She’d head to the Tube—there he was, across the street. — Just passing by, — he insisted when Karen demanded an explanation. — I wanted to see you. One evening, there was a knock at Leah’s door. Karen opened it, not checking the peephole—she was expecting the pizza delivery. David stood on the doorstep, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — Just one chance, — he whispered. — I ask for nothing more. Karen quietly closed the door. He stayed outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it—the way you learn to live with chronic pain. Don’t read the texts, don’t answer unknown calls, don’t look back in the street. Switched to remote work at a new firm, moved to a suburb where David would never “happen” to be. The divorce was finalised three months later. Karen left court with the official papers clutched tight and cried on the steps—not for grief, but relief. The first months of freedom were frighteningly empty. Karen had gotten used to checking every decision with someone, even if they’d always do as they wished. Now she could buy any yoghurt in the shop, without wondering if Mrs Davies would approve. She could watch any film, and wouldn’t hear “normal women don’t watch that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English courses—her long-time dream, which David had dismissed as “foolish expense.” Began attending early morning yoga before sunrise, when the city was just waking up. Took a solo trip to Brighton for the weekend, wandering the streets and eating doughnuts. Six months later, the calls stopped. The texts too. Karen waited for the catch another month, then another, and finally understood she could relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency—bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was moving on. …She met Andrew at a work event her colleague Maddy insisted she attend. — This is our lead developer, — Maddy introduced a tall guy in thin-rimmed glasses. — Andrew, this is Karen from marketing. He shook her hand—firmly, but gently. Smiled—just a plain, genuine smile. — Escaping from the karaoke too, I see? — he nodded toward the stage, where the Finance Director was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Saving my nerves, — Karen nodded. They talked most of the night—about books, travel, the oddities of life. Andrew listened more than he spoke. Asked questions, actually waited for answers, never interrupted. Never tried to lecture or explain how she should live. When he found out she was divorced, he just nodded and changed the subject. …Half a year later, they moved in together, picking a flat in the city centre. Small, light-filled, high ceilings, overlooking a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this flat? — Karen asked, as they viewed it before signing. — Maybe we should see some more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes. Very much. — Then let’s take it. Small things—the right to have an opinion, and be heard—meant more than any declarations of love. He proposed on the roof of their building, as the sun sank below the skyline, painting the sky pink and gold. He pulled out a tiny box, opened it—inside shimmered a diamond ring. — I’m not much for speeches, — Andrew admitted. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you don’t mind my snoring and my addiction to terrible coffee. Karen laughed through tears and nodded. …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was late at work—a looming deadline, an urgent bug. Karen was making pasta, humming along to the radio, when a sharp, insistent knock came at the door. She glanced through the peephole—and jumped back. It was David. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence—and now he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She grabbed her phone, dialled Andrew. The line was busy. — We love each other! — David shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s wrong! The door shuddered—he was throwing his weight against it. Karen pressed her back tight against the door, feet braced. — Get away, — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice climbed to a shrill pitch. — You were mine and you’ll always be mine! I waited two years for you to come to your senses! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — Nothing’s over! — he shoved again, and she barely held the door. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! Through the peephole, his face was twisted, possessed. Nothing like the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — David! One click and the police will be here. Leave. Now. David froze. A few seconds passed. Then he spun around and strode to the stairs. Downstairs, the front door banged. Karen slid to the floor against the wall, dizzy. After half an hour, she managed to stand and call Andrew. The police took her statement the next day. The officer, an older bloke with a mustache, took notes, nodded. — We’ll deal with it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to David, Karen never found out. But after that, her ex never appeared again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …She and Andrew held their wedding in early June—a small country restaurant, twenty guests, just close friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives demanding old traditions. Karen stood across from Andrew in a simple white dress, holding his warm hands. Outside, birch trees rustled, the air scented with flowers and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — began the celebrant. — I do, — Karen cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring on her finger—thin gold, engraved inside: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed stalker. Just a man who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…
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The Stillness of New Year’s Eve
New Years Quietude November hung over me like a damp blanketgrey, wet, hopelessly dismal, just as ever. The days dragged...
