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Beautiful night, Los Angeles, CA (2025)

10/23/2025

"Go ahead and call me Dad."

"Mum, are you really taking his side again?" Emily stood in front of her mother, lips trembling as tears threatened to spill.

"Emily, what do you mean 'again'? And besides, you’re in the wrong here, love. You really are!" retorted Irene, her mother.

"Mum, that was *my* food! We had an agreement—I’m not made of money to feed some stranger!" Emily shot back, barely holding it together now.

"Ungrateful little—I raised you, fed you, and now you’re begrudging me a bit of cheese and ham?!" came the half-soaked voice of Nicholas, her stepfather, from the living room.

"Exactly! Shame on you!" Irene backed him up.

Emily buried her face in her hands. The tears came, unstoppable. Lately, her life had turned into a proper nightmare...
..Emily’s dad walked out when she wasn’t even three. As Irene later explained, she and William—that was his name—never really loved each other. A whirlwind romance led to Irene falling pregnant, and William’s parents pushed him into marriage. But no love meant no happy home. They barely scraped by for two years before William packed his bags and left.

Irene threw herself into raising Emily. It was just the two of them until Emily turned twelve. One morning, Irene sat her down for *the talk*.

"Emily, love, you’re not a little girl anymore, you understand these things..." Irene started carefully.

"Yeah," Emily replied, unsure where this was going.

"I’ve met someone. I love him, and we’re getting married. He’ll be moving in soon. I hope that’s alright?"

Emily wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t gutted either. Plenty of her classmates had stepdads—no big deal, right?

But the moment Nicholas walked into their flat, something felt *off*. His manner, his voice—everything about him rubbed her the wrong way.

"You can call me Dad," he announced straight off.

Emily nodded silently, but the word *Dad* never left her lips. From day one, Nicholas made it clear: "I wasn’t spoiled as a kid, so don’t expect me to coddle you." Life got harder the moment he arrived.

"Mum, I’m going to the library with Anna, then we’ll hang out a bit," Emily said one day.

"Listen to her, giving orders! Irene, why d’you let this brat walk all over you? She’ll be sitting on your neck next!" Nicholas snapped.

"I’m *not* a brat!" Emily shot back, while Irene just kept washing dishes in silence.

"You wanna talk back to me? You’ve got an hour for the library—home by three. A minute late, and you’re standing in the corner on dried peas. See how you like answering back then!" Nicholas loved his so-called *discipline*.

"Mum, I’m going out!" Emily insisted.

"Listen to your father, love. He’s the head of this house," Irene replied.

From then on, Emily lived for Nicholas’s business trips. Those were the only times she could breathe—see friends, have them over, just *exist* without walking on eggshells.
..Six long years passed. Emily turned eighteen, got into uni. She thought *finally*—freedom. A dorm room, a way out of that suffocating flat.

But reality hit fast:

"Sorry, halls are only for out-of-town students. No spaces left," they told her and the other hopefuls.

"Should’ve picked a uni in another city," Emily muttered, trudging home.

By mid-September, she’d befriended two coursemates—Jess and Beth. Turned out, they wanted out of their parents’ places too. They found a one-bed flat to split three ways.

"Mum, I want to move out. It’s closer to uni, and—"

"Oh, brilliant idea! Next thing, you’ll be running a brothel! Renting a place just to bring boys over, I bet—forget studying!" Nicholas cut in.

"What’s it to you?" Emily snapped.

"*What’s it to me*? Is that how you speak to your father? Your student loan won’t cover rent! Your mum’s on part-time, my wages got slashed, and now you want a flat? Not a penny from me!"

"I’ll earn it myself!" Emily yelled, slamming her bedroom door.

But evening jobs didn’t fall into her lap. The dream of independence—of *peace*—got shelved.

Then one morning, noise in the hallway woke her. She stepped out to see Nicholas hugging some bloke.

"Emily, meet my son from my first marriage—Dan. Lived with his mum up north, but he’s moving in with us now," Nicholas declared.

"*Where*? We’ve only got two bedrooms!"

