З життя
The Key to a Successful Marriage: How to Make a Perfect Match
The most important thing is to marry well. A wealthy husband means a happy life.
Emily was her parents’ only daughter. Her father kept a watchful eye on her, while her mother spoiled her and never missed an opportunity to repeat the same words:
The most important thing is to marry well. A wealthy husband means a happy life, she would lecture, and Emily would nod in agreement.
But where could she find such a man? There were decent boys at university, of course. Shed even had a fiancé from a good family.
But her father kept strict controlno late-night walks, no student gatherings, no countryside trips. Everything was monitored.
Soon enough, her enviable fiancé found himself a more interesting and carefree girl than Emily.
Then came her dissertation defense, leaving no time for romance.
After that, a job secured with her fathers help and a personal life arranged by her mothers connections.
Her mother knew what she was doing. An only daughter must marry well, and soon enough, a suitor appearedthe nephew of one of her mothers close friends.
Emily, darling, you should take a closer look at this man. Hes older than you, but thats an advantage, not a drawback. Why settle for a boy when you can have a proper gentleman? Oliver Pembroke is serious, established. He owns his own firm. You wont even need to work.
But hes been married before, Mum! He has a daughterchild support and all that.
Dont let that trouble you. His ex-wife was hopeless, and she and the girl live far away now. Its not an issue.
The meeting was arranged. Emilys father remained silent, keeping out of womens business ever since shed graduated.
Let them sort it out themselves.
Surprisingly, Emily liked Oliver Pembroke.
The ten-year age gap didnt bother her. With his looks, hed still be handsome in another decade. Distinguished, well-mannered, impeccably dressed.
She made an impression on him too, and they married.
Her mother sighed with relief, duty done, and devoted herself fully to her own lifesalons, shopping, trips abroad with her husband, now without Emily in tow.
Emily, following her mothers example, didnt lag behind.
Her husband encouraged her whims and needs, so she lived for her own pleasure.
Household duties amounted to nothing more than giving instructions to the housekeeper, who managed just fine without them.
The thunderbolt struck so unexpectedly, Emily barely had time to process it.
Olivers ex-wife had diedEmily didnt ask howand he had no choice but to take in his daughter!
Unthinkable. So much for “not an issue.” What now? Shed postponed having children indefinitely, and suddenly she was meant to become a “second mother,” as Oliver called it, to some strange girl.
But there was no choice.
Her husband didnt ask for her opinionhe simply announced it and asked her to be kind.
The girl wasnt to blame, after all.
Soon, he fetched his daughter himself, bringing her home with a shabby suitcase and a school backpack.
Mary was in Year 4, tall, quiet, almost eerily silent, Emily noted.
She never spoke unless spoken to, everything done meekly, wordlessly.
At least she looked like her fatherthere was no doubting she was his, not some other mans mistake.
Life in the grand house with her father, stepmother, and housekeeper weighed heavily on Mary.
She wasnt used to this!
After dinner, shed rush to wash dishes, ask where the broom was to sweep, attempt to iron her own clothes. It all irritated Emily.
Her father, buried in work and business, came home late, too busy for affection.
He spared none for his wife, but Mary got little more than a pat on the head and a half-hearted,
How was school?
Still, Emily felt restrictedshe couldnt come and go as she pleased, visit her favourite spots, take time for herself.
She couldnt dash off to the gym at dawn!
She needed her sleep, her time scrolling through social media.
Then Mary would return, and there was no escapingOliver asked her to oversee the girls studies.
So Emily considered suggesting they send the girl to boarding school.
She didnt dare, but she proposed after-school care instead.
You see, Im no teacher. Its hard helping with her schoolwork. Look, shes getting threes. At school, shell do better. Its for her own good.
But Oliver was furious, and Emily regretted speaking up.
And so it dragged ona joyless marriage, resentment, frustration.
Two years later, Emily had a son. The question of a nanny arose, but Mary, nearly twelve, volunteered to help.
And indeed, no better nanny could be found!
Mary managed everythinghomework, playing with Daniel, ironing clothes for them both.
Then the bedding became her responsibility too, as the ageing housekeeper, Mrs. Norris, grew tired.
Emily accepted it, grew accustomed to Mary picking up the slack, while she devoted herself to maintaining the poise expected of a society lady.
Daniel grew up adoring his older sister.
When Mary finished school, Daniel was starting Year 1. Once again, his education fell to his sister, mature beyond her years.
Shed begun university, studying English, and taught her brother in turn.
Dont you think, darling, youve left all the household and parenting duties to Mary? Oliver asked one day, noticing his wife was rarely home afternoonssometimes evenings.
Shed found a new social circle, events, cafés.
What exactly bothers you, darling? Your daughter handles everything beautifully. Mrs. Norris barely lifts a fingershe cooks, and thats it.
Thats my point. The rest is all on Mary, isnt it?
Emily stayed silent.
Yes, it was. But did the girl complain? And Daniel sometimes went out with herlast week, she took him to an exhibition, the museum, a childrens concert. Wasnt that enough?
When Mary graduated, her father hired her at his firm.
The business had long expanded beyond domestic markets, and a translator was just what they needed.
There, she met James, a sharp lad from sales.
Love blossomed right under her startled fathers nose.
He never thought his quiet, reserved daughter would dare an office romance. It upset him at first.
But Mary stood firmthey would marry. For the first time, she insisted, and he relented.
Emily was just as dismayedshe was losing her household helper, and Mrs. Norris had announced her retirement. Oliver was in no hurry to replace her.
