January 2026 – Page 51

Svägerskan slängde alla mina gamla saker när jag var på landet – men min hämnd lät inte vänta på sig

Så där, nu kan man äntligen andas här inne, var som ett mausoleum förut, ärligt talat, hördes en klar

I’m Seriously Smitten – Anna, what happened to your hands? – gasped Nastya. – They’re fine, – Anna replied tensely. – I’ve got a salon appointment tomorrow morning. My nails and skin will be back to normal. – How did you even get your hands in that state? What have you been doing, working in a quarry? – Svetlana joined in supportively. – Just did a bit of cleaning in a bachelor’s flat, – Anna said with undisguised irritation. – No need to make a drama out of it! – Really? – her friends exclaimed in surprise. – Why are you calling your own flat a bachelor pad? You always called it your nest… And why did you decide to do it yourself? There are people for that… – My flat, – Anna replied emphatically, – is just fine! And always has been! – So, you’ve taken up cleaning other people’s flats as a side hustle? – Svetlana recoiled. – Anna, we’re friends! If money’s tight, you could have said! I’d always help you out! – I’ve got money, – Anna grumbled, – and my business is doing great. – Anna, I don’t understand any of this! – Nastya fretted. – Why are you sorting out someone else’s flat? And why on your own? – Lost a bet? – Svetlana suggested. – If only I’d lost a bet, – Anna looked away and studied the wall. – I’m in deep, honestly, – she said. – So deep, I’d rather lose my business and have to scrub strangers’ flats for cash! That declaration left the girls speechless. To the silent question in her friends’ eyes, Anna said grumpily: – I’ve got a man now. And he’s such a man, I’d rather have fleas, mice, and bedbugs in my flat than him! There was panic, not horror, in her friends’ eyes. – Anna, run! If you’re saying things like this, run! – Nastya whispered. – I can’t, – Anna made a face. – And I don’t want to! I want to go to him, I would never leave him! – What? – Svetlana pulled back. – Is this really you talking? You’ve always been steel! No one could bend you! But now… some bloke!!! – I know! – Anna snapped. – I know! I barely recognise myself! I fumed, I yelled! If anything, I didn’t bang my head against a wall! Maybe I should’ve tried! Svetlana and Nastya were totally lost. But they were dead against the suggestion of Anna’s head meeting the wall. What finished them off was seeing Anna angry at herself. – What about Stan? – Nastya blurted out randomly. – You two seemed good together! And he’s very diligent! Helpful! – You can have him, – Anna brushed the idea off. – He’s no use to me. I even checked! – Anna wasn’t bothered, they were all adults. – Doesn’t even come close to Stepan! – Stepan? – Svetlana grimaced. – So you swapped Stanislav for some Stepan? I was hoping, at the very least, for a Gabriel! – Take your Gabriel and even Raphael! – Anna snorted. – I’ve got Stepan! – Is he rich? – asked Svetlana. – Nope, – Anna shook her head. – Is he handsome? – asked Nastya. – Average, – answered Anna. – Young and hot? – Svetlana asked, just in case, but doubtfully. – Forty-one, – Anna enunciated. – Then why do you want him? – Svetlana asked, teasing. – He knows how to love! – Anna said dreamily, a blissful smile lighting up her face. – He loves so well, I’m ready to give him everything! Right now, I’d give him everything! The flat, the house, the cars! Even sign over the business! As long as he’s with me! As long as he’s mine! Only mine! – You need a doctor, – Svetlana shook her head. – Where did you even find him? – asked Nastya. – Online, – Anna smiled. – I was looking for an evening of adventure… Businesswomen rarely marry. It’s not about having a family, it’s that men can’t cope with a wife’s success. That’s if they don’t outright leech off her and her money. Anna chose herself back in school. She got into beadwork first, then started making jewellery for classmates, and not for sweets! But she studied economics, and the jewellery – now not just beads – became her source of income. Education and know-how led her to see it as a good business opportunity. – Not beads! – Anna used to chuckle. – Handmade jewellery! Unique! Whatever the customer wants! – There are loads of those, – people told her. – You’ll just be another face among millions, scraping pennies! – Who said I’d be a small-time crafter? That would be small, and you can’t really grow from there. You can get by, but not how you’d like. Anna started bringing craftspeople together under her wing. It was a ton of work. Advertising, catalogues, clients, negotiations, contracts, retail spaces. Then more advertising, to market her shop as elite for those who truly appreciate quality! It wasn’t just work – it was a Herculean effort! By thirty-five, Anna was a successful businesswoman with everything and more. Flat, country house, garage for six cars, and none of them cheap. Plus, a healthy bank balance. Anything she fancied could happen with a snap of her fingers! Only, there was no room in her life for a family. And Anna wasn’t really bothered by that. For health, happiness, and drive, she had her “boys”. For a fee, they’d adore her as long as she wanted – and vanish as soon as she got bored. Lately, it was Stan she’d been seeing most. Sweet boy. Anna’s friends even thought she’d settle down with him for good. – Maybe even marry him! – dreamy Nastya said. – Then we’d lose