January 2026 – Page 62

She Ran Away for Good — Did you stand up to him again? — her mother asked as she unpacked shopping bags. — Alya, when will you learn some sense? Sergei is a decent man, handsome, hardworking, he never cheats. He may have a temper, but it’s because he shoulders all the responsibility. You should put your pride aside. — Mum, he hit me. Because I mentioned nursery. You think that’s normal? — Oh, here we go again! — her mother threw up her hands. — What a tragedy. Back in my day, they disciplined kids with the reins, and families were strong. Look how he loves you! Goes out of his way for you, brings you everywhere. Where else are you going to find someone like him? With a child in tow? Who do you think wants you? Alya stood at the cooker, stirring the fourth dish of the evening. Soup boiled in one pot, meat sizzled in the pan, a pie baked in the oven, and in a saucepan, she wrestled with a tricky gravy Sergei insisted must be the perfect consistency—“so a spoon stands up but doesn’t fall over.” Sweat dripped down her face, stray hair stuck to her cheeks, but Alya didn’t dare step away even for a minute. The TV blasted in the living room, volume maxed—Sergei couldn’t stand silence, he said it messed with his head. Her son slept in the back room, and Alya constantly listened out for the sound of crying if the laughter track from the telly got too loud. Her husband slipped into the kitchen as quietly as a cat. He hugged her from behind, making Alya jump. — Smells delicious, — he murmured into her hair. — My little homemaker. Tired? Alya froze, spoon clamped in her fist. At moments like these, he was the man she’d married three years ago: gentle, caring, dependable. But… — I am tired, Sergei. Maybe it’s time we think about nursery? Lenka’s old enough now, he needs friends. And I’d like to go back to work… Instantly, his arms dropped. — This again? We’ve talked about this. He went for a week—sick for a month. Do you not care about our boy? Or do you just want to ditch him so you can sit in an office? — Sergei, all children get ill at first… That’s just adapting. The doctor says— — I don’t give a toss what your doctors say, — he cut her off. — I said nursery can wait till next year. Do you hear me? Or do you think you know better than me? — I just want my own money, — Alya turned, searching his face. — To develop myself—not stay at the stove all day. The slap sounded sharper than the sizzle of meat. Alya staggered into the sink, banging her hip on the cupboard—her ears ringing. — Oh, you want your own money? — Sergei hissed, looming over her. — I support you, buy you clothes, bring you presents. What else could you want? You’ve got it too good! Alya stayed silent, pressing her palm to her burning cheek. She knew that look. Now wasn’t the time to argue—every word only meant more bruises. — Sit and eat, — he barked, dropping into a chair. — And don’t let me hear another word about work. You’re a wife and mother. That’s your place. *** The next day, Alya’s mum arrived, apples from the garden and a new barrage of lectures in tow. Noticing the faint swelling on her daughter’s cheek, which Alya had tried to hide with concealer, her mother started up again about how a wife must obey. — I want a divorce, — Alya said quietly, cutting her off. Her mum froze, apple in hand. — Have you gone mad? Need me to call the crisis team? You’re losing your mind, girl! Do you have any idea what you’re saying? You walk out of this house, you’re not coming back. You hear me? Don’t even think about it. Put up with it, like everyone else! A memory of the shopping centre flashed in Alya’s mind—six months ago, Sergei had left her by the entrance to a children’s shop to go smoke. A hulking man bumped into Alya, knocking her to the tiles in her heels. Instead of apologising, he’d shouted at her for being in the way. Sergei had appeared out of nowhere. She’d never seen him like that before—he didn’t just defend her, he’d attacked the man with an animal rage. Security had to pull them apart. Afterwards, Sergei picked up his trembling wife: — I’m sorry, sweetheart, forgive me for leaving you alone. I’d kill anyone who hurt you. Back then, Alya thought that was true love—huge, overwhelming. Now she couldn’t understand how one person could be both knight in shining armour and the brute who’d kick her for placing a chair wrong, or making him cold coffee. The “knight” had vanished these past four months. Now Sergei could shout at her in the supermarket queue, call her names in front of strangers just for taking too long to find her card. — You idiot, Alya, — he barked, grabbing the bags. — You really need your head checked. How do I even live with someone like you? *** A thread to the outside world remained—Lida, a distant cousin in London. They spoke secretly—Alya phoned when Sergei was out. — Drop everything, Alya, — Lida urged. — My husband runs a restaurant, I need a reliable manager. You’re smart, you’re a quick thinker, you look great. I’ll rent you a flat for the first couple of months, pay for private nursery for Lenka. Come stay! — Lida, I’m scared. He said he’ll never let me go. He’ll kill me before that… — Alya mumbled. — He’s just scaring you so you don’t run. He knows you’d be a free woman without