You Simply Don’t Understand Your Own Happiness — Half a million? — Karen stared at the phone notification, rereading it three times before the numbers made sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? David was on the sofa, fixated on his smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing really, just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her pipes are leaking, floors warped, wallpaper peeling… — Hold on. — Karen sank onto the edge of the armchair, legs refusing to hold her. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave all of it to your mother. Without saying a word to me? David finally looked up. His face showed only genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something entirely obvious. — Karen, it’s my mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else is going to help her? — And you couldn’t discuss it with me? — Karen yelled, unable to stop herself. — Ask my opinion? At least warn me? — You would’ve argued, — David shrugged. — And Mum needed it urgently. Four years. Four years she’d put up with the woman who called every evening to check what David had for dinner. Who’d arrive unannounced and critique their cleaning, who’d orchestrate family dinners so Karen ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, — David kept his calm tone. — We’ll be fine. Pay it off fast, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears streamed down. Karen wiped them with the back of her hand, smearing mascara. — Family? Am I family? Or just an add-on? Remember when your mum decided it was time for a new car and you sold ours without asking me? Or when she cleared my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep surrounded by strangers’ junk”? Or how on my birthday, you left with her to buy her a fridge? — It’s nothing, — David waved her off. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at this man—tall, gentle features, dimples she once thought cute. Now she saw only a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the cord. — We’ll get through this, — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen rose without a word and went to the bedroom. Two large duffel bags sat in the closet—the same ones she’d moved in with. She dragged them out, tossed them on the bed, and began opening cupboards. David appeared at the door twenty minutes later, just as one bag was stuffed full. — What are you doing? Karen, this is ridiculous. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer, quietly folding jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down the jewellery box—gifts from her parents and friends, she wouldn’t take anything from him. — Where will you go? To your mum? She’s up in Manchester! Zipping the second bag. Checking her purse—passport, bank card, the keys to her mum’s flat she’d always kept “just in case.” — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She looked him in the eye, sharp and long. Then picked up her bags and walked out. …Next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, clutching her completed divorce papers. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds low over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen jumped awake on the sofa at her friend Leah’s, not immediately sure where she was. — We need to talk, — David’s rapid breathing, scattered words. — I get it now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You are my whole life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one long, tearful, full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you, forever.” A week later, David began appearing outside her office. Karen would leave for lunch and there he’d be, hovering by the coffee kiosk. She’d head to the Tube—there he was, across the street. — Just passing by, — he insisted when Karen demanded an explanation. — I wanted to see you. One evening, there was a knock at Leah’s door. Karen opened it, not checking the peephole—she was expecting the pizza delivery. David stood on the doorstep, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — Just one chance, — he whispered. — I ask for nothing more. Karen quietly closed the door. He stayed outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it—the way you learn to live with chronic pain. Don’t read the texts, don’t answer unknown calls, don’t look back in the street. Switched to remote work at a new firm, moved to a suburb where David would never “happen” to be. The divorce was finalised three months later. Karen left court with the official papers clutched tight and cried on the steps—not for grief, but relief. The first months of freedom were frighteningly empty. Karen had gotten used to checking every decision with someone, even if they’d always do as they wished. Now she could buy any yoghurt in the shop, without wondering if Mrs Davies would approve. She could watch any film, and wouldn’t hear “normal women don’t watch that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English courses—her long-time dream, which David had dismissed as “foolish expense.” Began attending early morning yoga before sunrise, when the city was just waking up. Took a solo trip to Brighton for the weekend, wandering the streets and eating doughnuts. Six months later, the calls stopped. The texts too. Karen waited for the catch another month, then another, and finally understood she could relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency—bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was moving on. …She met Andrew at a work event her colleague Maddy insisted she