him for good, – Svetlana said sadly. She was seeing Stan sometimes too. Why Anna went down the rabbit hole of fast-dating apps, no one knew. Maybe she was just bored that night. Fancy a change. When you’ve got sugary Stan around all the time, sometimes you crave something salty. But her profile started getting messages from guys just like Stan. It was dull. Stepan’s “Good Evening!” caught Anna’s attention. – Chat? – he added, not waiting for a reply. Anna decided to amuse herself with Stepan. Meanwhile, she browsed his profile and photos. And she instantly thought: – What are you doing here? Can’t you see my photos – cars, yachts, gold, diamonds! You? Sat at home like my gran! And that face has never met a skincare expert! Not her type at all! But the chat kept going. About everything under the sun. She had to admit, Stepan was smart and educated. – Why aren’t you rich then? Anna asked directly. – Why should I be? – Stepan answered. It rocked her. – What do you mean, why? To have enough! – I have enough, – Stepan replied. – Never want for anything! A watch that costs a million shows exactly the same time as a five-quid one. They chatted all night. Only ended when the sun rose. – Gotta head to work, – Anna wrote. – Have a good one, – Stepan replied. – I’ve got a flexible schedule. I’m lucky! Anna barely thought of her unusual companion all day. But flashes of him kept popping up. In the evening, she turned down a new restaurant launch invite from the owner himself. Made up an excuse. She settled on her sofa with her tablet and messaged Stepan: – Hi! Remember me? – Hi! I’m not senile! If I ever forget something, I find it thoroughly pleasing! Again, they messaged all night. Anna only got a couple hours of sleep before work. Again, she rushed home next evening to chat. After two weeks of internet chatting, Anna really wanted to meet Stepan in person. She said so directly. He replied: – Come over! He sent the address. Anna froze. Tablet in one hand, the other raised. Like she’d lost for words in a real conversation. – What do you mean, “come over”? – she blurted aloud. She messaged it too. – Just come over, – Stepan replied. – But tell me, do you prefer tea or coffee? Is buttercream on éclairs OK, or should I throw steaks on the grill? If it were a mate she’d known for ages, it would’ve seemed normal. But for a first meet, and straight at his place? To a guy? To anyone? Alone! She wanted to reply he’d lost his mind, but she wanted to meet, so instead: – I was thinking café or restaurant, – she wrote. – Ugh! Can’t be bothered! – came back. And Anna remembered the very different social and financial background. – Tell you what! I’ll pay for your cab, there and back. And for dinner – anything! Used to sorting “boys” out herself, Anna didn’t think twice. – I can pay for myself, – Stepan replied, – I’m just genuinely too lazy! Want to meet, come over! I sent the address. – Honestly! I won’t stand for this rudeness! – Anna wrote and dropped the tablet. And ignored it for two days. She tormented herself, but refused to cave. She expected Stepan would apologise, beg, offer any restaurant she wanted! She was waiting for it. But when she picked up her tablet and checked, her message was the latest. He hadn’t even bothered replying. Her outrage boiled over, like a forgotten kettle! Anna let out a stream of unprintable words about Stepan. Well, not just a few words. For two hours she raged. Then, when she calmed down, she realised she missed him. The urge to meet hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was stronger. – What a pain! He’s got under my skin! – she grumbled, reaching for the tablet. He might have been offended after her last message. – Hi! – Anna wrote and waited. – Hi, – Stepan replied. – What’s up? Completely neutral. As if last time had ended with totally normal goodbyes. – Fine, – said Anna. – How about meeting today? Or are you still too lazy? She jabbed, just in case. – You guessed! – Stepan sent a laughing emoji. – So lazy I don’t even want to go out for bread! Making flatbread on the hob. – So, when will we meet if you’re always too lazy? – Anna asked. – You drive? – he asked. – Sure! I’ve got a car! – Working? – Obviously, – Anna was puzzled. She had six cars. If something was up, off to the shop or the market. – I can send the address again if you’ve deleted it, – he wrote. – Come over! *** – Wait! Wait! – Svetlana interrupted Anna, grabbing her arm. – You seriously drove to a total stranger’s flat? – Yes, – Anna said, nodding pointedly. – Weren’t you scared? – Nastya asked. – What if he turned out to be, you know, a criminal? – I took pepper spray, – Anna replied. – Didn’t need it. – You really went to some internet guy’s place? Straight over? – Svetlana was shocked. – That’s madness! – I did, – Anna nodded. – And I’ve never regreted it for a second! Girls, I’m seriously smitten! And, when I figured everything out for myself, I kicked myself for marinating him for two days! If I’d gone straight away, I’d have found happiness two days earlier! – Happiness? What happiness? – Svetlana pleaded. – The kind I’d give anything for! – Anna answered, truly. – That’s not a joke? About the business and everything? – Svetlana frowned. – I’d even take out loans for him! Work it off in some quarry if need be! – Anna said, hand on heart. Nastya’s mouth dropped open in shock. – Go on, – Svetlana demanded. – So you went to him! – I went…