him. He needs a victim. Come on, is this a life? Stove, tears, and slaps? You dreamed of fitness, books… Do you remember how you used to laugh? Alya remembered. Every night before sleep, she closed her eyes and imagined: morning, she walks along a London street, taking her son to nursery. No one shouting, no one deciding what she should eat or what to watch. She goes to the gym, gets fit, reads what she wants—not what Sergei approves. But every time she opened her eyes and saw her husband asleep beside her, her resolve melted. She still loved him. The old version of him. A tiny hope flickered that it was just a “rough patch,” that if she waited a bit longer and tried harder, maybe he’d be kind again. *** Sunday afternoon, another argument—Alya didn’t speak sweetly enough to his mum on the phone. Her husband kicked her in the ribs as she bent down to pick up her son’s toy. Sparks flew behind her eyes. While she recovered, he left, slamming the door. Returned that evening with a huge bouquet of lilies. — What are you sulking for? — he said, coming over as she put their son to bed. — I apologised, didn’t I? Look at these. Flowers for the lady, peace for the house. Come on? He started dragging her to bed. Alya went cold—she knew he’d start demanding affection. The thought of his touch made her sick. — Sergei, not now! My side hurts, I can hardly breathe. He went red, slapped her again, then smiled: — Well fine, if you won’t, someone else will. Can’t leave a spot empty, can you. She didn’t sleep that night. Listening to Sergei clattering in the kitchen, fridge door banging, him swapping muted voice messages. In the morning, he acted like nothing happened—frying eggs, whistling a tune. — Lenka, up you get! Breakfast ready, mate! Alya walked into the kitchen, silent. Her husband slapped her on the backside as she passed. — What’s up with the long face? — My ribs hurt, Sergei, — she whispered, lowering herself onto a chair. — Oh’ll get over it, stop making things up. You walked into my hand, that’s all. He tossed the spatula into the sink, then came over, tilting her chin. — If you’re planning on playing the wounded queen any longer, remember—I’ll get bored of that real quick. I wasn’t joking yesterday. I’m a strong, healthy man. If I come home to a misery guts, I’ll find fun elsewhere. Got it? Alya nodded. — That’s more like it. My mum’s stopping by soon, she’s got some plants for you. Put yourself together so she doesn’t start asking why you look so pale. Sergei left the room. Lenka sat poking his porridge, staring at his mum with wide, all-seeing eyes, and Alya’s heart clenched. He sees everything… Would he grow up to be the same kind of bully? *** Half an hour later, her mother-in-law arrived. Alya got it in the neck, again. — Alya, why’s the hallway so mucky? — she squinted at the lino. — Sergei works hard, he shouldn’t come home to dirt. — I was late putting Lenka to bed, didn’t get to it, — Alya tried to smile. — “Didn’t get to it,” — her mother-in-law mimicked, dumping muddy plants on the table. — Lazy, ungrateful girl. My son’s given his life for you, all for your family. A proper wife would worship him, and you sulk. Sergei told me you mentioned divorce again. — He complained to you? — Yes, he said you don’t appreciate him. Where would you go, eh? Who wants a woman with baggage? Your mum’s right—men don’t put up with this. Have you seen yourself? Only Sergei’d put up with you. — Mum, stop it, — Sergei entered, hugged his mother, winked at his wife. — She’s just got a creative spirit, she’ll kick off and then calm down. So, what about those plants? Let’s see them on the balcony. They left, loudly discussing tomatoes; Alya stood by the table. Muddy water spread on the tablecloth. She got out her phone, hands shaking. “Lida, hi. I’m in. When should I come?” Reply came in a minute: “Just go, if you can. I’ll buy your tickets. Waiting for you. DON’T tell him anything.” Alya tucked her phone away. A plan began to form. — Alya! — Sergei yelled from the balcony. — What are you daydreaming for? Make mum a coffee. And me, too. — Coming, — she said. — Just coming. She played the perfect wife all day: scrubbed the floors, laughed at her husband’s bad jokes. He was pleased. He started his “surprises” again: chocolates and cinema tickets for the weekend. — See, — he pulled her close, ignoring her flinch, — I can be a good husband when you don’t wind me up. Forget the past. We’re family. She waited until he was asleep. Then she packed up Lenka’s rucksack—just essentials. Left her own things; Lida said she’d buy what they needed. Just take the documents. She bundled her sleeping son in a blanket, called a taxi. At the door, Lenka woke up. — Mummy? Where are we going? — he whispered, rubbing his eyes. — Shh, love. We’re going on an adventure. A big train ride. Want to come? — Yes, — he nodded, arms out. At three in the morning, they left. For good. *** Sergei searched hard, but never found her in the city. With her cousin’s help, Alya started a new life. She even managed divorce—the solicitor sorted everything. Sergei remarried quickly, and Alya felt sorry for the next woman. Men like her ex never change…

Gone for Good Did you contradict him again? my mother asked as she unpacked the shopping bags.

