З життя
Поїхав за кордон на заробітки і зустрів землячку з тією ж метою.
Відправився до Італії, щоб заробити грошей. Там я зустрів жінку з моєї країни, яка теж поїхала туди працювати. Привів Наталку додому, і через три місяці ми одружилися. Невдовзі народився наш син. Я поїхав знову, спочатку на місяць, проте моя поїздка затягнулася. Коли повернувся додому, купив для сина багато іграшок, але, увійшовши до хати, не знайшов дружини, а сином займалася няня. Коли я подарував синові нову машинку, він сказав, що таку ж отримав від дядька Романа. Моя дружина зробила свій вибір, але доля все розставила по своїх місцях.
Авторка Кінга Кароліна
Моя мама покинула мене, коли мені не було ще й двох років, залишивши з татом. Батько ніколи не одружився знову і приділяв мені всю свою увагу. Його сестра, тітка Ольга, допомагала у моєму вихованні. У неї були свої діти, мої ровесники, з якими ми проводили кожні канікули. Коли я вступив до університету, мій батько помер. Я не знав, де моя мама, і не мав особливого бажання з’ясовувати це. Я знав, що її просто немає поруч. До неї я не відчував жодних почуттів, навіть не мав її фотографії.
Після закінчення навчання, деякий час я працював у країні, але потім вирішив поїхати до Франції. Мені подобалася робота за кордоном, проте Франція не була єдиним місцем, де я працював. Відрядження організовували в різні куточки світу. У тридцять років я вже об’їздив половину світу. Якось, перебуваючи в Італії, я зустрів одну дівчину. Виявилося, що вона теж була з України і приїхала до Італії в пошуках роботи. Її звали Наталка.
Це була любов з першого погляду, тому ми не зволікали і через три місяці вирішили одружитися. Повернулися в Україну, купили квартиру у Львові, а через рік у нас народився син – Андрій. Я хотів мати більше дітей, але Наталка була проти, вказуючи, що ще молода і хоче насолодитися життям. Це був перший тривожний сигнал, який я проігнорував.
Я працював у режимі постійних відряджень. Все менше часу проводив із родиною. Наталка та Андрій були цілком забезпечені, оскільки я добре заробляв. Звичайно, ми проводили разом відпустки, і коли була можливість, я забирав їх за кордон. Я дуже сумував за сином і дружиною. Коли був удома, намагався проводити з ними якомога більше часу. Але одного разу я почав помічати, що щось не так. Здавалося, що Наталка стала чужою.
Одного разу мене відправили в чергове відрядження. Спочатку це мав бути місячний від’їзд, але через причини, що від мене не залежали, він затягнувся майже на чотири місяці. Я намагався часто телефонувати до дружини, але наше спілкування ставало дедалі слабшим.
Все колись закінчується. Так і моя поїздка підійшла до кінця. Я повернувся додому, але там не було дружини, а Андрійком займалася няня, яку ми періодично запрошували на допомогу. Коли вона побачила мене, трохи збентежено відповіла, що Наталка пішла за покупками і не оголошувала про це. Я подякував їй за опіку, звільнивши на той день від подальших обов’язків. Вирішив зайнятися сином, за яким дуже скучив, і почав дoрувати йому подарунки, які привіз з поїздки. Він був дуже щасливий і задоволений подарунками. Йому вже виповнилося 5 років, тому можна було вільно з ним розмовляти. Раптом, взявши одну з машинок, він сказав, що вже має таку, бо отримав її від дядька Романа. Я був дуже здивований, адже ні в моїй, ні в родині дружини, не було ніякого дядька Романа.
– Він подарував мені ще багато машинок, – радісно сказав Андрій.
Здавалося, що я повинен швидко знайти дружину і попросити пояснити все. Я прийняв холодний душ, щоб трохи прийти до тями. В якийсь момент мені стало важко доторкнутися до будь-якої речі в нашій квартирі.
Наталка увійшла до квартири з усмішкою.
– Я рада, що ти повернувся! – намагалася підійти до мене, але я відштовхнувся.
– Не зовсім. Нам потрібно поговорити. Сідай, будь ласка, – відчував, як холод залишає мене, і мені здавалося, що це не відбувається насправді.
– Чи давно ти бачишся з дядьком Романом? – моє обличчя змінилося на маску. Я певен, що Наталка ніколи не бачила мене таким. Вона опустила голову, відвертаючи погляд.
– Майже рік, – сказала вона дуже тихо. – Я хотіла це закінчити, але це сильніше за мене. Тебе майже ніколи немає вдома.
– Ти доросла і сама зробила вибір. Я хочу розлучення. Буду навідувати Андрійка. Пам’ятай, що це моя квартира. Пошукай собі щось інше.
Я тихо відчинив двері й вийшов. Без емоцій, з великим холодом всередині. Спочатку мене покинула мати, тепер кохана дружина. Я струсив головою, відганяючи нав’язливі думки. Час покаже, що буде далі.
Суд ухвалив розлучення дуже швидко. Я не маю уявлення, що Наталка сказала судді, але мене сприймали як погану людину, щоб не сказати гірше. Мені не дозволили навіть відвідувати Андрійка без згоди Наталки. Якийсь час я жив у готелі, поки Наталка не знайшла собі інше житло. Вона й далі не дозволяла мені бачитись із сином, тож я стежив за ним крадькома. Дядька Романа теж спостерігав. Він був молодий, йому було 23 роки. Я не мав уявлення, як він утримуватиме сім’ю.
Минув місяць, і Наталка зателефонувала мені. Сказала, що не може дозволити собі орендувати квартиру, і наш син немає де жити. Я мовчав. Я не мав їй що сказати, тим більше, що саме про це її попереджав.
