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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 putting that vase? I told you to put it away in the cupboard, not parade it out hereit’s all wrong for the dinnerware, I said, struggling to sound calm while my insides were boiling like a pot on the stove. I fussed with my apron and glared at Andrew, who looked lost, clutching the cut glass salad bowl and shifting it from spot to spot on the table.
Does it matter, Jane? Andrew tried a sheepish smile, and it irritated me more than ever tonight. Laura always liked that vase. She used to say the potato salad looked festive in it. I just want it to feel comfortable for everyone if were all coming together for the twins.
I froze with the knife poised above half a cucumber. I took a slow breath and counted to three, refusing to snap.
Andrew, I need to clarify something. Were hosting guests in my house. I, your legitimate wife, have spent two days preparing the foodmarinating the beef, baking the sponge, scrubbing the floors. And you think we should put this gaudy vase on the table because your ex-wife liked it? Is that really your logic?
Andrew slumped onto the chair, looking as though he’d inherited all the world’s problems.
Jane, dont start, please. We agreed. Its the twins twentiethits a big deal! They wanted both parents here. What was I supposed to do? Tell Laura not to come? Shes their mother. Its just for one eveningcake, celebrations, and thats it. I just want peace, no drama. Youre the sensible one here.
Sensible woman. That phrase drove me up the wall. It meant accommodating womanthe type who bites her tongue and suffers, pretending everythings fine while everyone walks all over her.
Weve been together five years. I accepted Andrew, his past, the child support, the endless drives to visit the twins, Tom and Peter, when they were moody teenagers. I never blocked their relationship; the boys came over frequently, and we got on well enough. But Laura Laura was a chapter all her ownloud, domineering, convinced Andrew was still hers, merely lent to another woman for convenience.
I dont mind the boys, Andrew. I even made my peace with you inviting Laurathough most people book a table at a restaurant for events like this, not drag ex-wives into their current wife’s house. Why do I have to set the table to suit her tastes? Am I meant to change into her favourite dress, or do my hair the way she likes, too?
Thats a bit much, he brushed aside, standing. Fine, Ill move the vase. Just dont sulk. The boys will be here in an hour, Laura’s with themher cars in the garage so theyre giving her a lift. Lets enjoy ourselves, alright? For the celebration.
He pecked me on the cheekquick, perfunctoryand retreated to shave. I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by bowls, pans, shopping bags. The roast was browning in the oven, mushrooms simmering gently on the hob. It all smelled divinebut my appetite had vanished. I felt like I was preparing a wake for my self-respect.
An hour later, the hallway erupted with noiselaughter, heavy steps, voices echoing.
Wheres Dad, then? Lauras voice was impossible to mistakehigh, brash, filling the space. Andy! Were here!
Off came the apron; I fixed my hair in the hall mirror and went to greet them.
The hallway was cramped. Tom and Petertall as lamp posts nowstruggled out of their coats. Laura stood between them like a queen with her court, dressed in a vivid red outfit that clung in all the wrong places, and with enough hairspray to glue down the doors.
Oh, Jane, hello, she tossed out carelessly, not even looking at me, busy scanning for Andrew. Weve brought presents! Andy, come help Mum with her bagstheres pickled onions in there!
Andrew appeared, beaming and bustling.
Hey lads, happy birthday! He hugged them, thumped their backs. Hi Laura. Whats with the pickles? The tables packed.
Oh, I know your cooking, Laura rolled her eyes dramatically, finally deigning to glance at me. Jane probably did everything fat-free and bland again? Boys need proper food. I brought my gherkins, mushrooms, proper jellied meat. Not that chicken jelly you made last time.
My cheeks burned. Last time, six months ago, Laura criticised everything when she stopped by to collect the boys.
Hello Laura, I managed, crisp but polite. Come through. Theres plenty of food. The jellied beef is crystal clear today.
Well, well see, she sniffed and swept into the lounge as if she owned it. Oh, you never swapped out that sofa? Andy, Ive been telling you for a year, that colours all wrong. Dull curtains too its bleak here. Remember how bright our old flat was, with the lace?
Andrew scurried after her, arms full.
Laura, we like it. Its cosy.
Cosys when your spirit sings, this feels like a crypt, she declared, sinking into the wrong sofa. Boys, go wash your hands! Jane, dont just stand theretables not going to lay itself.
My fists clenched, nails biting my palms. Steady, I told myself. Just for Andrew. Just dont ruin the boys night.
I retreated to the kitchen, refusing Andrews whispered offers to help.
The meal started badly. Laura seated herself on Andrews right, shifting her chair so close their arms nearly overlapped. The twins took the seats opposite. I was placed at the edge, practically at the doormore waitress than wife.
To my boys! Andrew toasted, raising his glass. Twenty yearsgone in a blink!
Oh, Andy, Laura jumped in, cutting him off. Remember driving me to the hospital? Icy roads, old Ford wouldnt start, you running round in your shirt, panicked! Then shouting under the window, Whos arrived?! Such a laugh!
She laughed boisterously, hand planted on Andrews shoulder. He smiled, lost in memory.