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Jag ska gifta mig, men absolut inte med den här snyggingen. Jo, han är en fantastisk kille på alla sätt. Men han är inte rätt för mig. ”Igen har mamma kommit hem med sambon – och ännu en man. Redan lite på pickalurven”, – Irina satt sig i hörnet bakom skänken. – Och det finns ingenstans att gömma sig, ute har snön redan fallit. Jag är så trött på allt det här. Till sommaren har jag gått klart nian, då drar jag till stan. Ska söka till lärarhögskolan och bli lärare. Det är bara tio kilometer till stan, men jag ska bo på elevhemmet. Mamma och gästerna samlades i köket. Flaskorna bubblade när de hällde upp, det luktade korv. Flickan svalde ofrivilligt. – Vänta du! – hördes mammas röst. – Varför spelar du svår? – Ni är ju två… – Det är ju inte första gången med två, – hördes mammas sambos röst, Mikael. Det klingade av fallande porslin. Skrap, stön. Irina tryckte sig längre in i hörnet. Oväntat blev det tyst. – Hör du, Niklas, hon sover, – sa sambon. – Du sa ju att hon är en bra tjej, men något går jag igång på med henne… – Du, hon har ju en dotter… – Vilken dotter? – Irina, hon är ju stor nu. Antagligen gömmer sig i sitt rum. – Dra hit henne, – ropade Niklas glatt. – Irina, var är du? – Mammas sambo kom in, såg Irina och log obehagligt. – Kom, sitt med oss! – Jag har det bra här. – Vad gör du, är du blyg eller? – Mikael försökte krama flickan. Irina grep en vas från skänken och dunkade den i huvudet på mammas sambo. Glaskross ekade. Irina slet sig loss och rusade ut från rummet. – Ta henne! – ropade Mikael. Men flickan var redan vid ytterdörren. Det fanns ingen tid att ta på sig, med bara strumpor, gamla shorts och t-shirt sprang hon ut i snön. Männen sprang efter. Gatan låg öde. Vart skulle man ta vägen på kvällen ute i snön? Skrik hördes bakom. I det stora huset hon passerade började hunden skälla. Sedan en mansröst, som ropade åt hunden. Irina rusade till grinden och bankade. En man i fyrtioårsåldern öppnade. – Hjälp mig! – viskade flickan och såg bedjande på honom. – Kom in! – han drog Irina i handen och stängde dörren. – Olof, vem är det? – hans fru kom ut i farstun. – Här är hon, – nickade han mot flickan. – Några män har jagat henne. – Fort in i huset! – kvinnan tog Irinas hand. – Du får berätta allt sen. – Irina, kom ut! Gör det lätt för dig! – ropade Mikael från gatan. – Olof, blanda dig inte i detta! – skrek frun. – Kom in! Skrik hördes från gatan, hunden skällde från gården. – Vi måste ringa polisen, – kvinnan tog upp mobilen. – Pauline, nej då. Jag löser det här. De verkar vara bybor. – Hur hade du tänkt göra? – På mitt sätt. Lugna flickan! Han tog en påse, gick till kylskåpet, stoppade i en flaska och en bit korv. Ute i gården klappade han hunden, och båda gick ut på gatan. Mikael rusade genast fram: – Ge hit Irina! – Ta det här och stick! Mikael öppnade påsen, log plötsligt och nickade mot sin vän. – Kom, Niklas. *** – Så! Jag heter Pauline, – kvinnan satte på tevatten. – Sätt dig, berätta nu, vem är du och vad har hänt? – Jag heter Irina, – stackars flickan skakade av köld. – Jag bor på samma gata, men längst ut. – Är du Kiras dotter? – Ja. – Vi har inte bott här så länge, men har redan hört om din mamma. Flickan böjde huvudet och grät. – Så, gråt inte! Kvinnan kom och kramade henne försiktigt. Det kändes ovant för Irina. Hon kramade kvinnan hårt och grät ännu mer. – Nu räcker det! Nu dricker vi te. Olof kom in: – Såja, jag skickade iväg dem. – Och vad ska vi göra med skönheten? – Pauline log mot flickan. – Vi pratar om det i morgon! Nu dricker vi te och du tar ett bad. – Är du hungrig? – Pauline satte fram en kopp te. Log igen. – Jag ser att du är det. Hon dukade fram smörgåsar och tårtrester. – Ät, ät! – log även Olof när han såg flickans blick på maten. De förhörde henne inte mer. Och försökte att inte stirra så mycket, såg hur hon skämdes. Efter maten visade Pauline flickan till badrummet: – Tvätta dig, du kan ta den här morgonrocken! *** Irina ville bara och en sak – inte bli utkastad på gatan i natt. Så skönt att ligga och vila i varm bad, och tänka på att det är kallt ute nu. Men värdparet väntar, dags att gå ut. Hon kom ut. Man och hustru satt på soffan. Flickan log urskuldande: – Tack! – Så här är det, Irina, – sa Pauline. – Som jag förstår vill ingen direkt leta efter dig. Du vill inte heller gå hem. Hon böjde huvudet. – I morgon måste vi resa tidigt… – Jag förstår, – Irina böjde huvudet ännu djupare. – Du blir ensam kvar. Öppna inte dörren för någon! I gården släpper vår Jack inte in någon. Förstår du? – Ja! – sa flickan med känsla. – Du kan väl koka lite soppa tills vi kommer hem, – Olof log finurligt. – Kan du det? – Ja! – sa Irina snabbt och lite rädd, – Jag är bra på att laga mat. Och städa kan jag. – Städa gärna på undervåningen, om du vill, – sa Pauline. *** Hon vaknade samtidigt som värdparet. Låg tyst kvar, rädd att bli