– У тебе є квартира. Продай і допоможи своїй дитині! – сказала Наталка.
– І попутно тобі і твоєму співмешканцю. Вибач, але ти знала, що робиш. А квартиру і всі інші речі я купив сам, за свої гроші.
– Ти що, не поважаєш власного сина?
Я повісив слухавку. Минуло ще два тижні. Одного дня я повертався з роботи, коли побачив Наталку біля входу, вона тримала Андрія за руку.
– Чи міг би ти зайнятися сином? Ми з Романом переїжджаємо. Коли облаштуємося, повернуся за Андрійком, – сказала вона, відвертаючи погляд.
– Тобто дитина є тягарем для співмешканця? – мовчала вона.
Завдяки Андрійку моє життя почало набувати сенсу. Мій керівник дозволив мені працювати дистанційно, але найважливішим було те, що я мав поруч сина, який з кожним днем ставав усе дорослішим. Одного дня він запитав, де його мама, потім зупинився, наче все зрозумів. Наталка не намагалася зі мною зв’язатися, не з’являлася. Це було нелегко, я хотів знову одружитися, щоб мій син мав матір. Швидко зрозумів, що жодній жінці не потрібна чужа дитина, і таким чином ми досі жили вдвох.
Минуло п’ятнадцять років. Багато чого змінилося. Андрій навчався в США, а я працював і знову почав їздити у відрядження по всьому світу.
Одного разу, після чергової службової поїздки, я зайшов у супермаркет по продукти і раптом побачив Наталку на касі. Здавалося, що вона відчула мій погляд і озирнулася. Вона чекала на питання, але я мовчав. Нарешті вона заговорила.
– Як поживає Андрій? Сподіваюся, в нього все гаразд? – її погляд став трохи винуватим.
– Усе гаразд, навчається за кордоном, – я намагався відповісти на питання, не ставлячи свого.
Наталка хотіла щось іще запитати, але до нас підбігла маленька дівчинка.
– Мамо, хто це? – Поглянула на мене й повернулася до Наталки.
– Це старий знайомий. Ми колись разом працювали, – Наталка повернулася і пішла з дочкою до виходу.
Минуло декілька років. Я купив великий будинок у селі, Андрій закінчив навчання і повернувся додому не сам, а з майбутньою дружиною. Ми вечеряли на літній терасі, коли пролунав дзвінок. Син підвівся й побіг відчиняти ворота.
– Тату, тут прийшла якась жінка до тебе.
Я вийшов і побачив Наталку. Вона стояла біля воріт, дивлячись униз.
– Ледве знайшла твій адресу, прийшла побачитися із сином, ти не проти?
Андрій здивовано глянув на мене.
– Так, сину, це твоя мати, – намагався сказати спокійно.
– У мене немає матері, – син повернувся й тихо сів за стіл.
– Ти все чула. Сподіваюся, більше нам не заважатимеш.
Я повернувся до столу спокійно, але у серці досі була рана, залишена зрадою, яку я ніколи не зможу пробачити.
Dandelion Jam A gentle and snowy winter has passed, and with spring’s arrival in our small English town, Taissa finds herself yearning for green leaves and colourful blooms. From her third-floor window, she gazes out at the awakening city where lorries rumble, the market buzzes, and people shed their winter wear for brighter coats. Birds sing before alarms; spring brings new energy, and soon, summer will be even better. Taissa, long settled in her five-storey block, now lives with her granddaughter, Vera, a lively Year Four pupil whose parents—both doctors—left for a work contract in Africa, entrusting their daughter to her grandmother. “Gran, we’re giving you Vera to look after, just for a while,” her daughter had said. “She’ll be happier with you than traipsing across the world.” Taissa, now retired, was delighted for the companionship. Each day is filled with routine: shopping, chatting with her neighbours on the chilly bench outside—the ever-watchful Mrs Simmons from downstairs, always mysterious about her age, and the cheerful, well-read Mrs Valentine. Together, they swap news, share stories, and complain about health, their bench a hub of local gossip. Life continues: Taissa spoils Vera with treats for her good grades, welcomes her home from school, listens to her tales, and beams with pride at Vera’s dedication to dance lessons. One bright afternoon, as Taissa awaits Vera’s return, she’s joined by Mr Edward, a widower from next door, who talks about the daffodils and coltsfoot carpeting the lawns like tiny suns. Spring’s beauty is in full bloom, and with Vera’s lively mischief, their days are warm and busy. Edward and Taissa begin to meet regularly—reading the papers, walking in the park, discussing recipes, and sharing snippets of their lives. Edward’s own story is bittersweet: he raised his daughter, Anne, alone after losing his wife, and despite his efforts, Anne’s grown distant, raising a son on her own in another city. Unexpectedly, Anne arrives with austere intentions: she insists her father sell his beloved flat and move in with her for “company’s sake”. Edward resists, unwilling to leave his home and his quiet, independent life. Anne, noting his friendship with Taissa, confronts Taissa with suspicion, accusing her of ulterior motives regarding Edward’s property. The harsh words sting, but Anne soon leaves in anger, severing ties with her father. Taissa, embarrassed by the scene, grows distant from Edward—until one day, he waits for her outside, dandelions in hand, apologising for his daughter’s behaviour. He gifts her a wreath of dandelions and offers a jar of his homemade dandelion jam, extolling its health benefits and inviting her to try it in a salad. Together, they share tea with dandelion jam and laughter, and in the quiet evening, stroll to the park with a fresh issue of their favourite magazine. Sitting beneath their old lime tree, their conversation flows, and all worries melt away. For Taissa and Edward, the springtime brings sweet new beginnings—and the simple joys of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting my stories. Wishing you happiness in life!
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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…
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