Mary took initiative again:
Ill help, Mum, she said cheerfully. Ill come once a week, clean, iron. Ive always done it.
Once a week isnt enough. More often, Emily replied sourly.
Still, Mary moved in with James after a lavish wedding, settling into married life.
And James relaxed.
First, he talked of starting his own business.
He quit his job and buried himself in his laptop.
But nothing came of it. Starting from scratch wasnt easy.
His father-in-law, furious at his recklessness, refused to help, though he did raise Marys salary.
Unused to spending on herself, she poured all her earnings into the household, even slipping spare cash to her grown-up little brother now and then.
On the rest, she scraped by, barely keeping herself and James afloat.
James flat, it turned out, was mortgaged. He liked fine clothes, dining out, holidays abroadall of which he enthusiastically approved.
And Mary? She juggled the housework, the finances, still helping her mother. It was just how things were.
Then came the upheaval.
Olivers health faltered, and foreign partners withdrew from the business.
Everything plummeted, drastically.
The firm barely stayed afloat.
When Oliver realised his health wouldnt let him continue, he had no choice but to sell.
Mary kept her jobthe new owner agreed not to dismiss her, though a translator was hardly needed now.
Her wages, however, dropped sharply.
James, jobless, grew despondent, especially after Olivers funeral.
Emily and Daniel needed support, so Mary moved back in, leaving James to his thoughts:
Either find proper work and contribute, or were through!
But then Mary discovered she was expecting.
She might have rejoiced despite everything, had James not said something that left her speechless.
A baby? Be serious! No job, no money. Your father left you nothingyou want to raise a child in poverty?
Mary sank onto a chair, stunned.
She filed for divorce at once, waiting no longer for his conscience to wake.
Whatever love shed had for that layabout was long gone.
She lived with her stepmother and brother, who did well in school, bright and good-natured.
Financially, though, things were tight
You Drive Me Up the Wall!… I Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Dress Right, Can’t Do Anything Right! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything!… Can’t even earn proper money!… We never get any help from you around the house!… — Marina burst into tears, — …And there are no children…, — she whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “family tragedy”. She knew, she could sense, that Mum and Dad truly loved each other… But she didn’t understand why they said such cruel words that hurt everyone. Mum, sobbing, locked herself in the bedroom as Dad lit one cigarette after another. Belka, seeing her family falling apart, thought, “There must be happiness in this house… and happiness means children… we need to find some children…” Belka couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said she could, but something just wouldn’t work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the very first time, slipped out the window to visit her neighbour Pawsy — for advice. — Why would you want kids? — scoffed Pawsy. — Ours come with children, and I have to hide from them… they smear lipstick on your face or squeeze you until you can’t breathe! Belka sighed: — We just need normal children… If only we could find some… — Hmmm… That street cat Molly’s had a litter… five of them… — mused Pawsy. — Take your pick… Taking her chances, Belka leapt balcony to balcony to the street. Shivering nervously, she squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called out: — Molly, could you come out for a minute, please… From deep within came desperate squeaks. Carefully crawling through, eyes darting in fear, Belka began to cry. Under the radiator, on the hard gravel, lay five tiny, sightless kittens, nudging the air and wailing for their mum. One sniff told her: Molly hadn’t been back for at least three days. The babies were starving. Fighting tears, Belka gently carried each kitten to the entrance. Trying to calm her hungry, squeaking brood, Belka lay down beside them, anxiously watching the end of the yard, waiting for Mum and Dad. Pavel, silent as he met Marina after work, brought them home. As they reached the doorway, they froze — there was their Belka, (who had never set paw on the street alone), and five multicoloured kittens clambering to nurse from her. — What on earth? — Pavel was stunned. — A miracle…, — echoed Marina, and together they scooped up the cat and kittens and rushed inside… Watching Belka purr happily in a box with her new babies, Pavel asked: — But what do we do with them? — I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll call my friends…, — Marina whispered. Three months later, still stunned by the turn of events, Marina sat stroking her “cat pack” and murmured, over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen… this just doesn’t happen… Then, she and Pavel broke down in happy tears; he swept her into his arms, and they both laughed and chattered at once: — I’m glad I finished building the house! — Perfect for a child to get some fresh air! — And let the kittens run in the garden! — There’ll be room for everyone! — I love you! — And I love you even more! Wise Belka brushed away a tear — life, it seemed, was finally coming together…
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I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned and Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones!” — And the Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Garden Gate Without Tears Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Gripped It in Their Fist. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Only Stopped When I Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—Now That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We’d Spent New Year Together, Just as Always: Mum in Her Favourite Apron I Gave Her at School, the Smell of Fried Burgers, Family Jokes, Dad Arriving with an Enormous Tree, All of Us Decorating, Singing Old Christmas Songs, Laughing Until We Cried… On 2nd January, I Looked Out to See Mum Clearing a Perfect Pathway from the Gate to Our Door, Her Scarf Tied Up, Red-cheeked, Shovelling Snow So We Wouldn’t Have to Struggle Through the Drifts. “It’s for You, My Lazy Lot—Go Put the Kettle On,” She Called, Smiling. That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Cheerful. The Next Day She Was Gone, So Suddenly It Didn’t Seem Real. Only Her Little Footprints Remain—Marks in the Snow, and In My Heart.
I remember shouting out the window, Mum, what are you doing out there so early? Youll freeze! She turned around,...
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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The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
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