utkastad. Snart hördes bilen på gården. Sen blev allt tyst. Hon gick upp, tvättade sig. I köket: varm tevatten, bröd, korv, ost. Fläskrevbensspjäll på bänken. Hon åt, plockade undan, torkade rent, tvättade golvet. I hallen såg hon dammsugaren. Satte igång och dammsög. Just när hon släckt dammsugaren… – Vad betyder allt det här? – hördes en röst bakom henne. Hon vände sig hastigt om. En lång snygg kille på arton år, bruna ögon, nyfiken blick. – Jag städar, – mumlade Irina. – Och vem är du då? – Jaså…, – killen skakade på huvudet och tog fram mobilen: – Mamma, jag är hemma. Och vem är det här? – Låt flickan bo här ett tag, min son. – Mig bryr det inte. Han stoppade mobilen i fickan, tittade noga på Irina uppifrån och ner och gick till köket. – Vill du att jag gör te? – frågade flickan. – Jag klarar mig själv. *** Irina ställde undan dammsugaren. Började torka damm och lyssnade efter minsta ljud från köket. Killen åt frukost, gick till badrummet. Kom ut rakad och doftade aftershave. – Hej, värden, ge mig en flaska till! – ropade någon från gatan. – Vad är nu detta? – killen gick till fönstret. – Öppna inte! – skrek Irina skrämt. Han tittade intresserat på henne, log av någon anledning och gick till dörren. Irina skyndade till fönstret. Vid staketet stod mammans sambo och hans kompis och ropade något. Irina blev rädd. Killen gick ut. De rusade fram. Och – ramlade rakt ner i snön, båda nästan samtidigt. Han böjde sig över dem, sa något. De gick därifrån med sänkta huvuden, tillbaka till mammas hus. *** Killen kom tillbaka. Hans blick stannade på flickan. Gick fram: – Blev du rädd? Hon kastade sig mot hans bröst och grät utan att tänka. – Vad heter du? – frågade han. – Irina. – Jag heter Ruslan. Gråt inte mer. De kommer inte tillbaka. *** Ruslan gick upp till sitt rum och kom inte ner på hela dagen. Irina lagade soppa. Satt vid köksbordet och tänkte. Hon ville förstås stanna här, med de goda människorna, men visste att hon gått över gränsen. Värdarna kom hem. Pauline höjde på ögonbrynen åt städningen. Olof berömde soppan. – Jag måste nog gå hem nu, – sa Irina uppgivet. – Tack för allt! – Irina, stanna några dagar till! – Tack Pauline! Men jag måste gå hem, – sa Irina igen. Tog ett steg mot dörren och stannade. Hon gick omkring i huset i morgonrock och gästers tofflor sen igår. – Kom! – sa Pauline och tog henne mot vardagsrummet. Öppnade garderoben. Gick igenom kläderna, tog fram jeans, en tröja, en varm sportjacka. – På med dem! Vi är ju nästan lika långa. – Nej, snälla, ni behöver inte… – Du kan ju inte gå hem naken heller. På med kläderna! Jag blir inte fattigare av det. Hon tog på sig. Smetade en blick i spegeln. Så fina kläder har hon aldrig haft. Vid dörren fick hon en mössa och vinterkängor. – Irina, bär det med hälsa! – Tack, Pauline! *** Livet gick vidare. Lite förändrat. Mamma fick jobb på en gård. Sambon försvann med sin kompis. Det blev vår. Hon satt hemma och pluggade när någon knackade på grinden. Irina kikade ut och såg till sin förvåning Ruslan stå vid staketet. Han nickade – ut med dig! Hon rusade ut. – Hej! – log Ruslan. – Hej! – Mamma ville prata med dig. *** Snart steg hon in i huset där hon haft sin lyckligaste dag. – Hej, Irina! – Pauline mötte henne i dörren och kramade om henne. – Hej, Pauline! – Kom! Vi dricker lite te. De satt vid bordet. – Jag har ett ärende till dig. Jag och min man ska till Turkiet en månad, – Pauline log drömmande. – Sonen är sällan hemma. Kan du tänka dig att ta hand om huset? Ge mat till Jack och katten, vattna blommorna. Jag har många blommor. – Självklart, Pauline! – Bra! – tog fram pengar. – Här är tjugotusen. – Men Pauline, varför det? – Ta emot! Vi klarar oss. Kom, jag visar allt! Irina försökte memorera var alla blomkrukor och djurmat fanns. Sen ropade Pauline: – Ruslan! – sonen kom genast ut. – Visa Irina Jack! – Kom, – sa han och la handen lätt på hennes axel. De gick ut, lossade Jack och promenerade. Ruslan berättade om sin utbildning, karate, familjens företag. Irina tänkte på något helt annat. Hon visste att det är en klyfta mellan henne och Ruslan liksom mellan hennes mamma och Ruslans föräldrar. Ja, de är goda människor, men det här är ingen Askungesaga, det är verklighet. ”Om två månader tar jag examen till lärarhögskolan. Jag kommer att plugga, jobba, kämpa men bli någon. Jag ska gifta mig, men absolut inte med den här snyggingen. Han är hur fin som helst. Men han är inte min! Jag är tacksam för kläderna och de tjugotusen. De räcker åtminstone första tiden i stan.” Hon förstod innerst inne att nu, i detta ögonblick, är det svåra barndomen slut. Nu börjar vuxenlivet – lika hårt, där allt beror på henne själv. De kom fram till huset. Irina klappade Jack, log mot Ruslan och gick hemåt. I morgon börjar jobbet i det här huset. Bara jobbet – inget annat!

Jag ska gifta mig, men absolut inte med den där snyggingen. Alltså, visst, han är en toppenkille på alla sätt.