Im lost. Emily! Whats happened to your hands? Laura stared in disbelief. Its nothing, Emily replied

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0503

– Jag vill leva för mig själv och få sova ut, – sa min man och gick Tre månader – så länge varade detta vansinne. Tre månader av sömnlösa nätter då lille Max skrek så att grannarna bankade i väggen. Tre månader då Marina vandrade runt som en zombie med rödsprängda ögon och skakande händer. Och Erik gick runt i lägenheten lika butter som en regnmolnig novemberdag. – Fattar du hur jag ser ut på jobbet?! – fräste han en dag och synade sig i spegeln. – Påsarna under ögonen når ju nästan knäna. Marina sa inget. Hon matade sonen, vyssjade, matade igen. En evig rundgång. Och där någonstans gick Erik – hennes man, som snarare klagade än stöttade. – Hörru, kan inte din mamma komma och hjälpa till lite? – föreslog han plötsligt en kväll, nyvaken och avslappnad efter duschen. – Jag funderar på att dra ut till en kompis på landet en vecka… Marina blev stående med flaskan i handen. – Jag behöver vila, Marina. På riktigt. – Erik började packa idrottsväskan. – Jag har inte sovit ordentligt på evigheter. Och hon då – sover hon? Hon har knappt hunnit lägga huvudet på kudden innan Max börjar gallskrika. Fjärde gången den natten. – Det är jobbigt för mig också, – viskade Marina. – Jag fattar, – svarade han och tryckte ner sin favorittröja i väskan. – Men mitt jobb kräver att jag ser fräsch ut, har ansvar. Kan ju inte möta kunder med detta ansikte. Då hände något märkligt. Marina såg dem från utsidan: Hon, i flottigt nattlinne med risigt hår och ett skrikande barn på armen. Och han, packandes sin väska och på väg bort. – Jag vill leva för mig själv och få sova ut, – muttrade Erik utan att ens se på henne. Dörren slog igen. Marina stod kvar i lägenheten med den gråtande sonen och kände allt rasera inombords. En vecka gick, sen ytterligare en. Erik ringde typ tre gånger – undrade hur det gick. Lät avlägsen. Som om han pratade med en gammal bekant. – Kommer på helgen. Han kom inte. – Imorgon kommer jag, lovar. Inte då heller. Marina vyssjade en vrålande Max, bytte blöjor, blandade välling. Sov – på sin höjd en halvtimme mellan amningarna. – Har du det okej? – frågade hennes kompis. – Jo då, allt är toppen, – ljög Marina. Varför ljuger hon? Det är ju skamligt. Skamligt att bli lämnad av sin man, ensam med en bebis. Vad kan vara värre? Men det mest intressanta började på ICA – hon stötte ihop med Eriks kollega. – Var är din man då? – undrade Lena. – Jobbar mycket, – sa Marina. – Jaha. Alla karlar är likadana – så fort det finns barn gömmer de sig på jobbet. – Lena lutade sig fram: – Erik har visst ofta tjänsteresor, va? – Vilka tjänsteresor? – Han var ju precis i Göteborg på en konferens! Visade bilder till och med. Göteborg?! När då? Marina mindes: Erik hörde inte av sig tre dagar förra veckan. Sa att han hade mycket att göra. Lögner, han var visst i Göteborg och slappade. Erik dök upp på lördagen. Med blommor. – Ursäkta att jag inte varit här, det är så mycket jobb. – Var du i Göteborg? Han stelnade med buketten. – Vem har sagt det? – Spelar roll vem. Viktigt är: varför ljuger du? – Jag ljuger inte. Jag trodde bara du skulle bli ledsen för att jag åkte utan dig. Utan henne?! Hur skulle hon kunna åka någonstans med en bebis? – Erik, jag behöver hjälp. Kan du förstå det? Jag har inte sovit på veckor. – Vi kan anlita en nanny. – Med vad för pengar? Du ger ju inget. – Vadå ger inget? Jag betalar ju för lägenheten och elen. – Och till mat då? Blöjor? Medicin? Han teg. Sen: – Du kanske kan börja jobba igen? Bara halvtid? Varför sitta hemma? Då kan vi ha råd med barnvakt. Sitta hemma? Som om hon latar sig! Marina tog sin son, tittade på Erik och insåg plötsligt: den här mannen älskar mig inte. Inte alls. Aldrig gjort det. – Gå. – Vad säger du? – Ut. Och kom inte tillbaka förrän du vet vad som är viktigast för dig: familjen eller din frihet. Erik tog sina nycklar och gick. Var borta två dagar. Sen smsade han: “Jag tänker”. Marina sov inte. Hon tänkte också. Tänk att för första gången på månader få vara ensam med sina egna tankar. Mamma ringde: – Hur går det, gumman? Erik är väl hemma? – På tjänsteresa. Hon ljög igen. – Ska jag komma och hjälpa dig? – Det löser sig. Men mamma kom ändå. – Hur har ni det? – Hon såg sig omkring. – Herregud, Marina, du borde se dig i spegeln! Marina sneglade i spegeln. Ja, fantastisk syn. – Var är Erik? – Jobbar. – Klockan åtta på kvällen? Marina var tyst. – Vad händer egentligen? Då började Marina gråta. På riktigt. Högt och förtvivlat. – Han har gått. Säger att han vill leva för sig själv. Mamma var tyst. Sen: – Vilken skitstövel. Riktigt usel. Marina blev chockad. Mamma svor ju aldrig. – Jag har alltid tänkt att Erik är svag. Men så här mycket? – Mamma, kanske är det mitt fel? Borde jag försökt förstå mer? – Marina, har du det inte tungt? Av den enkelheten insåg Marina: hon hade hela tiden bara tänkt på Erik. Hans trötthet, hans bekvämlighet. Om sig själv – inte ett ord. – Vad ska jag göra? – Leva. Utan honom. Bättre ensam än med en sån. Erik kom tillbaka på lördagen. Solbränd. Tänkte väl på landet. – Ska vi prata? – Ja. De satte sig vid köksbordet. – Marina, jag fattar att det är tungt för dig. Men det är tufft för mig också. Kan vi inte komma överens? Jag hjälper till med pengar, hälsar på… men bor själv tills vidare. – Hur mycket? – Va? – Pengar. Hur mycket? – Typ tiotusen i månaden. Tiotusen. Till bebis, mat, medicin. – Erik, dra åt skogen. – Va?! – Du hörde mig. Kom inte tillbaka. – Jag föreslår en lösning! – Lösning? Du vill ha frihet? Var är min frihet? Då sa Erik det som förklarade allt: – Du har väl ingen frihet – du är ju mamma! Marina betraktade honom: där hade hon den riktiga Erik. En barnslig egoist som tror att moderskap är ett straff. – Imorgon ansöker jag om underhåll. En fjärdedel av lönen. Det är lagen. – Du gör det inte! – Jo, det gör jag. Han gick ut med ett brakande ljud. För första gången kändes det som luften blev lättare att andas. Max grät. Men nu visste Marina: det skulle ordna sig. Ett år gick. Erik försökte komma tillbaka två gånger. – Marina, ska vi försöka igen? – För sent. Erik gnällde om att Marina var elak. Inte särskilt övertygande. Marina skaffade nanny och jobbade som undersköterska. På jobbet träffade hon läkaren Andreas. – Har du barn? – Ja, en son. – Och pappan? – Lever sitt eget liv. Hon presenterade dem. Andreas kom med en leksaksbil till Max. De lekte och skrattade. Nu blev det ofta promenader i parken alla tre. Erik fick veta. Ringde: – Barnet är ett år, och du är med nya killar! – Vad trodde du? Att jag skulle vänta på dig? – Men du är ju mamma! – Ja, det är jag. Vad spelar det för roll? Sen ringde han aldrig mer. Andreas var annorlunda. När Max blev sjuk – kom han direkt. När Marina var helt slut – tog han med dem ut till landet. Nu är Max två år. Kallar Andreas för “farbror”. Minns inte Erik. Erik har gift sig. Betalar underhåll. Marina är inte arg. Hon lever också för sig själv nu. Och det känns fantastiskt.

