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Why Should I Cook for Everyone? Just for Me and Annie from Now On!” – Nikita Fumed. “Because in This Family, It’s Every Man for Himself. So Live with It!
“Im not cooking for everyone anymore! Just for myself and Annie.” “Why on earth not?” snapped Nicholas. “Because in this family, Ive realised its every man for himself. So live with it!”
“Mum, wheres my breakfast?” Yvonne barged into the bedroom without knocking. “Im going to be late for school!”
Nina tried to sit up, but her head spun. The thermometer read thirty-eight point seven. Her throat burned, and her chest rattled with every breath.
“Yvonne, Im ill Grab something from the fridge.”
“Theres nothing in there! Just yoghurts for the little one!” Her daughter crossed her arms in the doorway. “Its always about her with you!”
A wail came from the nursery. Annie was awake. Nina forced herself up. Her legs wobbled, her vision blurred.
“Nina, wheres my shirt?” Nicholas called from the bathroom. “The blue striped one?”
“Should be in the wardrobe”
“Its not! Did you iron it yesterday?”
Nina leaned against the wall. Shed spent all day yesterday with a fever, trying to care for the baby.
“No, I didnt get round to it.”
“For Gods sake! Ive got a meeting!” He slammed the bathroom door in frustration.
Annies cries grew louder. Nina shuffled to the nursery and scooped her up. The little girl buried her face in her shoulder, sniffling.
“Mum!” Yvonne shouted from the kitchen. “Theres literally nothing to eat! Not even bread!”
“Moneys on the table. Buy something on your way.”
“Im not stopping at the shop! Ive got an exam! And anyway, its your job to feed us!”
Nina silently walked to the kitchen, Annie in her arms. She pulled some frozen burgers from the freezer and slapped a pan on the hob.
“And make pasta!” Yvonne ordered, glued to her phone.
While breakfast cooked, Nicholas emerged from the bedroom in a crumpled shirt.
“Had to wear this one. I look like a tramp. Thanks for that!”
Nina said nothing. Speaking hurt, and she had no energy left for explanations.
“Its Sophies birthday today,” Yvonne announced, piling pasta onto her plate. “Im going round after school. Ill be back late.”
“Yvonne, I feel awful. Could you stay and help with your sister?”
“Yeah, right! Ive been waiting months for this party! And anyway, I didnt ask for a sister. Thats your problem!”
She grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Nicholas scrolled through his phone as he finished breakfast.
“Nick, could you come home early today? I really cant cope.”
“Cant. Work drinks after. You know how it is.”
“But Im ill”
“Take something. Paracetamol or whatever. Youre not bedridden. Just tough it out.”
He pecked her sweaty forehead and left.
Nina was alone with their three-year-old. Annie demanded attention, food, playtime. Nina moved on autopilot, her strength draining away.
By lunch, her fever had hit thirty-nine. She managed to feed Annie, put her down for a nap, and collapsed on the sofa. Her head pounded, her heart raced.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Yvonne: “Mum, send money for Sophies present. Now!”
Nina didnt reply. She couldnt even lift the phone.
Nicholas returned first that evening, tipsy and cheerful, carrying a bag from Tesco.
“Got some beer and crisps! Big match tonight!” He flopped onto the sofa and turned on the telly.
“Nick, please feed Annie. I cant get up.”
“That bad?” He finally looked at her. “Youre bright red!”
“High fever. All day”
“Well, call an ambulance if its serious. Wheres Annie?”
“In her cot. Shell wake soon.”
“Fine, Ill feed her. Just let her wake up first.”
Annie stirred half an hour later, crying for her mum. Nicholas grudgingly tore himself away from the TV and picked her up.
“Why are you crying? Come to Daddy!”
But the toddler squirmed, wailing louder. Nicholas floundered.
“Nina, she wants you!”
“Give her a biscuit from the cupboard. And some juice.”
“Where? I cant find anything!”