"Don’t worry, I’ll crash on the sofa in the lounge. We’ll figure it out," Dan said, grinning.

Emily was horrified. She cornered Irene later:

"Mum, how are four of us supposed to live in this tiny flat?"

"We’ll manage, love. ‘Short of room, short of strife,’ as they say."

"Are you *serious*?"

"Emily, we live off Nicholas’s money now. I won’t pick fights. Dan stays."

So now Dan slept in the lounge. No space to eat breakfast. Emily left hungry every morning. Coming home, she’d find Nicholas and Dan already at the table.

"Oi, sis, come sit with us!" Dan called one evening.

"P**s off!"

"Don’t you talk to your elders like that, you little cow!" Nicholas slurred.

"Dad, relax. Emily, come *here*." Dan grabbed her shoulders.

"Get *off* me!" She wrenched free and fled to her room in tears.

That night, she cried herself to sleep. Next morning, she confronted Irene.

"Mum, didn’t Dad buy this flat for us? You said—"

"Well, yes..." Irene frowned.

"So it’s partly *mine*?"

"Legally, it’s mine, but you’re my daughter, so... Why?"

"I don’t want *them* here! They should *leave*!"

"Ungrateful little—! Not another penny from me! Buy your own food—wasting your loan on clothes, I bet!" Nicholas roared.

Emily started buying her own groceries, counting every pound. But Nicholas and Dan kept nicking her things—milk, bread, crisps—like it was nothing.

The last straw? Her cheese and ham, gone the next day.

"If I’m *so wrong*, then buy your own food. Pay me back for what you took, and I’ll leave!"

"Pay you? Dream on! Pack your stuff and *go*!"

Done with it all, Emily shoved her things into a bag and walked out.

She crashed at her mate Sophie’s for a bit, then switched to part-time studies and got a job. She never went back.

Almost a year later, she spotted Irene leaving a …
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10/23/2025

Tommy sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window at the courtyard below. He’d had no luck—his room overlooked the quiet hospital garden, where benches and flowerbeds stood mostly empty in the winter chill. Few patients ventured outside these days. The ward felt lonelier than ever since his roommate, Jake Miller, had been discharged a week earlier. Jake had been lively, full of jokes and stories, acting them out like a proper stage performer—which he was, studying theatre at university. With him gone, the room lost its warmth, leaving Tommy achingly alone.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a nurse. His heart sank further when he saw it wasn’t the cheerful young nurse, Daisy, but stern-faced Margaret. In the two months he’d been here, he’d never once seen her smile. Her voice matched her expression—sharp, no-nonsense, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"Right then, Thompson, enough sitting about. Back to bed!" Margaret barked, brandishing a syringe.

Tommy sighed but obeyed, wheeling himself over. With brisk efficiency, she helped him lie flat and rolled him onto his stomach.

"Trousers down," she ordered. He complied, bracing himself—but felt nothing. For all her harshness, Margaret’s injections were painless, something he silently thanked her for every time.

*Wonder how old she is?* Tommy mused, watching her examine the thin blue veins on his arm. *Must be near retirement. Probably stuck here for the pension.*

The needle slid in with barely a pinch.

"All done," Margaret said, packing up. "Has the doctor been round today?"

Tommy shook his head. "Not yet. Maybe later."

"Well, don’t hold your breath. And stay away from that window—you’re skinny as a rake as it is." With that, she marched out.

He almost bristled, then paused. Beneath her brusqueness, there was something almost like concern. Not that he’d know—care wasn’t something he was used to.

Tommy was an orphan. His parents had died in a house fire when he was four. The scar on his shoulder and his crooked wrist were the only reminders—his mother had thrown him from a window seconds before the roof collapsed. He’d survived, but no relatives had stepped forward. The care system became his home.

From his mother, he’d inherited gentle eyes and a dreamy disposition. From his father, his height and a knack for numbers. Memories of them were faint—fragments of village fairs, his father’s shoulders beneath him, the warm breeze of a summer day. There’d been a ginger cat, too, named Whiskers or Marmalade—he couldn’t quite recall. The fire had taken everything else.