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Sergiy köpte den vackraste buketten och gick på dejt – men när han väntade vid fontänen med blommorna i handen, uteblev Lisa. Han ringde henne oroligt, och till slut svarade hon: “Mellan oss är det slut – allt på grund av din bukett!” Förvånad försökte han förstå. Vad var det egentligen för fel på blommorna? Sergiy hade länge vandrat runt i den svenska blomsterbutiken. Röda rosor, gula tulpaner, vita liljor, blomsterarrangemang i krukor och vaser – allt vad hjärtat kunde önska. Men han tvekade, mindes knappt vad Lisa sagt om sina favoritblommor då de träffades första gången på ett mysigt kafé på Götgatan i Stockholm. ”Några blommor avskyr jag, men andra kan jag titta på hur länge som helst!” hade hon sagt. Men Sergiy, förälskad och ny i staden, var alltför överväldigad för att lägga detaljer på minnet. ”Titta, vilka fina gerbera vi har! Helt nyinkomna, väldigt speciella!” sa butiksägaren. Han bestämde sig snabbt – rosa och vita gerbera fick det bli. Senare, efter jobbet, sprang han till den nybyggda fontänen på Medborgarplatsen där han och Lisa skulle mötas. Men hon dök inte upp. Han ringde igen. På andra försöket svarade hon: – Jag ser dig från kaféet mittemot, men… det är för sent. Och dina blommor… du minns ju inte ens att jag älskar rosor! Det har jag berättat om och om igen… Sergiy försökte förklara, men Lisa reste sig upp och gick. Han gav de vackra gerberorna åt den leende unga servitrisen – som uppskattade gesten mycket mer än Lisa. Strax därpå ringde mamma från Dalarna igen: – Kommer du hem till helgen? Farmor undrar och har saknat dig så! Sergiy lovade komma. Nästa dag körde han genom blommande svenska fält och plockade en sommarbukett av vilda blommor till sin mamma och farmor. När han steg in hemma delade han buketten mellan de båda – och farmors glädje och doften av barndom fyllde rummet. Sergiy förstod: de vackraste blommorna är de man ger till dem som älskar en villkorslöst. Och någonstans där ute finns den rätta, den som förstår att det viktiga är omtanken – inte buketten i sig.

En gång för länge sedan, på en sommar som jag minns som en av de ljusaste i mitt liv, stod Erik vid fontänen

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You Should Always Listen to Your Mum — “Why are you always so angry, Mum? Are you upset that I’m happy? We’re in a serious relationship, and—” — “A serious relationship, Dennis, means building a future together. You two just flit from one rented flat to another, making a disgrace of your families!” “Has she ever even been here? Ever just for a cuppa, to meet us? No.” “Because you know, the moment she walks through this door and realises you’re just a student sharing a room with your little brother, she’ll lose interest in a flash!” — “That’s not true! She doesn’t care about money!” Dennis protested. — “Then why don’t you go for walks in the park? Why not spend time in a café? Why do you always have to rent a flat every weekend? Do you know how much that is a month? At least £120! That’s your whole wage for delivering takeaways. You work just to feel like ‘lord of your life’ for 48 hours!” Gail threw her wet cloth into the sink, splattering water on her freshly cleaned tiles—she was in no mood. From the next room, a wardrobe banged—Dennis, her eldest, was hunting for something again. “Dennis, how much longer are you going to be banging about?” Gail shouted. “We’re sitting down for lunch!” “Mum, I’m not eating, I’m heading out,” Dennis appeared in the doorway, zipping up a new hoodie. “And I won’t be back tonight. Or Sunday.” Gail turned to him slowly. “Again?” she squinted. “Back to those grimy rentals again?” Dennis grimaced. “What does it matter where? I’m an adult.” “An adult?” Gail snorted. “Adults buy their own shoes, instead of asking their mum for bus fare. And proper adults don’t blow every penny from their part-time jobs on dodgy bedsits! Think what that looks like from the outside.” “It’s not a bedsit,” Dennis snapped. “It’s a decent flat. We just want time alone together, away from you and her parents. What’s so bad about that?” “Dennis, she’s older than you! She should have some sense. Or does she just not care where you two get up to it? Is nothing sacred with her?” “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!” Dennis burst out. “You don’t even know her!” At the raised voices, Dennis’ dad emerged from his study, regarded his wife and son, sighed, and leaned in the kitchen doorway. “Same argument again?” he asked quietly. “Dennis, your mum’s right. Last week you asked me for £30 for books. I gave it to you. But then Tony said those textbooks were free from the uni! Tony saw you in Tesco in the evening, buying bags full with your… Isobel. Were those books?” Dennis flushed. “I got her a present. I’m allowed!” “With my money?” Steve stepped forward. “Here’s the deal, ‘adult’. If you’ve got money for rent and gifts for your lady, you’ve got money for food and clothes. From now on, me and your mum are giving you less. Only enough for your bus pass and a school lunch. The rest—you sort yourself.” “Fine!” Dennis snatched up his coat and stormed out. “I’ll manage!” The door slammed. Gail sank onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. “Steve, what’s this all about? Three months together, and they’re already hiding out in flats every weekend. What decent girl does that? When I was her age, I held hands with you for a year before anything!” “Times change, Gail,” Steve poured himself a glass of water. “But it’s not just morals. He’s treating us like cash machines. He comes home, ravages the fridge, wants his laundry done, but all his wages go to this Isobel. That’s not on.” “We’ve got to split them up,” Gail said firmly. “She’s a bad influence. He’s turned sneaky, cheeky. He never used to be like this. Used to help out, spend his money on himself—now look!” Her husband nodded in agreement. *** All weekend Gail was on edge. Youngest son Tony kept his head down, while Steve spent both days fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Dennis came home late Sunday night. “Anything to eat?” he grumbled, heading for the kitchen. “Empty