She forced herself up. The room swayed as she gripped the wall. Nina fetched a biscuit, poured juice into a sippy cup. Annie calmed slightly.
Yvonne came home after midnight. Nina was still awake, her fever keeping her up.
“Why didnt you reply?” Yvonne snapped the moment she walked in. “I had to borrow money from Sophies mum! So embarrassing!”
“Yvonne, Ive had a fever all day”
“So? Couldnt pick up your phone? Two seconds!”
The next morning, Nicholas shook her awake.
“Nina, get up! Ive got work, and Annies screaming!”
Her fever had broken, but exhaustion lingered. Nina dragged herself up, dressed Annie, and started breakfast.
“What about my food?” Nicholas asked.
“Make it yourself. Im taking Annie to nursery.”
“Make it? I dont know how! And Im late!”
“Youll learn.”
Something in her tone silenced him. He muttered under his breath and stomped to the kitchen.
When Nina returned, the house was a mess. Dirty dishes, scattered clothes, rumpled sheets. Normally, shed clean straight away. Not today.
She showered, drank tea, and went back to bed.
That evening, the family gathered for dinneror rather, around an empty table.
“Mum, whats for dinner?” Yvonne asked.
“No idea. Whatever you cook.”
“What?” Her daughter gaped.
“Exactly. Im not cooking for everyone anymore. Just me and Annie.”
“Why the hell not?” Nicholas exploded.
“Because in this family, its every man for himself. So live with it!”
“Nina, whats got into you?” He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“Im done being a servant! Yesterday proved Im just unpaid staff to you lot.”
“Mum, I said sorry!” Yvonne lied.
“No, you didnt. Neither did your dad. No one even asked how I was.”
“Fine, sorry!” Yvonne huffed. “So we all starve now?”
“The fridge is full. Youve got hands. Cook.”
The first week was chaos. Yvonne threw tantrums, Nicholas grumbled and slammed doors. Nina held firm. She cooked only for herself and Annie, washed only their clothes, cleaned only the nursery.
“Mum, my jeans are filthy!” Yvonne wailed.
“The washing machines right there. Detergents under the sink.”
“I dont know how!”
“Youll learn. Instructions are on the lid.”
Nicholas went to work in wrinkled shirts, ate at cafés. Their savings dwindled.
“Nina, this is madness! Eating out every day!”
“Cook at home. Cheaper.”
“I dont know how!”
“Watch YouTube. Millions of recipes.”
The house descended into squalor. Dirty dishes, grimy floors, dust. Nina saw it all but didnt intervene. She kept only the nursery tidy.
After two weeks, Yvonne attempted pasta. She forgot salt, overcooked itended up with mush.
“Mum, help!”
“No. Learn.”
“Youre my mum! Youre supposed to!”
“My job is to care for minors. Cooking you gourmet meals isnt in my contract. Bread, milk, cerealyou wont starve.”
Nicholas tried scrambled eggs. Burnt them. Tried againedible this time.
“Look, Nina! I made eggs!”
She nodded and turned back to her book. No praise, no fuss.
By week three, the flat was a tip. Yvonne sobbed over a mountain of laundry.
“Mum, please! Just this once! Ive got nothing clean for school!”
“You were home all yesterday. Couldve washed them.”
“I was doing homework!”
“I work from home, cook, clean up after Annie, take her to the park. And I manage.”
“Youre an adult!”
“And you want adult privileges? Late nights, pocket money? Then act like one.”
By months end, their resistance crumbled. Yvonne learned to wash clothes, cook basics, tidy up. Nicholas mastered not just eggs but pasta and even simple soups.
One evening, Nina returned from the park with Annie. The table was set, dinner smelled ready. Nicholas and Yvonne stood with guilty faces.
“Mum, we made dinner,” Yvonne mumbled. “I did salad, Dad roasted a chicken.”
“Thanks,” Nina said calmly.
“Mum
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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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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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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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