At eighteen, he’d been given a council flat—small but bright, on the fourth floor with no lift. He’d grown used to solitude, though sometimes it weighed on him. Watching families in parks or shops always left him hollow.

He’d wanted to go to university but fell short on grades, settling for college instead. The coursework suited him, but his quiet nature left him isolated. While his classmates swapped banter and gaming stories, he buried himself in books. Girls weren’t interested either—his shyness and youthful face left him overlooked.

Two months ago, rushing to class on icy pavement, he’d slipped in a subway staircase, shattering both legs. The fractures were slow to heal, but finally, after weeks of pain, the doctor delivered good news.

"Well, Thomas, the bones are mending nicely. Another fortnight, and you’ll be on crutches. No sense keeping you here—you’ll continue treatment as an outpatient." The doctor glanced up. "Anyone meeting you?"

Tommy nodded.

"Grand. Margaret will help you pack. Try not to end up back here, eh?"

As the door closed, Tommy’s mind raced. How was he supposed to manage alone?

Margaret returned, tossing his rucksack onto the bed. "Get your things. The cleaner’s coming."

As he packed, her sharp eyes fixed on him.

"Why’d you lie to the doctor?"

Tommy feigned confusion.

"Don’t play daft, Thompson. No one’s coming for you. How d’you plan to get home?"

"I’ll manage."

"You won’t. Not for weeks yet. How will you live?"

"I’m not a child."

Suddenly, Margaret sat beside him, her voice softer. "Tommy, it’s none of my business, but... you’ll need help. You can’t do this alone."

"I can."

"You can’t. I’ve been in…
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10/23/2025

"You can leave, it's easier with just Mum and me," admitted the husband in their third year of marriage.

"You can leave, it's easier with just Mum and me," said Oliver, his eyes fixed on the telly.

Emily froze, the ladle hovering over the pot of bubbling stew. Steam rose to the ceiling, but she stood rooted to the spot. At first, she thought she’d misheard. But the silence in the kitchen was so sharp, each of his words echoed in her head.

"What did you say?" She slowly set the ladle down and turned to face him.

"You heard me. Don’t pretend. Mum and I managed just fine before you, and we’ll manage now," Oliver flicked through channels as if discussing the weather.

Emily sank onto a stool. Three years ago, she’d moved into this house as a hopeful young bride, full of dreams. Her mother-in-law had greeted her stiffly, but Emily had believed time would smooth things over. She’d wanted a family—children, Sunday roasts, a place where she belonged.

"Ollie, what’s brought this on?" Her voice trembled.

"What’s brought it on?" he mocked. "You’re just in the way. Mum’s been right from the start. Why do I need a wife who only causes trouble?"

Margaret appeared in the doorway as if summoned, a faint smirk on her lips. She must have been listening from the hall.

"Ollie, don’t upset yourself, love. Your blood pressure," she cooed, resting a hand on his shoulder. "And you, Emily, perhaps it’s best if you stay with your parents for a bit. Some peace and quiet might do you good."

Emily looked from Margaret to Oliver. He nodded in agreement, and something inside her snapped—not with a crash, but softly, like a bubble bursting.

"What have I actually done wrong?" she asked, her voice eerily calm.

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "Just look at yourself! The house is a mess, your cooking’s mediocre, and you’ve driven a wedge between us. My boy used to come to me with everything. Now he keeps quiet."

"Mum’s right," Oliver chimed in. "Life was better before. Quiet, peaceful. You’re always demanding something, never happy."

Emily remembered last night—she’d asked him to hang a curtain rod, and he’d brushed her off, claiming exhaustion. Yet when Margaret wanted a shelf fixed in the loo, he’d leapt up.

"I’m demanding?" she repeated. "Ollie, I asked you three weeks ago to fix the dripping tap. You never found the time."

"The tap, the tap… Always nagging about something!" Oliver waved a hand irritably. "Mum never bothers me with nonsense."

"Because I do things myself," Margaret cut in. "But you expect everything handed to you."