shelves, Dennis,” Gail didn’t look up from her phone. “Since you’re so independent now, we’re only shopping for ourselves and Tony. You’re a student with a job—buy yourself something.” Dennis stared, dumbfounded. “Are you serious? You’re going to starve me?” “Starve? Of course not,” Steve called from the lounge. “Just manage your budget. Instead of blowing everything on the weekend, buy yourself some meat, vegetables, pasta. Should last all month. Your choice.” “You’re trying to force me out!” Dennis yelled. “This is because of Isobel, isn’t it? You just don’t like her!” “We couldn’t care less about Isobel, Dennis,” Gail finally looked up. “We’ve never even met her. But if she’s happy for you to spend every penny on her while you’re sponging off us, that says a lot about her. She’s older. Does she work?” “She’s doing a postgrad! And she tutors on the side,” Dennis defended. “Oh? So what does she do with her money?” Gail asked softly. “Also for your precious ‘cosy weekends’? Or does she just take your offerings, nineteen-year-old lovesick fool that you are?” “She pays for the food!” Dennis lied. Gail caught it in his eyes. “Liar,” she snapped. “Dennis, listen. She’s using you. It’s easy for her: a boy who organises everything, pays for flats, buys treats. When the well runs dry, she’ll disappear.” “We’ll see!” Dennis slammed the fridge door. “Thanks for nothing, Mum!” *** Gail stuck to her guns—no yoghurts for Dennis, not a penny for spending, ironing his shirts ceased. Steve backed her—though he sometimes wanted to slip Dennis a fiver, but Gail’s look made him think twice. She knew: the moment they showed weakness, Dennis would be set in his ways for good. Wednesday evening, the tension boiled over—Dennis was in the hall, ransacking his coats. “Mum, have you seen my fiver? It was in my old jacket.” “Nope,” Gail said, not looking up from the ironing. “What, money from your part-time gone already? It’s only midweek…” “I need it… I promised Isobel theatre tickets,” he muttered, still searching pockets. “Damn, where’s it gone? Tony! Did you take it?” Tony, twelve, stuck his head out. “Why would I? You still owe me a tenner from last time, remember? Don’t shout.” “I’m not shouting!” Dennis was losing it. “It’s just nothing’s safe in this house! Everything vanishes!” “Theatre, eh?” Gail broke in. “How are you getting to uni tomorrow, then? Walking? Or is Isobel driving? She’s the grown-up, right?” “Mum, stop! We’re adults. We need space. You just don’t get it…” “I get it just fine,” Gail set down the iron and looked Dennis in the eye. “You’re getting played, love. Isobel’s twenty-one—she can see you’re green and besotted, ready to jump through hoops. She saves her money, spends yours. Why not test it? Tell her you’re broke this weekend, suggest a walk in the park instead. See what she says.” “Fine!” Dennis shouted. “You’ll see, she’ll stick by me! She loves me!” “We’ll see. Until then, find your fiver—I haven’t touched it.” *** All Thursday and Friday, Dennis was a thundercloud. He tried cadging cash off Steve, but Steve just shrugged, “You’re independent now, son.” Saturday morning, Dennis didn’t leave for his usual pre-dawn escape. He sat in the kitchen, quietly picking at a dry sandwich, phone buzzing with messages. “What, your ‘serious relationship’ needs reporting in?” Gail sipped her coffee. Dennis just twitched. Another message pinged: “Dennis, are you messing around? I’ve made plans. We had an agreement.” “She angry?” Gail sat across from him. “Told her you’re skint?” “Told her,” Dennis replied flatly. “She says I’m irresponsible. That if I promised, I should have budgeted, borrowed—found a way… She wrote that she turned down shopping with friends for this weekend.” “Oh really,” Gail smirked. “So entertaining her is 100% your job? Didn’t offer to split? Or, as the elder, pay herself if she wants it so badly?” “Mum, stop… She’s a girl. Girls shouldn’t have to pay.” “Girls who respect their boyfriends don’t put them in debt for the privilege of sitting in an Airbnb watching Netflix! Dennis, she’s training you.” His phone rang. Dennis hesitated, then took the call: “Yes, Is… Like I said, not this time. The landlord upped the price, and I… just didn’t budget right. How about a film instead? Or your place?” The voice on the other end was loud enough for Gail to catch snippets: “Can’t at my parents’… you promised… I’m not freezing outdoors… just sort it…” Gail’s heart ached for Dennis—he turned ashen in moments. “Is, listen… No, can’t borrow from my dad. Why am I a ‘mummy’s boy’? There’s just no money! Hello? Hello?” He looked at his phone—she’d hung up. “Well? What’s plan B?” Gail pressed on. “Rob a bank or finally wake up?” Dennis leapt up, knocking over his chair. “Oh, to hell with it!” he grabbed his jacket and stormed out. *** He was gone all day. Gail was beside herself; Steve muttered that they’d gone in too tough, but Gail held firm. Dennis came home late, his jacket soaked, looking utterly lost. “Den, what happened?” Gail rushed to him. “We met at the shopping centre,” Dennis shrugged off his jacket. “She was with her mate. I went up to them, wanted to know why she lied about plans. She didn’t even blink, Mum. She and her mate, Jen, both had bags from some posh boutiques. I asked: ‘Isobel, you said you couldn’t even afford the tube?’ She gave me this look… and said, ‘Dennis, don’t embarrass me in public. Your money problems aren’t my business. Why should I sit at home bored because of you?’” “And what did you do?” Steve quietly asked. “I told her it was low—that I’d fallen out with you two, taken extra shifts just to keep her happy. She laughed and said, ‘You wanted to play grown-up. No one asked you to play landlord. You liked feeling important—don’t blame me.’” A weight lifted from Gail’s shoulders. Finally, her son saw Isobel’s true colours. They sat for hours, talking. Dennis seemed calmer. He promised his mum to break up with Isobel. Gail gently explained: she and Dad didn’t mind him having a love life—just not with someone like Isobel. Mother always knows best…

You really ought to listen to your mum Why are you always so cross, Mum? Are you just annoyed because Im happy?