Jag vill leva för mig själv och sova ut, sa Johan när han gick ut genom dörren. Tre månader.

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Två år hade gått sedan den där dagen, och nu stod jag plötsligt öga mot öga med henne igen. Framför mig promenerade en vacker kvinna på Stockholms gator, och hjärtat stannade nästan – i henne kände jag genast igen min före detta Monica, hon som alltid fick män att vända sig om. Efter bröllopet kände jag inte längre igen min fru, hon blev en av de där kvinnorna med flottigt hår och enorma t-shirts, aldrig längre en klänning som framhävde figuren eller elegant underkläder. Efter bröllopet gick min fru bara hemma i “säckar”. Tunga, slappa tröjor. Hon glömde att ta hand om sig själv – ingen manikyr, inget smink, och motionen försvann. Magens häng efter graviditeten var kvar, likaså celluliterna … Under de två år vi bodde ihop förändrades hon till oigenkännlighet. Hon blev allt större, tröjorna allt rymligare. När jag antydde att hon borde se sig själv i spegeln, blev hon sårad och drog sig undan. Till slut insåg jag att jag älskade Monica jag gifte mig med – den passionerade, roliga, vackra kvinnan alla mina vänner avundades och undrade hur jag hade lyckats få. Efter hennes förändring tappade jag intresset, blev oinspirerad och kände bara sorg när jag såg på henne. Sista gången jag såg henne, bar hon en stor grå t-shirt, fläckig av mjölk, pösiga shorts där celluliterna syntes och hade inte rakat benen. Håret samlat i en slarvig knut, ansiktet evigt sorgset och mörka skuggor under ögonen. Den kvällen sa jag till min fru att jag inte kunde leva med henne längre – att hon bara väckte sorg och medlidande, inte kärlek. Två år har passerat, och jag mötte henne igen. En vacker kvinna på gatan, mitt hjärta stannade. Jag kände igen min gamla Monica, hon som fick män att vända sig om. Nu bar hon en vacker klänning, håret lockigt och glänsande. Hon hade gått ner i vikt och gått från grå vardag till att återigen bli en drottning – en drottning som har uppfostrat våra två barn. Först då slog det mig: hon hade aldrig haft tid eller ork att ta hand om sig själv. Hon gav allt till hemmet och till våra barn. Jag brydde mig aldrig om henne, såg aldrig hur mycket kraft hon lade ner, och förstod aldrig varför hon inte hann eller orkade fixa sig. När jag själv ibland var ensam med tvillingarna blev jag slutkörd på två timmar. Men hon bar dem hela dagarna, städade, lagade mat och försökte ändå umgås med mig. I ansvaret försvann manikyrer och gympass. Och jag borde insett att hennes kropp behövde återhämta sig efter graviditeten, inte att hon genast skulle pressas till träning. Vi gick aldrig någonstans där hon kunde använda smycken eller fina klänningar, och att ha det hemma kändes aldrig bekvämt. Det var mitt fel att hon aldrig fick visa sig i sina vackra kläder. Först två år senare kunde jag se på vårt förhållande utifrån och förstå att hon burit hela familjen – och aldrig klagat, alltid tagit emot mig efter jobbet och aldrig varit arg. Hon byggde ett hem att återvända till, och jag förstod det för sent. Allt jag behövde göra var att hjälpa henne så hon skulle kunna ta hand om sig själv ibland. Jag var en idiot som förlorade en skatt utan att förstå det. Jag var så övertygad om min egen rätt att jag struntade i hennes och barnens liv – och förstörde allt. Nu ser jag på henne och önskar jag fick henne tillbaka, men jag vet inte om hon någonsin kan förlåta mig. Jag ska försöka tala med henne och visa att jag förändrats, åtminstone för våra barns skull – för jag har redan missat två år av deras uppväxt … Nu har min fru många beundrare men släpper ingen nära, det verkar som att det var jag som sårade henne så djupt. Och nu vet jag inte hur jag ska hantera skammen och skulden efter det jag gjort …

Två år hade gått sedan den där dagen, och nu såg jag henne igen. En vacker kvinna gick längs Vasagatan