Emily stood and began clearing the table mechanically, her thoughts tangled. When they’d met, Oliver had seemed so independent—a foreman at the factory, his own car, his own flat. True, he’d lived with his mother, but that hadn’t struck her as odd. Many did, especially after parents split.

"You know what?" she said, stacking plates. "Maybe I will leave. Perhaps it’ll be easier for you."

"Good," Margaret nodded approvingly. "Young people rush into marriage without a thought for compatibility."

Oliver stayed silent, glued to the telly. Credits rolled, but Emily doubted he saw them. He just wouldn’t meet her eye.

"I’ll finish dinner first," she added. "No sense wasting the stew."

The mundane words sounded almost ceremonial—like the final note of a symphony no one had listened to.

She ladled stew into bowls, sliced bread, set out butter. Slow, deliberate movements, as if memorising each one. The last time she’d set this table.

"Eat while it’s hot," she called.

Oliver grudgingly took his usual seat. Margaret sat opposite, tasted the stew.

"Too salty," she declared after one spoonful.

Emily said nothing. She ate in silence, listening to the grandfather clock in the hall—a family heirloom with a cuckoo that called every hour. At first, it had kept her awake. Now she barely noticed.

"Where will you go?" Oliver asked suddenly.

"My parents’, for now. Then I’ll see," she pushed her half-full bowl away. "I’ve got my job. I can rent somewhere."

"Your parents live miles away," Margaret remarked. "The commute will be dreadful."

"I’ll manage."

Margaret nodded, but something flickered in her eyes—doubt, perhaps. The realisation that Emily meant it.

"Don’t be daft," Oliver muttered. "This is just a spat. Couples argue."

Emily studied him. Did he really think this was just a row? That tomorrow she’d make breakfast and life would resume?

"Ollie, you told me to leave," she reminded him.

"I didn’t mean it like that. Blokes say stupid things sometimes."

"In the heat of the moment?" She gave a wry smile. "Felt more like you’d thought it through."

She stood and cleared the dishes. Oliver finished his meal but kept glancing at her. Margaret had gone quiet.

"Em," he said as she washed up. "Don’t be like this. Stay. We’ll work it out."

"Work it out," she echoed without turning. "I’m tired of ‘working it out.’ I want a proper life."

"What’s not proper about ours?"

Emily turned off the tap, dried her hands. She faced him.

"What’s not proper? Ollie, I’ve been a stranger in this house for three years. A guest nobody wanted."

"That’s rubbish!" Margaret protested. "I treated you like family!"

"Like family?" Emily’s smile was sad. "Margaret, in three years, you never once thanked me—for cleaning, cooking, laundry. But you never missed a chance to criticise."

"Well, I—I’m strict, yes. But it’s for your own good! I wanted to make a proper homemaker of you."

"You can’t be a homemaker in someone else’s home. And I’m done being a guest."

Oliver paced the kitchen.

"Em, you’re blowing this out of proportion. We’re fine."

"Fine? Ollie, when was the last time we did anything just us? Talked properly?"

He frowned, struggling to recall.

"Last month. We went to the cinema."

"All three of us. Your…
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10/22/2025

I had spent my whole marriage pretending the baby was Mark’s, and when the truth finally surfaced, his reaction left me breathless.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” my mother’s voice shook, though she tried to mask her worry. The faint line between her eyebrows betrayed her doubt.

“What other choice do I have?” I lifted my chin, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt.

Ellen pressed her lips together, her expression turning to the one I’d only seen at my father’s funeral—a mix of helplessness and primal fear. She knew there was no persuading me.

That night, for the first time in ages, I slept without nightmares. Mark lay beside me, his even breathing a balm to my nerves. I traced the angles of his face—sharp cheekbones, a determined jaw, the barely visible line between his brows. We’d been together only three weeks, yet he had already become my sanctuary. I rested my hand on my belly. Beneath the skin a new life was forming—a life that was not his. The man who had caused this pregnancy had vanished, leaving only memories.