Those were days young and daft.
And when Pete fell in the puddle wearing his new suit? Heading to Mums birthday. You scooped him up, wailing, caked in mud. Bathed him in the fountain!
Story led to storyLaura monopolising conversation, dragging everyone back to when *they* were a family. Remember our Cornwall holiday? Remember us wallpapering the lounge? Remember your broken leg, and me feeding you soup?
I picked distractedly at my salad, feeling like a misplaced propa spare part. The twins scrolled on their phones, barely involved. Andrew, a little drunk and nostalgic, joined in, forgetting I even existed.
Pass the bread, Jane, Laura ordered, still laughing about Andrew teaching her to drive. Him shrieking Brake! and me stamping the acceleratorwe nearly ran through the hedge! Andy, you went grey right then!
She was always a speed demon, Andrew chuckled.
You were always That sentence hit like a dart. I looked at him. He hadnt noticed. He was gazing at Laura with puppyish fondnessthe woman who reminded him of his youth when life was simpler.
The salads over-salted, Laura announced suddenly, chewing on spud salad. Jane, are you in love or something? ‘In love’ is when you over-salt. But in love with your husband? Ha-ha! Andy, here, try my jellied meatits got real flavour this time.
She reached across to dump her jelly right onto Andrews dish, covering my mushroom bake.
Laura, take your hand off my husbands plateand take your cold meat with you, I said, quiet but firm. Theres plenty of food here already.
The room went still. The twins looked up. Andrew blinked, baffled.
Jane, what the its just one taste, he muttered.
Just one taste, is it? I stood slowlymy chair scraped the floor like a warning. So you enjoy Lauras food? Like reminiscing about your old life? Enjoy another woman ruling your house, criticising the sofa, the food, your wife?
Oh, dont be so sensitive, Laura snorted. Just trying to help.
I dont need your advice, I growled, looking her in the eyes. And I dont need your company. Ive tolerated this for Andrew, for the boys. But youre all fine without me. Crack onmemories, jokes, your old Ford, your holidays. Im just your help, expected to serve and disappear.
Jane, stopAndrew reached for my hand. I snatched it away.
You two can keep reminiscingdont let me interrupt.
I strode from the room. Behind me, I heard Laura mockWhat a drama queen. I told you, Andy, shes not right for you. Too high an opinion of herself.
In the bedroom, my hands trembling but mind clear, I packed a small overnight bag. Makeup, clean pyjamas, my tablet, jeans and a jumperoff came the festive dress that made me feel like a clown at someone elses celebration.
Ordered a cab via my mobileseven minutes out.
I went to the hall, threw on my coat. Laughter drifted from the loungeLaura with a story, Andrew snorting. None of them followed. Theyd assumed Id sulk, then come back.
I popped my head in the doorway.
Im leaving, I said clearly.
They stopped. Andrew stood with a glass in hand.
Where? To the shop? We forgot bread?
No, Andrew. Im off to a hotel. Tonight is my holiday toothe day Im free of rudeness and disrespect. Have fun with your old guard, celebrate away. Fridge is full, cakes on the balcony. Dishwashers ready; tablets under the sink. I hope Lauras as good at cleaning as she is at ordering people about.
Have you lost your mind? Andrew sprang up, spilling spiritsvodka blotched the tablecloth. What hotel? Its night! The guests are here!
Your guests, Andrew. Not mine. Enjoy. Happy birthday, boys.
I shut the door behind me, smoothing out Andrews protests and Lauras indignation.
In the cab, I just watched city lights flicker by. Then I called the citys finest spa hotel.
Evening, do you have a deluxe or junior suite open? Perfect. Ill be around in twenty. And would you please arrange a bottle of champagne and a fruit platter in my room? Book me a massage for tomorrow morning, the earliest slot.
Hotelso clean, perfumed, silent. No fried onions, no cutlery clatter, no strangers voices. My room was cool, the white linen crisp as snow.
A long shower washed away every sticky memory of the evening. Wrapped myself in a soft robe, poured cold fizz, and stood on the balcony, the city twinkling indifferently below.
My phone thrummed even in the cab. Now, silent mode. Fifteen missed from Andrew, three messages.
What have you done?
Come back this minute, Im embarrassed!
Jane, this is ridiculousLauras in shock.
I gave a dry laugh and turned my phone off. Took a sip. For the first time in ages, I felt completely free. No worrying over roast beef, noisy telly, or Andrews moods. It was just meand it was bliss.
The sun woke me. I stretched, ordered breakfast to the roomeggs Benedict, croissants, coffee. Had a massage, a swim. I extended the suite for a second dayI didnt want to go home.
I switched my phone on late the next evening. Loads more messages, the tone changed.
Jane, where are you? Im worried.
The boys left straight after you. Said we made fools of ourselves.
Laura went home last night. We argued.
Please, answer me.
I phoned Andrew.
Jane! Thank God, where are you? Are you alright? His voice cracked.
Im at the hotel, Andrew. Having some peace.
Im so sorryI was an idiot. I ruined it all.