attend. — This is our lead developer, — Maddy introduced a tall guy in thin-rimmed glasses. — Andrew, this is Karen from marketing. He shook her hand—firmly, but gently. Smiled—just a plain, genuine smile. — Escaping from the karaoke too, I see? — he nodded toward the stage, where the Finance Director was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Saving my nerves, — Karen nodded. They talked most of the night—about books, travel, the oddities of life. Andrew listened more than he spoke. Asked questions, actually waited for answers, never interrupted. Never tried to lecture or explain how she should live. When he found out she was divorced, he just nodded and changed the subject. …Half a year later, they moved in together, picking a flat in the city centre. Small, light-filled, high ceilings, overlooking a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this flat? — Karen asked, as they viewed it before signing. — Maybe we should see some more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes. Very much. — Then let’s take it. Small things—the right to have an opinion, and be heard—meant more than any declarations of love. He proposed on the roof of their building, as the sun sank below the skyline, painting the sky pink and gold. He pulled out a tiny box, opened it—inside shimmered a diamond ring. — I’m not much for speeches, — Andrew admitted. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you don’t mind my snoring and my addiction to terrible coffee. Karen laughed through tears and nodded. …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was late at work—a looming deadline, an urgent bug. Karen was making pasta, humming along to the radio, when a sharp, insistent knock came at the door. She glanced through the peephole—and jumped back. It was David. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence—and now he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She grabbed her phone, dialled Andrew. The line was busy. — We love each other! — David shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s wrong! The door shuddered—he was throwing his weight against it. Karen pressed her back tight against the door, feet braced. — Get away, — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice climbed to a shrill pitch. — You were mine and you’ll always be mine! I waited two years for you to come to your senses! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — Nothing’s over! — he shoved again, and she barely held the door. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! Through the peephole, his face was twisted, possessed. Nothing like the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — David! One click and the police will be here. Leave. Now. David froze. A few seconds passed. Then he spun around and strode to the stairs. Downstairs, the front door banged. Karen slid to the floor against the wall, dizzy. After half an hour, she managed to stand and call Andrew. The police took her statement the next day. The officer, an older bloke with a mustache, took notes, nodded. — We’ll deal with it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to David, Karen never found out. But after that, her ex never appeared again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …She and Andrew held their wedding in early June—a small country restaurant, twenty guests, just close friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives demanding old traditions. Karen stood across from Andrew in a simple white dress, holding his warm hands. Outside, birch trees rustled, the air scented with flowers and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — began the celebrant. — I do, — Karen cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring on her finger—thin gold, engraved inside: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed stalker. Just a man who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…
You just dont understand your own happiness Fifty thousand pounds? Emma scanned the notification flashing on her phone three times...
My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife Over for the Sake of the Children—So I Checked Into a Hotel to Celebrate on My Own
My husband invited his ex-wife over for the boys, so I spent the holiday in a hotel Where are you...
Never Truly Forgotten Every day, Prohor commutes from his job in London: a ride on the Tube, then the bus, before finally arriving home. The journey lasts over an hour each way. His car spends more time parked than on the road, thanks to London’s notorious rush hour traffic—he finds it easier and faster by public transport. Two years ago, his family life changed drastically; he and his wife quietly divorced. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mum. There were no dramas—Prohor was never one for arguments. He’d noticed his wife had changed over the years, grown restless, and often left late, claiming she was meeting friends. When he asked, —Why are you always out so late? Most wives are at home by this hour. —None of your business. Those ‘normal’ wives—just hens. I’m different: clever, social, and need more than just home. Besides, I’m not a farm girl like you. —So why did you marry the farm boy? —Picked the lesser of two evils, she’d retort before shutting down the conversation. Soon after, she filed for divorce and moved Prohor out of the flat; he’s since got used to renting and isn’t ready for marriage again, though he keeps looking. On the Tube, like most, he doesn’t waste his travel time—scrolls through social media, reads news, jokes, and