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The Other Woman Comes Knocking — I’m Lara, we work together. We love each other, and you’re in the way! Hand over Pete! — How am I in your way? — asked Svetlana Anne, genuinely surprised. — Give me some facts! — Well… — the woman faltered. — He won’t leave you! Uncle Peter, are you daft? These genius words were spoken by young Simon in Vera Panova’s novella, after adult Uncle Peter offered him a sweet—only for the wrapper to be empty… And honestly, he was daft. Like the old British saying: “No need for a therapist, just a daft old fool!” Svetlana Anne said the same thing to her husband. Not after his new lady turned up in their home—even that, as a wife, she could swallow!—but a little later. So, it turned out her Peter, Pete the Cockeral with his golden crest, whom she’d been with for so many years, had found himself a sweetheart. And she didn’t just show up—she came demanding: “We love each other. Give me your husband!” By then, Svetiya had begun to suspect! Peter started shaving every day—instead of every other day. Bought a new cologne and even ironed creases into his jeans. Svetiya didn’t want to disappoint her husband; she thought, serves him right. And off he went into the night, smelling like some pungent imported nonsense—he’d been assigned night duty! Yes, him—a middle manager! — You see, darling,— her husband explained over supper,— our building firm’s a small operation, and our security guard quit! Plus, we have no budget! So now we each take turns sleeping in the office to ward off burglars. I’d happily stay home—there’s not even a proper bed at work! — But how will you last all night? Sitting up?— Svetiya asked, in her best village accent. Peter grimaced—how could anyone talk like that? “Sitting up”—what in the world? It’s an old participle, but as a college Russian teacher, Svetlana Anne knew it well—unlike her husband. She already sensed that her husband was lying. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. They’d been married almost twenty years. Their daughter lived elsewhere. And now, most likely, her husband had a bit on the side. That happens—he fell in love, just admit it and go. The flat was Svetlana Anne’s from before the marriage. If it ends, it ends! Midlife madness, and all that. But Peter was in no hurry to confess. Why? Did he still love her? Think the other woman was just a fling? But one fact remained: her husband stayed at home as if nothing had changed! Even fulfilled his marital duties. Apart from a few hints, Svetiya had no proof of an affair. Maybe she was imagining things? The cologne! The pressed jeans! Svetiya was about to let these quirks slide, but then she showed up—the scheming home-wrecker “Rachel Zane.” Pete wasn’t home. Svetiya was cleaning their two-bed flat. Then—the knock: “Hello there!” Trusting Svetiya, like a scene from her favourite film, let her in: maybe she’s here for something important! Turned out later, her husband’s “love” was five years younger than Svetiya but looked about forty. And “Rachel” presented her case: — I’m Lara, we work together. We love each other and you’re in the way! Hand me Pete! — How am I stopping you?— asked Svetlana Anne, honestly surprised.— Give me facts! — Well…— stammered the woman.— He won’t leave you! — That’s because he doesn’t want to leave me! I’d happily pack his bags for you right now!— Svetiya suggested.— What did he tell you? Probably that I’m dying and he can’t abandon me? — Well, not exactly dying,— said the visitor awkwardly.— But close. Truth be told, she hadn’t discussed it with Peter! And they barely spoke at all: everything about the supposed affair was just in her own imagination… But Svetiya didn’t know that. — But you can see now I’m perfectly fine! So feel free to take Pete—no complaints: I’m filing for divorce tomorrow! And for you—best of luck, happiness, and love!— smiled the wife to her guest. — Really?— said the visitor, delighted.— You’re so positive! Honestly, I wasn’t expecting this. I was prepared for the worst! “You don’t know how positive I can be!” thought Svetiya, still smiling, but out loud she said: — Of course! Peter and I have a very trusting relationship. We respect each other. So I’ll pass this on to him, and you can go in peace! It sounded like: “Rest in peace, dear.” But her rival, delighted and triumphant, didn’t notice. — Well, tell him I’m waiting for him tonight, packed and ready!— said Lara, flashing a victorious grin—she’d “defeated” her opponent!— and skipped off towards her “happiness.” — Absolutely, dear!— replied the Russian teacher.— Wait for him! When Peter got home from work, he found a lonely suitcase packed in the hallway: Pete didn’t actually own much—what you pay for is what you get! From his look, Svetiya realised he had absolutely no idea. He showed no nerves, kissed his wife as usual, and asked: — Svetiya, what’s for dinner? And why is there a suitcase in the hall? Are you going somewhere? — Your girlfriend was here!— started Svetiya, no frills or fuss. — Who, my girlfriend?