Mark murmured in his sleep, his lips curving into a faint, trusting smile. That smile sealed my decision. I would stay silent.

I would not tell him that the night two days after we met could never have produced this child. I would become the perfect wife, build a flawless family, and bury my lie beneath a hundred genuine moments.

“Dad, look!” Charlie raced around the room with a wooden sword, imagining himself a knight. “I’ve slain the dragon!”

Mark set aside the newspaper and bowed solemnly to his son.

“Your Majesty, you’re the bravest knight in the kingdom.”

Charlie burst into laughter and ran to his father. I stood in the doorway with a tray of hot cocoa, watching Mark scoop the boy up and spin him round. Our son. For a heartbeat I could not breathe. Seven years of a double life—outwardly a happy wife and mother, inwardly the keeper of a secret that could shatter everything we’d built.

“Why are you just standing there?” Mark turned to me, something flickering in his eyes—concern? Suspicion? “The cocoa’s getting cold.”

I forced a smile and crossed the room. Charlie grabbed a cup, leaving a chocolate moustache on his upper lip.

“Who does he look more like?” Mark asked suddenly, his pride evident, and my heart tightened.

“You, of course,” I lied, avoiding his gaze. “Especially the eyes.”

Mark nodded, thoughtful.

“I think he’s all you—just as stubborn.”

He ruffled Charlie’s hair, dark as a raven’s wing, the same shade as his real father’s.

“Can I have more cocoa?” Charlie begged, holding out his empty cup.

“Only if you promise to brush your teeth afterward,” I said, stroking his cheek, overwhelmed by how much I loved this little human.

Mark pulled me close, and the weight of his presence felt unbearable, as if each touch was an unspoken rebuke I deserved but he would never voice.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

“Just a tough day,” I replied, lightly touching his cheek. “Has anyone ever told you you’re the best husband in the world?”

He smiled faintly, but something in his eyes made my skin prickle. It was as if he could see every lie, every fear, every tear I’d swallowed, yet he still looked at me as if I were a priceless treasure that had fallen into his hands by sheer chance. I turned away so he wouldn’t see my hands tremble as I poured the cocoa. How long could I bear this burden? How long could the façade of a perfect family, built on a single devastating lie, hold?

The years rushed by. Charlie turned twenty. I looked at him—tall, with dimples appearing whenever he smiled—and could hardly believe the boy I once cradled in a cradle was now a man.

We were preparing for his birthday party. I was busy marinating lamb kebabs when Mark entered holding a worn photo album.

“Look what I found in the attic,” he said, dusting it off. “I haven’t opened this in ages.”

I froze, a cold shiver racing down my spine. The album chronicled our life—both the real version and the one I’d invented. There were early photos before Charlie was born, with me forcing hopeful, fearful smiles. Mark flipped through the pages, chuckling at the dated hairstyles and fashions of the nineties. I wiped my hands and sat beside him, forcing a normal breath.

“Remember how terrified you were before the birth?” he asked, pointing to a picture of me in late pregnancy, clinging to his shoulder, terror written across my face.

“How could I forget,” I managed, forcing a smile. “I thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He pulled me close and kissed my temple.

“But I knew you’d get through it. You’ve always been stronger than you think.”

His words hit like thunder. Strong? Me? A woman who had spent twenty years under the weight of a lie, facing her husband and son every day without telling the truth?

“Don’t exaggerate,” I whispered, stepping back to the cutting board. “I just did what I had to.”

“Like the rest of us,” Mark said philosophically, turning another page.

From the corner of my eye I watched him, wondering what he thought when he looked at the pictures of Charlie. Did he notice any subtle inconsistencies? Did he ask himself questions he never voiced?

“Here’s the birthday boy!” he exclaimed, pointing to a photo of a two‑year‑old Charlie smeared in chocolate. “He was always getting into trouble!”

Something inside me cracked, like thin ice under a weight. I had carried this secret for twenty years, a prisoner dragging chains, grinding my heart to dust, turning genuine joy into performance. I could no longer bear it.