“I’ll Get Straight to It—I’m Your Husband’s Mistress! We’ve Been Seeing Each Other All These Years. Yes, Don’t Look So Shocked…” Julia Was Making Dinner, Waiting for Alex to Come Home in an Hour. Their Ten-Year-Old Daughter Karina Was at Dance Practice. Karina Would Be Home Soon, Drop Her Bag, and Sit Down, Eager to Chat About Friends and Her Day, As Julia Smiled Listening. But When the Doorbell Rang Early, It Wasn’t Karina Forgetting Her Keys—It Was a Young Woman. “I Won’t Drag This Out. I’m Your Husband’s Mistress. We’ve Been Together for Years. Don’t Act So Surprised.” How Many Years? “Three. It Suited Me—Living Alone, No Strings, a Man Who Comes and Goes. No Chores, No Cooking, No Cleaning. And I Don’t Plan on Changing Anything—Except Now I’m Pregnant. An Accident, But It’s Too Late to Change That.” Julia Recalled the Struggles to Become a Mum—It Had Only Worked After IVF Twice, Resulting in Karina. Now This Bombshell. “So You Think You’ll Just Have a Man and Baby Who Come and Go?” “Exactly. I Never Wanted a Child, but Here We Are.” Alex Had Always Said He Couldn’t Have Kids. “Well, Apparently He Can! I Need to See Where My Baby Will Grow Up. It’s Only Right.” Julia Stood Her Ground: “Miss, I Don’t Even Know Your Name and Don’t Care. Your Man Doesn’t Live Here Anymore—Take His Things. The Rest Doesn’t Concern Me.” Karina Overheard Everything. “Mum, What Was That About? Am I Not Dad’s Daughter?” So Julia Told Her the Truth—About IVF, About How Much They Both Waited for Her. When Alex Came Home, He Found Frosty Silence and an Empty Welcome. Julia Broke the News: “Your Mistress Was Here. She’s Pregnant—With Your Child. Care to Explain?” Alex Pleaded, But Julia Had Had Enough. Their Marriage Was Over, and He Had Nowhere to Go. The Mistress Refused to Let Him Move In or Raise the Baby Either—She Wasn’t Interested in Sleepless Nights or Motherhood. When the Baby Arrived, She Applied for Support but Lost. Alex Still Hoped to Regain His Family, But Julia and Karina Shut the Door on the Past. Turns Out, You Really Can’t Sit on Two Chairs at Once… What’s Your Take? Leave a Comment and Give a Like.

I shant beat about the bush. Im your husbands mistress. Weve been seeing each other for yearsyes, its true.

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Under mammans skugga Vid trettiofem års ålder var Varvara en tillbakadragen och, som man säger, “nedtryckt” ung kvinna. Hon hade aldrig varit på någon dejt, trots att hon länge jobbat som revisor – hon började direkt efter gymnasiet och blev kvar på samma kontor. Hon brydde sig inte så mycket om sitt utseende, klädde sig alltid i stora, säckiga kläder, var lite rund om magen och gick omkring med sorgsen blick och nedåtgående mungipor. Varvaras mamma, Marina, fick henne redan vid arton års ålder – dock visste Varvara aldrig vem hennes pappa var, och växte upp hos mormor i en liten by. Där gick hon också ut grundskolan, och först när hon började gymnasiet flyttade hon till sin mamma. Medan Varvara växte upp på landet roade sig Marina i stan, festade mycket även om hon jobbade och bytte män lika snabbt som hon bytte smink. Vacker och vårdslös dök hon upp på landet ibland, kanske någon gång i månaden, med en leksak till sin dotter innan hon försvann igen. Mormor var sträng, så Varvara mötte varken mycket kärlek eller omtanke från henne eller sin mor. Nu bodde Varvara fortfarande tillsammans med sin mamma i en lägenhet. Marina, lite över femtio, såg fortfarande fantastisk ut – ungdomlig, slank, med dyr kosmetika, hon gick ofta till frisören och gick till och med ibland på dejter. Dottern var totalt motsatsen. Efter en lång arbetsdag lämnade Varvara över sina papper till kollegan som skulle vikariera under hennes semester, tog sin väska och gick ut från kontoret. – Så var det dags för semester igen, tänkte Varvara, semesterpengarna i väskan. Så synd – snart tar mamma dem ifrån mig. Får igen stanna hemma hela semestern. Jag är så trött på det här. Varför kan jag aldrig stå på mig? Jag är inte längre barn, men mamma håller mig kvar och kräver pengar, allt till sista kronan. Jag kan inte ens bestämma över min egen lön. Det är ingen mening med mitt liv… När hon öppnade ytterdörren stod mamman redan i hallen och väntade. – Äntligen är du hemma, sa Marina. Fick du semesterpengarna? Ge dem hit. – Ja, mamma, svarade dottern. Ska bara ta av mig först… – Du hinner ta av dig… Varvara rotade i väskan efter plånboken. – Herregud, du går omkring med en sådan gammal väska, är du inte ens lite skamsen? Alla gammalmodiga grejer du har, sa mamma framfusigt. Varvara blev chockad och tårarna kom. – Men jag har väl inga pengar till en ny väska, du tar ju allt ifrån mig till sista kronan, fick hon ur sig, nästan förvånad över att hon