— Pete was honestly baffled. — You know, the security lady you’re supposedly working night shifts with—to protect the company stuff! Pete blushed and quietly asked: — Lara, you mean? I’ve never done a night shift with her! — Are there others besides Lara? Turns out you’re a real playboy in your golden years! — It’s not what you think,— the man began. — What do I think? Go on—guess, Mr Mind-Reader! Well? Will you say nothing happened or that she came of her own accord? — I won’t say!— Pete sniffled.— It happened, but only once! Remember when I came home drunk? That’s when! But I didn’t mean to—it was an accident! She overpowered me—it was instinct! So… — I get it, Pete—love takes over, you can’t escape! As Polygraph Sharikov said—youthful stuff! Don’t be embarrassed—I understand. By the way, it’s all sorted. Lara’s waiting: I agreed you’d go with her! — Go where?— Pete’s face fell. Lara was a recent arrival, living in a rented room. “Why go?” — Because you shouldn’t hide your feelings, Pete! I can see it in your eyes! So off you go—fair winds and good luck! — But I don’t want to!— Pete protested; it was true, he didn’t! — Is it just that she sweats a lot?— Svetiya teased. “Hot to sleep?” His wife’s colleague was indeed a big lady—and during the conversation kept dabbing sweat from her upper lip with an embroidered handkerchief. Pete was silent and lost. And with Lara, it really had only happened drunk, one time at the office party. No love in the equation. But she started stalking him. And the wife pieced the whole story together. If only you knew, dear readers, how many women in British asylums once believed themselves Maureen McGovern’s fiancée! Countless—far more than you could think. Even now, there are plenty of oddballs—there must be dozens of Peters in Brazil… Otherwise perfectly normal people—just a bit unhinged when obsessed. Today, luckily, Lara took time off—she was preparing for a big talk. And Pete could breathe easy: it was so embarrassing for the small team. “Peter, try some of my pancakes—I made them myself! Clearly, your wife’s not feeding you!” “How was your weekend? Want to talk about it?” “Oh, you were in my dreams last night! Want to know what we did together?” “What a fool I’ve been!” thought sad Pete. “Imagine getting myself into this mess! Might have to quit my job!” He’d regretted giving in to a moment of weakness a hundred times. Who could’ve guessed Lara was so unstable? — Fine,— the wife relented,— say you’re telling the truth, Casanova. What about us? Am I supposed to get into bed with you after all this? — I’ll sleep on the sofa!— the guilty husband said eagerly. He’d have slept on the hallway floor if only Svetiya wouldn’t kick him out. And she agreed—they’d see how things went. Next day was Saturday—Lara showed up first thing: “So, are we off? I get it; you couldn’t yesterday!” When Peter opened the door, he was stunned: how bad could things get? He tried to reason with the elated woman: mania is no joke. — Rachel Victoria, dear,— Lara tensed at those words.— Go home! Careful, it’s slippery out! — And you?— asked the colleague. — I’m staying here!— Pete announced, trying to sound firm.— With my wife! — But we love each other!— the woman insisted. — It’s all in your head! Nothing happened, NOTHING!— Pete said, knowing it wasn’t true. But try and prove otherwise! So what if they had left together once? Maybe they parted ways immediately after? And everyone at the small company knew Lara had a screw loose. Pete was sticking to his story. Lara stood silently, staring at the object of her passion. Things were meant to work out! His wife had let him go! Why not? — Goodbye!— said Peter and closed the door. At that point, his wife finally quoted the classic line from Vera Panova about Uncle Pete—and it fit the moment perfectly. Pete didn’t even open his mouth. Silence speaks louder than words… Lara lingered by the closed door: maybe he’d change his mind? Then trudged away: another defeat? Unfortunately, Pete wasn’t her first victim: two other colleagues had already quit because of Lara’s harassment. With them, there hadn’t even been an affair! By Monday, Rachel didn’t show for work—unexpectedly quit. Maybe three failed romances were enough to start hunting for love in another company. Perhaps she wasn’t so crazy after all… Peter breathed a sigh of relief—he’d even considered quitting. Thank goodness she hadn’t gotten pregnant… Kind-hearted Svetiya forgave her husband. Yes, he’d been unfaithful once, and drunkenly! But the rest was true! It turned out the men at the building firm really were taking turns guarding the office—cheapskate management skimped on security! The new cologne and pressed jeans were a red herring. Just a coincidence—such is luck! Maybe the fault lay with Mercury retrograde and the magnetic storms—at least there was someone to blame! So, what’s to conclude? Don’t get drunk at office parties, lads! Love can truly be toxic. In our day and age, there’s plenty of it. Thank goodness she didn’t try blackmail. And you can’t blame everything on Mercury forever…