That evening, after Charlie went out with …
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10/22/2025

I’m Graham Thompson, fifty‑three, the founder of Thompson Grand Hotels, and I was sitting alone at a corner window table in The Lantern, a cosy, oak‑paneled eatery perched on the cliffs above Whitby. The late‑afternoon sun poured through the glass, turning the polished walnut tables to amber and casting a soft glint over the North Sea beyond.

For me, this wasn’t merely a meal. It was a ritual. Every year on this very date I come here to mark the anniversary of the business I built with my late wife, Emily. Twenty‑seven years ago we were two restless dreamers with a modest savings account, a stubborn belief in our vision, and a promise to face the world together.

On my right hand rested a ring that meant far more than its market price. White gold, set with a deep sapphire and surrounded by tiny diamonds, it had been in my family for over a hundred years. Emily wore its twin. They were a matched pair, fashioned for a couple in the late 1800s and handed down through generations. When Emily died ten years ago, her ring vanished—I never discovered how.

The restaurant was nearly full, the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery filling the air. I glanced at the menu out of habit, though I never needed it—my order was always the same: grilled sea bass, a glass of crisp white wine, and The Lantern’s signature lemon tart for dessert.

As I was swirling my wine, a young waitress approached. She was about twenty, her chestnut hair pulled into a neat low bun, eyes sharp enough to notice everything without intruding. Her name tag read Milly.

She smiled politely as she poured a pale stream of Chardonnay into my glass. I barely looked up, lost in thought, until I saw her gaze drop to my hand. She paused mid‑pour, her brow furrowing slightly.

“My mother has the same ring,” Milly said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

I froze, my hand still gripping the stem of my glass. Slowly I lifted my eyes to meet hers.

“Your mother?” I repeated, sharper than I intended.

Milly nodded, a little taken aback by my reaction.

“Yes… well, almost the same. White gold, sapphire in the centre, tiny diamonds around it. She’s had it as long as I can remember.”

The description was too exact. My heart began to race.

“Milly,” I said carefully, “could you tell me your mother’s name?”

She hesitated, glancing toward the other tables as if unsure whether to share something personal during her shift.

“Her name’s… Anne Carter.”

The fork in my hand clinked against the plate. Anne Carter. The name struck me like a wave. She had been Emily’s closest friend in their youth—someone I hadn’t seen in decades. Anne had disappeared from our lives without explanation, around the same time Emily’s ring went missing.

I leaned forward. “Milly, would it be terribly forward of me to ask… was your mother close to a woman named Emily Thompson?”

Milly blinked in surprise.

“Yes! They were friends a long time ago, before I was born. I think they lost touch after… something happened. Mum never told me much.”

The restaurant’s background chatter seemed to fade. I realised I was on the brink of a discovery that could either reopen an old wound or finally bring closure.

“Would you… would you mind telling your mother that I’d like to speak with her?” I asked, my voice softened by the oddity of the request. “It’s about the ring and about Emily.”

Milly studied my face for a long moment, as though weighing my trustworthiness. Finally she gave a small nod.

“She’s picking me up after my shift. If you can wait… I can introduce you.”

The dinner plates had been cleared, and I sat nursing a coffee, my mind tangled with questions.

Soon Milly returned, this time out of her uniform, accompanied by a woman in her late forties. Anne Carter looked much as I remembered: tall, graceful, with warm eyes now shadowed by regret.

“Graham,” she said softly as she approached, her voice carrying years of unspoken history.

I stood, unsure whether to shake her hand or embrace her. “Anne. It’s… been a long time.”

We sat opposite each other, Milly watching silently. My gaze dropped immediately to Anne’s hand, and there it was—the twin to my ring.

“You still have it,” I said quietly.

Anne looked down, her fingers brushing the sapphire. “Yes. I’ve carried its weight for years.”

She drew a breath, her words spilling out. “Emily gave it to me the week before she… before she passed. She asked me to keep it safe, said she’d explain later, but she never got the chance. After she was gone I didn’t know how to face you. It felt wrong to keep it, yet I couldn’t bring myself to let it go either. And then life just… moved on.”