Go on, I said, cool. How did your family reunion go?
It was dire. As soon as you left, Pete said, What a shambles! Mum’s a bully, Dads a doormat. Janes decentyou forced her out. And he and Tom left. Didnt touch the cake.
A prickle of satisfaction. The twins had more sense than their parents.
Then what?
Laura started shoutingcalled me a rotten father, blamed you for turning the boys against her. Demanded I tidy the table. I asked her to help if she was so keen. She screamed, broke a plateyour mums old set.
Laura smashed my mums plate? I asked, voice icy.
Yes flailing around. I lost it, Jane. Told her to get a cab and go. We had a massive rowshe dredged up my old salary, my mum, that I ruined her life. I chucked her out.
Andrew went quiet, breathing ragged.
Im here alone now. Dirty dishes everywhere. I couldn’t face tidying. Please, come home? I realise how foolish Ive been. Never againno more exes under our roof. I promise.
Have you cleaned up? I asked.
No. Everythings as you left it.
Good. Youve got till lunchtime tomorrow. The place had better shineno sign, no smell of Laura. Not a single jar of her pickles or a whiff of her perfume. Chuck it all out. If I come home and find so much as a crumb, Ill pack for good. Clear?
Clear, Jane. Ill scrub everything. Please come home. I love you. I just wanted to keep everyone happy
Keeping everyone happy works when you use your head, not try to please everyoneespecially at my expense, I replied sharply. Ill be home after lunch. And Andrewif you ever let someone criticise me in my own house again, I wont go to a hotel. Ill go for good.
I hung up. Out the hotel window, the citys evening glow began. I finished my cooling coffee. I pitied Andrewweak, muddled in the idea of being a good father. But I pitied myself more, for letting this happen for years.
I wont tolerate it anymore. That short escape unlocked something in my mindI finally realised I have every right to be in charge. Not accommodating, not sensible. Just in charge. Of my life.
When I walked through our door the next day, the place smelled of lemon cleaner. The windows were open wide, airing out yesterdays mess. Andrew, sleepless and red-eyed, stood before me like a whipped spaniel.
I tidied everythingeven washed the curtains, I thought they smelled of hairspray.
The kitchen gleamed. No jars, no stray vase.
And the vase? I asked.
Binned, he replied. And the jellied meat. Never want to see it again.
I appraised him, took off my coat.
Fine, put the kettle on. Lets finish my cake. Unless your fit of cleaning swept that away too.
Relief flooded his face as he hugged me, face buried in my shoulder.
I kept the cake. Had a slice myself, after midnight. Jane, youre the best. Im sorry.
Forgiven. But this was the last time, Andrew. The last.
Tea and cake at the kitchen table, quiet. I looked at him and knewsometimes, to save a family, you have to step away. Even if only for a couple days. Sometimes the empty seat speaks louder than hundreds of words.
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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Yesterday — Or How a Dinner Party for the “Gourmet Brother-in-Law” Became a Lesson in Family, Boundaries, and the True Cost of Hospitality in a Classic English Home
June 7th How quickly a gathering can turn into a test. I dont know why I still get so flustered...
Dandelion Jam After a mild, snowy English winter, everyone in the quaint town is longing for the fresh green leaves and colourful blooms of spring. Taissa, living in her cosy flat with her granddaughter Vera—whose parents, both doctors, have gone to work in Africa—finds herself cherishing the new season. The rhythms of the town change: market stalls buzz, neighbours gather on garden benches, and birdsong replaces alarm clocks. Taissa’s daily life intertwines with her lively neighbours—cheerful, well-read Valerie and grumpy Mrs Simmons—whose gossip and camaraderie brighten the days. Meanwhile, Vera happily attends school and dance class, proud to be watched over by her loving grandma. When Taissa strikes up a warm friendship with her thoughtful neighbour George Ellis, a widower with a distant daughter, they find comfort in shared stories and park strolls. Yet, tension brews when George’s daughter Vera visits and demands he sell his flat to move in with her family, suspecting Taissa’s intentions. An awkward confrontation ensues, but Taissa remains gracious. Life brings Taissa and George back together; he approaches her with a crown of dandelions and a jar of homemade dandelion jam, sharing its English folklore and health benefits. Their friendship flourishes over tea, recipes, and evenings under the old linden tree. Through spring’s renewal, two hearts discover sunshine in companionship and the sweet taste of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading and supporting my stories—wishing you all life’s brightest joys!
Dandelion Jam The snowy winter had finally packed its bags and left, not that the cold was anything to write...
Didn’t Want To, But Did: The Nerve-Wracking Choices of Vasilisa Living Alone in Her Grandmother’s Country Cottage, Facing Village Gossip, Deadly Debts, and a New Love with Anton the Local Policeman
Didnt want to, but did Sarah wasnt much of a smoker, you know? Still, shed convinced herself that a cigarette...
Relatives Demanded My Bedroom for the Holidays, Left Empty-Handed When I Refused to Give Up My Sanctuary
Relatives demanded my bedroom for the holidays and left with nothing So where am I supposed to stick this massive...