The Other Woman Came for His Belongings Im Laura. We work together and were in love, you see.

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Ge oss nycklarna till sommarstugan, vi vill bo där ett tag – när vänner får låna huset över helgerna går allt snett för värdparet som inte tänkte på konsekvenserna

Kan vi få nycklarna till sommarstugan, vi vill bo där ett tag, paret lät vänner bo i deras hus utan att

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Pappa har bestämt sig för att gifta om sig – När mamma gick bort förlorade jag båda mina föräldrar, men när pappa hittade kärleken igen blev arvet vår största prövning

Dagbok, 16 oktober Det är fem år sedan mamma gick bort. Hon var bara fyrtioåtta när hjärtat plötsligt

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The Unacknowledged Daughter Oh, what trouble teenage Olivia was at sixteen! She got mixed up with a gang of older lads dabbling in petty theft, rarely home, and drove her poor mother to despair. It was sheer luck she didn’t end up in jail when those lads finally got nabbed for theft. That’s when Olivia discovered she was pregnant—from one of the boys, Michael, whom she’d had a short-lived romance with. Too scared to tell her mum, she missed the window for an abortion and had no choice but to keep the baby, even though Michael got sent away to a young offenders’ institute for four years. Olivia tried going to Michael’s parents for help, but his mum, Tammy Atherton, quickly set her straight: “As if having Michael embarrass us wasn’t enough, now you want to saddle us with someone else’s child? Sort your own mess. As far as we’re concerned, we have a daughter, not a son!” And Olivia, too proud to push, confided in her own mother. After plenty of tears, she gave birth to a healthy girl. The arrival of Maisie curbed Olivia’s wild streak. She found work at a shop and stopped partying. Big thanks to her mother—she loved looking after her granddaughter and never reproached her wayward daughter again. They lived modestly, but happily. Michael and Olivia exchanged letters for a bit; he knew about Maisie’s birth but didn’t see her until she was three. He tried to make it work with Olivia—for the sake of their daughter—but by then, she wasn’t interested. “That was just teenage foolishness,” Olivia said briskly. “Not sure I even loved you then—certainly don’t now. I’ve got a boyfriend, Danny, and we’re getting married. He’ll be a good dad to Maisie. Off you go.” Michael didn’t press the matter. Hurt, but not crushed, he moved up North to work as a lorry driver with a mate. His parents never forgave him, and there wasn’t much keeping him in their town. He didn’t forget about Maisie. He’d call on birthdays and Christmas, even sent the odd present. Ten years passed before father and daughter met again, when Michael’s health forced him to return to his hometown. By that time, he’d patched things up a bit with his family—including his sister Natalie and her daughter, Ellie. He lived alone, renting a room in a shared flat, working as a handyman with the council. Maisie always knew she had a real dad, loving him even as she resented his absence. Dad buggered off thousands of miles away for his own comfort, she complained—leaving her stuck with Mum and stepdad! Uncle Colin—her stepdad—was all right, but hardly paid her any mind. Him and Mum doted on their boy, Vlad, and Maisie felt left out. Of course, that wasn’t strictly true—little Vlad just needed extra attention. But what teenager can admit that? Olivia tried her best to show Maisie her love—afraid she’d fall in with a bad crowd just like she had—but her efforts often missed the mark. When Michael turned up on her doorstep: “So you decided to show up?” Maisie challenged him. “Took your time, didn’t you?” “Daughter, is that necessary?” Michael said sheepishly. “Life’s complicated…” “Oh, adults love blaming life for everything! No other excuses, is there?” Maisie played at being angry, heart pounding over what he’d say. Suppose he just left again—then she’d be alone, once more… But he was resolutely patient, and soon they built up a warm relationship. He became an authority for her, warning her where the law could land her if she strayed. Downside: Michael liked a drink. Never violent, never a scene—but Maisie hated seeing him that way. He saw it bothered her and would hide on those days. “Decent bloke,” sighed his neighbour, Auntie Jean, whom Maisie befriended while visiting. “Just hasn’t had luck with women. Lives alone, only talks about you, love.” Maisie nodded, but thought: he’s brought it on himself… He tried to introduce Maisie to his niece—their cousin Ellie. Didn’t stick. “My gran always said you were nobody to us!” Ellie sneered. “Your mum tried to foist you on our family, but it never worked. My gran’s no fool!” “As if we need you!” Maisie retorted just as scornfully. “Hardly royal, are you?” After that, if they met on their small town’s streets, they ignored each other. Maisie heard from her dad that Ellie’s mum died (her dad had passed long ago); her gran and granddad too—relatives Maisie never even met. Auntie Jean whispered, Michael had wanted to introduce Maisie to her grandparents, but either they refused or he lost his nerve… Maisie couldn’t care less—she had enough on her plate. After college, she found work, married at twenty-two, and a year later had a beautiful daughter, Alice. Michael was over the moon—almost quit drinking, always looking forward to visits from his daughter and granddaughter. They’d meet at his, or out and about—her husband didn’t much care for his father-in-law. “Asked me yesterday how much private school costs,” Auntie Jean said in a whisper. “Says he’s saving up for Alice’s education. Took a second job. Fancy that!” “So long as he isn’t drinking,” Maisie replied quietly. “He wasn’t himself before, something’s clearly wrong. But he won’t admit it…” Three years later, Alice got a baby brother, Andy. Granddad doted, even more on Alice, but spent less time with them, looking ever more drained. “Just tired,” he’d brush off Maisie’s concern. “A good rest, I’ll be right.” She worried, but her own family needed her. Then, out of nowhere, Maisie’s husband announced he wanted out—found himself a younger woman. Between divorce and court and everything else… Maisie lost track of her dad. “Come round, Maisie,” said Auntie Jean’s sorrowful voice on the phone—dad had died. Her mum took the kids for the funeral, which saved Maisie’s sanity. She’d barely caught her breath after the wake before Ellie brought up ‘the inheritance.’ “What inheritance?” scoffed Auntie Cath, friend of the family. “A room in a shared flat—nothing but trouble!” “Don’t be so sure,” said Ellie. “Mum told me, heaven rest her soul, Uncle Mike had shares up North he’d never spent. Not millions, but still… And you can sell the flat.” Maisie flared up—dad barely cold, and Ellie was already dividing the spoils! “Diving up the spoils? Please,” Ellie scoffed at Maisie’s protest. “I’m his only legal heir. Not sharing with anyone.” Maisie wanted to argue, but bit her tongue—Ellie was right. Officially, Maisie wasn’t Michael’s daughter; even her surname and patronymic were different. “It’s hardly a problem!” said Uncle Colin, when Maisie and her mum told him. “You just have to prove in court he was your father. Ellie can keep her greedy paws to herself!” “Just like that?” Olivia asked, glancing at her daughter. “Don’t they need a DNA test? And, er—what would we compare with?” “Didn’t even keep his toothbrush?” Colin smirked. “Girls! Honestly, hopeless.” Turns out, they hadn’t. While Maisie pondered, Ellie, who’d somehow gotten a key, hired cleaners for the flat. They disinfected everything, threw out his stuff, washed his clothes. “What’s the problem? It’s normal to clean up after the deceased,” Ellie said, eyes innocent, smile just hidden. But Colin—ah, why hadn’t Maisie appreciated him sooner?—had another idea. “Go to court, Maisie. There’s loads of witnesses who knew Mike claimed you as his daughter. You’ll easily prove it!” And he was right. Her mum testified, Auntie Jean, even Mike’s workmates—he’d always boasted of his daughter and granddaughter. In the end, Maisie could claim not just the flat, stocks, and bank account, but even the house that her grandparents never acknowledged her in. Not that she was greedy—she’d share with Ellie. Just not sure how…

The Unacknowledged Daughter Oh, Ellie was quite the troublemaker at sixteen! She fell in with a crowd

Mum, Dad, hi, you asked us to pop round—what’s happened? Marina and her husband Tony burst into her parents’ flat. It had all started a while ago—Mum was ill, facing a serious diagnosis… After chemo and radiotherapy, remission brought hope, but her health was failing again. When the family gathered, Mum nervously confessed a heartfelt wish: “Marina, Tony, we’re asking something unusual… Please, would you adopt a boy for us? We’re too old, but you can give a child the love we couldn’t.” Stunned, Marina revealed she and Tony had also considered adoption—they already had two daughters and longed for a son, but health risks ruled out another pregnancy. Inspired by Mum’s story, and a wise woman’s words about lost chances and restoring balance, they embraced her plea. In the orphanage, fate led them to Nikita—a quiet boy with sad eyes who begged, “Please, take me with you—I promise you won’t regret it.” Marina and Tony adopted him, and Nikita quickly became part of the family, calling his grandmother “Mum Ira”—a name that comforted her through her toughest days. As Mum Ira’s illness worsened, Nikita’s love and hope became her lifeline. When a risky operation hung by a thread, it was as if someone above answered his prayers, granting Mum Ira another chance at life—a testament to the power of family, compassion, and the unexpected bonds that heal the deepest wounds.