watches clips. Scrolling absentmindedly, one image jolts him—it’s an ad: Folk Herbalist Mary, Natural Remedies He recognises the face immediately—his first love from school: unrequited, unforgettable. He remembers her well, that strange but beautiful girl from his class. Barely making his stop, he rushes home on foot, skipping the bus just to clear his head. Inside, he forgets his dinner and sits in the corridor, staring at his phone, jotting down the number in the ad before his device demands a charge. While his phone powers up, memories flood back: Mary was always different from their first day in Year 1. Quiet, modest, with her school dress a little below the knee—unlike the other girls. Their small village outside Oxford was a place where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew much about Mary. She lived with her grandparents in a unique house by the woods—like something out of a fairytale. He fell for her—childishly, yet to him, seriously. She had a handmade rucksack with beautiful embroidery, and rather than the usual “hiya”, she’d always greet people with: “Good health to you.” She was like a character from an old English legend—never rowdy, always polite. One day Mary missed school, and the kids went to check on her. Outside the village, they saw her home—and a crowd: her grandmother’s funeral. Mary in her headscarf, wiping her tears, her grandfather silent but present. After the burial, the children were even invited in for the wake. That memory stuck—his first funeral. Mary returned to school soon after. Time passed, the girls matured, took to makeup and fashion battles. Only Mary remained as dignified and natural as ever, her cheeks rosy without a hint of blush. The boys started courting; Prohor tried his luck with Mary. She didn’t respond at first, but at the end of Year 9, he managed: —Can I walk you home after school? She replied, quietly, privately, —I’m promised, Prohor. It’s tradition in our family. He was confused—what tradition? Later he learned her grandparents were Old Believers, her parents having died young, leaving her their legacy. Mary excelled at school, wore no jewellery, kept to herself despite the others’ gossip. She blossomed every year, by Year 10 there was no denying her beauty. After graduation, classmates scattered. Prohor moved to London for university. He heard Mary married her betrothed and moved to a remote village, living a simple rural life—herding cows, working the land, raising a son. None of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does now,” Prohor muses, “Herbalist… Looks even lovelier than before.” Sleep eludes him, morning comes and the routine repeats—work, but the past and beautiful Mary won’t let go. First love never fades, always stirs the heart. After several days in a daze, he finally messages her: —Hello, Mary! —Good health, she replies, unchanged as ever. “What concerns you?” —Mary, it’s Prohor, your old classmate. Remember we shared a desk? Saw you online—had to write. —Of course, Prohor, the brightest lad in our class. —This is your number, can I ring you? he asks. —Of course, she replies. After work, he calls; stories and memories exchanged. Where do you live? What’s life like? —I’m still in the old family home by the woods, she tells him. Came back after my husband died—a bear attack in the forest… Grandfather’s gone too. —Sorry, I had no idea… —It’s alright, Prohor, it was long ago. Life goes on. You’re just calling for a chat, or do you need some herbs? I sometimes advise. —Just wanted to say hello. No herbal remedies needed, just saw you and all the memories came flooding back. Miss the old village—my mother’s gone now. They reminisce and say goodbye. But a week later, restless, Prohor calls again: —Hi, Mary. —Good health, Prohor. Missing someone or fallen ill? —Just missing you, Mary—please don’t be cross, but could I visit you? —Come if you like, she says, unexpectedly. Whenever you get the chance. —My holiday’s next week, he beams. —Good, you know the address. He spends the week preparing, choosing gifts for Mary—wondering what she’s like now. At last, he drives from London to his old village—six hours, not a hardship, he loves long drives. Arriving, he’s shocked at the changes. New homes, shops, even the local factory thriving, the high street buzzing. —Wow, thought our village, like so many others, must’ve faded away. But it’s thriving, he says aloud. —It’s a proper town now, replies a passing pensioner with pride. Been granted borough status for ages. You haven’t been back for years, have you? —Years and years, says Prohor. —Our mayor’s a good man—really cares about the place, so it’s grown and blossomed. Mary waits for Prohor at the old house when he calls to say he’s arrived. As his car turns in, Mary’s heart races. No one ever knew how she’d loved Prohor since school—a secret she’d have carried forever had he not reappeared. Their reunion is joyful. Sitting for hours in the gazebo, the old house your typical English cottage—aged, yet welcoming. —Mary, I’ve come on business, he says, with a serious look. —I’m listening, she answers a bit nervously. —I’ve loved you all these years, surely you can’t still turn me away? Mary leaps up, throws her arms around him. —Prohor, I’ve always loved you, too—since I was a girl. Prohor spends his holiday with Mary, and as he leaves, he promises, —I’ll sort things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. I’m not going anywhere else—I was born here, and here I’ll make myself useful.
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