My throat tightened. For ten years I’d believed the ring was lost or stolen. To learn that Emily had entrusted it to Anne meant there had been a reason.

“She wanted you to have it,” Anne said firmly. “I realise now she was leaving you a piece of both of us. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

With trembling hands she slipped the ring off and set it gently on the table between us. The sapphire caught the last golden rays of the setting sun, glowing as if lit from within.

I reached out but didn’t pick it up straight away. “Thank you,” I finally said, my voice low. “For keeping it safe. And for telling me the truth.”

Milly smiled faintly. “So… you two were really close?” she asked, sensing there was more to the story.

“We were,” Anne replied, eyes misting. “Your mother—Emily—was the kind of friend who never…
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10/22/2025

- Sam, check the potatoes for the salad. If they’re soft enough, you can turn the heat off, – Irene asked.
- I’ll have a look now, – Samuel replied.

Irene kept slicing the brawn. Since six o’clock that morning she had been moving like a well‑oiled clock around the kitchen, preparing Olivier salad, Eastern salad, Pomegranate bracelet, Cheese salad and who‑knows‑what‑else.

When the brawn was on the board, Irene arranged the slices neatly on a platter. A massive slab of cheddar stared back at her. It too needed cutting. One slice, another, a third… The knife glided effortlessly, and Irene felt the sheer abundance make her eyes grow heavy.

Samuel poked the potatoes in the pot with a fork, feeling the vegetables bobbing in the simmering water.

- Irene, they seem tender. I’ll switch the stove off, – he said calmly.
- Good, turn it off.
- Why are you out of breath? – he asked, noticing his wife’s agitation.
- Sam, are you kidding me? I ran to the market after work yesterday, hauled everything home, boiled it, and now I’m chopping these salads from dawn. And you ask why I’m out of breath?! – Irene snapped.
- What can I do? It’s my fault, isn’t it… Mum’s anniversary… – Samuel said apologetically, hanging his head.
- No one’s at fault! Why do I always have to pick up the slack? There’s another daughter‑in‑law, you know. But she’s the queen of the house! – Irene retorted, irritated.
- Oh, Irene, you act as if you don’t know Ethel! – Samuel said.

Irene wiped her hands on a napkin and poured herself a glass of water. She had known Ethel for five years, and in that time she had learned the younger daughter‑in‑law of Margaret Whitfield – her mother‑in‑law – quite well.

Irene had moved to the city from a small village. She first studied there, then found a job. She met her future husband Samuel by chance, as so often happens. They dated, then decided to marry.

The introduction between the new daughter‑in‑law and Margaret went smoothly. The country girl slipped into her husband’s family quickly. Even before the wedding she helped out at the cottage. Irene never shied away from work. Paint the front door? Absolutely. W**d the potato patch? She cleared it over the weekend, even though Monday meant a shift at the factory. Can‑ning jars of pickles for winter? No problem. And she never complained. In a single household everyone pitches in; that was the rule she grew up with in a bustling, many‑child household.

One day Margaret invited Irene and Samuel over for a family dinner. It wasn’t just any dinner – it was to celebrate the impending wedding of Samuel’s younger brother, Andrew, who had decided to marry his sweetheart. No one in the family knew much about the girl, except that her name was Ethel.

Andrew introduced Ethel to everyone. It was clear she had a strong character – she would not let anyone step on her toes, nor would she be swayed by empty talk.

For Margaret, Andrew was the beloved son, so Ethel automatically became the favourite daughter‑in‑law.

At the wedding Margaret showered Ethel with golden compliments, calling her the most beautiful bride and saying Andrew could never find a smarter or prettier woman.

Irene never heard such words from her mother‑in‑law, but she did not take offense. After all, they were just words, and she quickly saw through Ethel’s façade – all show and little substance.

Ethel, meanwhile, contributed little at home. She and Andrew lived in a one‑bedroom flat and managed the cleaning as best they could. The idea of helping Margaret on the cottage never even crossed her mind.

