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Oksana and Her Mother Sat on an Old Bed, Bundled Up Against the Winter Chill as the Stove Finally Began to Warm the House.
**Diary Entry**
Emily and her mother sat on the old bed, both bundled up against the cold. Though winter had settled in, the fireplace had only just been lit, and the house was still chilly.
Dont worry, Mum. Well be alright. We wont starve. Here, let me give you your medicine.
Emily did her best to comfort her, though the woman wasnt really her mothershe was her mother-in-law, and barely that anymore.
It had all started when the three of them lived togetherher husband, James, his mother, Margaret, and Emily herself.
Shed married late, at thirty, becoming Jamess second wife. She hadnt broken up his first marriagehed already been divorced when they met.
Margaret had taken to Emily immediately, and the feeling was mutual. She was kind, warmthe sort to embrace you, listen, and understand. Emily had lost her parents young and was left alone in the world. In Margaret, shed found family.
You two are thick as thieves, James would say.
Five years of marriage passed in a flash. Then James turned harsh, quick-tempered. He shouted at Emily, at his mother. The reason? Another woman. He stayed out late, coming home drunk.
One day, he announced he was leaving her. Gave her two days to pack. Before Emily could even leave, his mistress showed up with a suitcase.
Maybe shed come deliberately, wanting to gloat. But it didnt go as planned. The woman was a leggy blonde with plump lips and ridiculous false lashes, fluttering like a cows.
Emily couldnt help but laugh.
You left me for *this*? A doll with lashes like a farm animal? Good luck with herI dont regret a thing.
At least shes fun. You and Mum are just a pair of old hens.
Fine, insult me, but why drag your mother into it?
Sweetie, is *his* mum staying with us? the woman trilled, batting those absurd lashes. She should take her. We dont need her here.
Thats right, Mum. Time for you to go. Youve overstayed your welcome.
Where am I supposed to go? I gave you all the money from selling my flat so you could build this house! Margaret clutched her chest.
Enough dramatics. Fine, staybut dont leave your room. Albinas in charge now.
Darling, lets just kick them both out.
Shes my *mother*!
Your mother? You expect me to have *that* as a mother-in-law? Ugh, *baby*
Emily had heard enough.
Mum, will you come with me? To the countryside?
Better there than with a son like this and *her*
Sit tight. Ill pack your things.
Dont forget my medicine. And my little box. And my handbag.
Emily grabbed another suitcase, shoving in clothes, documents, the box, the medicineanything theyd need.
Take it all. We dont want your rubbish, Albina sneered. Right, sugar?
James just watched, silent. He knew his mother would never forgive him. Or maybe she wouldshe was still his mother.
Half an hour later, Emily stood by the car. Margaret sat in the backseat, quietly wiping tears. She didnt even glance at her son, just sighed heavily.
Hard to acceptyou give someone everything, and suddenly, youre nothing.
How will we manage, love?
Well be fine. Ive got savings. Enough until I find work. Youve got your pension. Well get by. Bread and butter, at least.
They drove to the village where Emily had grown up. Thank God it was still daylight. The cottage was freezing, but Emily quickly lit the fire, fetched water, put the kettle on.
Youve got the knack of it. Like youve lived here forever.
Granddad taught me. Good thing we bought groceriesno need to face village gossip yet.
Gradually, the cottage warmed.
Tomorrow, Ill give the place a proper clean.
A knock at the door.
Back for a visit? Saw your car. What brings you here in winter? Trouble?
Everythings fine, Uncle George. Ill explain later. Fancy a cuppa?
I was about to invite *you*. Not alone, I see? Hed just noticed Margaret.
This is Margaret. Margaret, this is our neighbor, George.
Let me know if you need anything.
Were alright for now. Thanks.
A week passed. The cottage was clean, cozy.
You know, Emily, Im village-born too. Married a city man. He died when James was twenty-three. I sold my flathe promised Id always have a home with him. And look how that turned out.
Dont cry. I know it hurts. Im hurting too. Maybe youll have grandchildren yet.
From *her*? God forbid. Does George have family?
Lives alone. His wife drowned saving a neighbors child years ago. Never remarried. No kids. He and my granddad were close, despite the age gap.
A month later, no word from James. Then, an unknown number called Emily.
Emily?
Yes?
Your husband hes dead.
Youve got the wrong person.
No. James He was drunk. Crashed his car. The girl with him survivednot a scratch. Come identify him.
Oh God. Poor Margaret. How to tell her? Uncle Georgehed help.
Emily, love, youre white as a sheet!
Mum, sit down. James is gone.
Margaret wailed. This is my fault! I left him!
*He* threw *you* out!
Im still his mother! Oh This is my punishment.
Ill go identify him. Uncle George will stay with you.
Im coming.
So am I, George said. Well take my car. No arguments.
The funeral passed. Emily and Margaret went to Jamess housenow rightfully theirs. Hed never filed for divorce. Too busy with his new love, his parties.
George insisted on accompanying them.
You shouldnt go alone. Never know what youll find.
The house What a mess. Dirty clothes everywhere, plates on the floor. The stink of alcohol and rot.
My son didnt live like this! That *girl* did this!
What are *you* doing here? This is *my* houseget out! The blonde lurched from the bedroom, followed by a half-dressed, scruffy man.
Show me the deed! George snapped.
What deed? My husbands dead! We were practically married!
He was still married to *her*!
We celebrated in advance! Its *mine* now!
Enough nonsense. Out! And take your man with you.
The man slunk off. George made sure the blonde left empty-handed.
Well check the paperwork. Could be a will, or someone elses name on it. And change the locksshe might have keys.
The documents were in order. Locks replaced. Half the belongings went straight to the dump.
George stayed by their side.
Hate to see you go. Got used to having you around.
Well visit. Youre welcome anytime.
Youve made me feel young again. Maggie reminds me of my late wife.
Ive noticed, George. The way you look at her. And she at you. Smitten, arent you?
Oh, hush, he muttered, flushing.
A year later, George and Margaret married. Happy together. Happy with Emilylike a daughter to them.
But the family grew. Emily became a mothernot by birth, but by choice. She fostered two siblings, refusing to separate them.
Family isnt always blood. Sometimes, its the people life brings you when you need them most.
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
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