Mum, Dad, hello, you asked us to pop round, is something wrong? Emma and her husband Tom burst through

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Igår sa jag upp mig – utan att skriva någon uppsägningsblankett och utan två veckors varsel. Jag ställde fram en tallrik med tårta, tog min väska och lämnade min dotters hem. Min “arbetsgivare” var min egen dotter – Maria. Lön, trodde jag i alla år, var kärlek. Men igår insåg jag: i vår familjs ekonomi har min kärlek inget värde jämfört med ett splitternytt surfplatta. Jag heter Anna, är 64 år, pensionär och före detta sjuksköterska, bor på liten pension i en svensk förort. Men i verkligheten – chaufför, kock, städerska, läxhjälp, stöd och jourhavande ambulans åt två barnbarn: Erik (9 år) och Daniel (7 år). Jag är det man kallar “svensson-babban”. Ni vet: “det krävs en hel by för att uppfostra ett barn”? Idag är byn oftast en trött mormor med kaffe, Bamseplåster och Ipren som kost. Maria jobbar inom marknadsföring. Hennes man, Johan, inom finans. Bra människor – intalade jag mig så. Ständigt utmattade. Förskolan dyr. Skolan krånglig. Fritidsaktiviteter ännu krångligare. När Erik föddes såg de på mig som drunknande ser på livboj. ”Mamma, vi har inte råd med barnvakt – och vi litar bara på dig.” Jag sa ja. Ville inte vara till besvär – så blev själva stödet. Min dag börjar 05:45: Jag åker dit, kokar gröt – riktig, för Daniel ratar snabbgröt. Packar barnen, skjutsar till skolan. Kommer tillbaka, städar golv som andra har smutsat ner, och toaletter jag själv inte använder. Skola igen, aktiviteter, engelska, fotboll, läxor. Jag är mormor med schema. Mormor med “Nej”. Mormor med regler. Och så har vi Birgitta, Johans mamma. Nyligen inflyttad i modern sjöutsikt – spa, ny bil, resor. Hon ser barnbarnen två gånger om året. Birgitta vet inte att Erik har allergi, eller hur man lugnar Daniel när han gråter över matte. Hon har aldrig tvättat kräks från bilstolen. Birgitta är mormor med “Ja”. Igår fyllde Erik nio. Jag förberedde länge – jag har ont om pengar men ville ge något på riktigt. Tre månader har jag stickat ett tungt täcke, för han sover så dåligt. Valde hans favoritfärger. La ner allt jag har. Bakade riktig tårta – inte “mix”. 16:15 ringde det på dörren. Birgitta stormade in: parfym, fixad, paket. “Var är mina grabbar?!” Barnbarnen knuffade sig fram till henne. “Mormor!” Hon slog sig ner på soffan och tog fram ett paket med logga. ”Jag visste inte vad ni gillar, så tog det allra nyaste.” Två gaming-surfplattor – dyrast på marknaden. ”Inga begränsningar,” blinkade hon. ”Idag gäller mina regler!” Barnen tappade allt – tårtan glömd, gäster glömd. Maria och Johan log i kapp. ”Men Birgitta, du skämmer ju bort dem …” sa Johan och bjöd vin. Jag stod där med täcket i handen. “Erik… jag har också en present… och tårtan …” Han tittade inte ens upp. ”Inte nu, mormor. Jag måste klara banan.” ”Jag har stickat … hela vintern …” Han suckade: ”Mormor, ingen vill ha täcken. Birgitta gav oss surfplattor. Varför är du alltid så tråkig? Du fixar bara mat och kläder.” Jag tittade på min dotter. Väntade att hon skulle säga ifrån. Maria skrattade tafatt: ”Mamma, ta inte illa upp. Han är bara barn. Klart plattan är roligare. Birgitta är liksom den roliga mormorn. Och du … du är liksom den vardagliga.” Vardaglig mormor. Som vardagsdisk. Vardagskö. Nödvändig – men osynlig. ”Jag vill att Birgitta bor här,” sa Daniel. ”Hon tvingar oss aldrig att göra läxor.” Då gick något sönder i mig. Jag vek ihop täcket, la det på bordet, tog av mig förklädet. ”Maria. Jag är klar.” ”Va? Ska du skära tårtan?” ”Nej. Allt.” Jag tog min väska. ”Jag är ingen maskin som man kan stänga av. Jag är din mamma.” ”Mamma, vart ska du? Jag har ju presentation imorgon! Vem hämtar barnen?” ”Vet inte. Sälj surfplattan. Eller låt den roliga mormorn ta över.” ”Mamma, vi behöver dig!” Jag stannade till. ”Exakt där ligger felet. Ni behöver mig. Men ni ser inte mig.” Jag gick ut. Idag vaknade jag klockan nio. Bryggde kaffe. Satt på trappen. För första gången på åratal har jag inte ont i ryggen. Jag älskar barnbarnen. Men jag kommer aldrig mer vara gratis hushållerska dold bakom ordet familj. Kärlek är inte självutplåning. Och mormor är ingen resurs. Vill de ha en mormor med schema – får de respektera schemat. Tills vidare … Kanske anmäler jag mig till buggkurs. Sånt gör tydligen “roliga mormödrar”.

Jag sa upp mig igår. Utan lapp. Utan att ge två veckors förvarning. Jag ställde bara fram en tallrik