Margaret, for her part, never forced Ethel to work. While Irene hauled two ten‑litre buckets of cucumbers and tomatoes for canning, Ethel lounged in a deck chair.

- How do you like our cottage, Ethel? – Margaret asked, bustling around her daughter‑in‑law.
- It’s fine, – Ethel replied, sipping a straw of homemade juice.
- How’s the juice? We made it with Irene, – Margaret persisted.
- It’s a bit too sweet for my taste. I’d prefer it a little tangier – I don’t like sugary drinks, they’re bad for the figure.
- All right, I’ll tell Irene to cut back on the sugar, – Margaret said promptly.

At that moment Irene was gathering apples from the orchard, making sure they wouldn’t rot on the ground. She bore her grievances silently, not wanting to strain family ties. She vented only to Samuel.

- You know, the juice could be a bit more tart. But the recipe calls for that much sugar, otherwise it ferments. We’d do anything for Ethel, even stand on our heads! – she complained.
- Irene, try not to give her special treatment. Do what you think is right and that’s that. Arguing with Mum is pointless – she’s set in her ways, – Samuel shrugged, never a fan of family quarrels, especially when his mother was involved.

Irene tended the garden, bought seeds, raised seedlings, harvested and stored produce. There was no expectation that Ethel would lift a finger at the cottage. Even if she didn’t take any vegetables or preserves, she never refused them. She helped herself with both hands. And Irene paid for everything herself – salt, sugar, spices, vinegar. They were cheap, but it still added up.

One afternoon Irene decided to speak plainly to her sister‑in‑law.

- Ethel, could you at least pitch in at the garden now and then? Mum is getting older, and Samuel and I can’t do it all ourselves.
- Irene, when will that be? We work weekdays, weekends we’re at the gym or swimming. Evenings we dine out. We can’t spend every moment working. Life’s meant for a bit of leisure too, – Ethel replied calmly.

Before she could finish, Margaret interjected.

- Exactly, dear. You two are still young. You should live for yourselves; life’s short. And you’re a beautiful lady, you must look after yourself.
Irene dropped the subject and later vented again to Samuel.

- She’s beautiful, and I’m left to be the workhorse!
- Irene, don’t be so dramatic. She’s behaved like this for years, what’s new? – Samuel waved his hands.

Soon came a grand event – Margaret’s birthday. She had already picked out a present for herself without asking if it was affordable: a high‑end robot vacuum, £500, and that was that.

Ethel and Andrew were told something entirely different.

- No bouquets or chocolates, you two. You’re still young; spend on yourselves, not on an old lady.
Irene finished the salads, packed everything neatly, and she and Samuel drove to Margaret’s house to set the table. Of course, Ethel and Andrew were nowhere to be seen; they arrived precisely at the appointed hour as honoured guests.

It was no surprise that Margaret chose to congratulate Ethel first. She handed Margaret a modest bouquet and an envelope, demanding it be opened immediately and in front of everyone.

Margaret smiled, tore open the envelope, and at first could not tell what the paper held. Then Ethel announced loudly that Margaret would soon become a grandmother. From that moment the conversation revolved around the expecting Ethel.

By evening the pregnant Ethel began to feel faint, supposedly from the kitchen aromas.

- Irene, clear the table, – Margaret ordered.
- Maybe Ethel will just leave if she feels that bad, – Irene blurted.
- Irene, how can you say that? She’s pregnant. Put yourself in her shoes! – Margaret defended Ethel.
- I remember hauling tomato seedlings and cucumbers, – Irene replied.
- All we asked was to clear the table! Yet you’re driving Ethel away! – Margaret even teared up.
- I don’t want to tidy up. I set the table, now it’s Ethel’s turn to wash dishes. I’m exhausted, I need to go home, – Irene said, walking away.

Margaret was deeply hurt, and Irene, for the first time, stopped helping at the cottage and stopped visiting.

Three months later Samuel called from work.

- Irene, Mum’s been taken to hospital with a suspected stroke. Are you going to see her?
- Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll find out everything and call you, – Irene answered.

It turned…
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