vågade säga emot. – Det är inte bara väskan – du är själv slarvig och tjock. Gå ner i vikt och ta hand om dig själv, retades mamman öppet. Jag skäms att gå ut med dig. – Skäms du? skrek Varvara. Men att ta mina pengar skäms du inte för? Jag följer ju ändå aldrig med dig någonstans! Hon skrek, vände sig om och sprang ut. Med tårarna rinnande nerför kinderna rusade hon ner för trapporna, ut på gården och satte sig på en bänk. Hur länge hon satt där visste hon inte, men plötsligt närmade sig någon. – Varja, varför sitter du här? frågade Anna-Lisa, en äldre granne som bodde i porten bredvid. Gråter du? Hon satte sig bredvid och tog Varvaras hand. Vad har hänt, är det så illa? Varvara brast ut i gråt och berättade allt för Anna-Lisa. – Min mamma tar alla mina pengar, köper dyra saker och kosmetika – jag går omkring i gammalt. Jag är själv skyldig, jag har alltid varit för mesig, vågade aldrig säga emot mormor eller mamma. Min mamma är så dominerande och elak… – Anna-Lisa skakade på huvudet, och Varvara fick plötsligt dåligt samvete. – Oj, nu pratar jag så om min egen mamma. Du tror väl att jag är en riktig skvallerkärring, men misslyckad är jag i alla fall. Anna-Lisa kände Marina sedan länge och hade aldrig respekterat henne; hon tyckte synd om Varvara och förstod att hon levde under mammans förtryck. – Nu får du sluta att gråta, Varja. Du är vuxen och måste ta hand om dig själv. – Vuxen? Anna-Lisa… Ingen har någonsin älskat mig, ingen kommer att göra det heller… – Lyssna, du måste flytta bort från din mamma – Varja såg förskräckt ut. – Vart skulle jag gå? Min lön räcker inte till eget boende. Och mamma blir rasande, jag borde ge henne semesterpengarna, men jag orkade bara inte efter hennes attack. Jag rusade bara ut… – Du lätt henne inte ta pengarna iallafall. Oroa dig inte för din mamma, hon klarar sig alltid. Du ska tänka på dig själv. Vill du bo på min sommarstuga ute på landet under semestern? Mitt lilla hus är stabilt, min avlidne man byggde det. Nu är du ju ledig, så bo där, jag tar inget betalt. – Anna-Lisa, vågar du släppa in mig hos dig? frågade Varvara. – Jag har känt dig länge! Vänta här, jag hämtar nycklar, adress och mitt telefonnummer. Varvara tog tåget till sommarstugan, köpte biljett och satte sig vid fönstret. Hon hade aldrig rest någonstans förut. Hon såg på landskapet utanför tåget. Framme vid hållplatsen gick hon direkt till huset, låste upp och gick in. Det var så tyst, så skönt. Hon satte sig i en gammal fåtölj. – Herregud, vilken underbar tystnad, vilken frihetskänsla, tänkte hon. Ingen mamma som hånade eller bestämde. På tv:n sändes ett svenskt pratprogram – såna fick hon aldrig se hemma. – Du är själv hopplös, och såna program tittar du på, brukade Marina hånfullt säga och byta till sina egna favoriter. Varvara vågade aldrig säga emot, böjde huvudet när mamma skällde och svor. Hon hade aldrig ens tänkt tanken att sätta sin mamma på plats. Hon gick runt i huset, la in mat i kylen och lagade mat. – Det är så skönt att få vara ensam, tänkte hon nöjt. Plötsligt ringde telefonen – mamma. – Så, nu har du rymt! Jag såg hur du satt med Anna-Lisa på bänken. Ja, bo själv då – du springer nog snart hem igen. Ingen lär hjälpa dig, du klarar dig ju aldrig ensam och är hopplös. Utan mig går du under… Varvara orkade inte lyssna utan bröt samtalet, visste vad som skulle komma. Och märkligt nog, blev hon inte ens ledsen. Senare ringde Anna-Lisa. – Hur har du det? Har du landat? – Ja, tack snälla Anna-Lisa. – Imorgon kommer min systerson Stefan och lämnar dina saker. Han har bil. – Hur känner jag igen honom? – Han är lång och har glasögon. Du klarar dig! – Nu ska du börja ta hand om dig, och älska dig själv, Varja! Köp nya kläder, gå till frisören – du är grundvackert, du har bara tappat bort dig själv. Nu börjar ditt nya liv! Kram. Dagg blänkte i gräset och någonstans skällde en hund, fåglarna sjöng. Varvara ställde sig vid spegeln, såg på sig själv. – Jag har fina ögon egentligen, men ledsna, och tjockt hår – som jag bara samlat i knut som en gammal tant. Anna-Lisa har rätt – jag borde ta bättre hand om mig själv. Hon sov som en stock första natten i stugan. Morgonen var solig, daggen låg på gräset, fåglarna kvittrade, och Varvara njöt av kaffet på verandan. Plötsligt knackar det försiktigt på dörren. Där stod en lång man med glasögon och stor väska. – Hej, jag är Stefan, och du är Varvara? – Ja, kom in, sa hon och släppte in honom. – Min moster har berättat om dig. Vill du ha skjuts någonstans, säg bara till. Så träffade Varvara sin blivande man. Stefan blev förälskad på riktigt, och hon förvandlades; gick ner i vikt, gick på salong och blev en ny person. – Är det verkligen jag? tänkte hon när hon såg sig i spegeln och log med tindrande ögon. Stefan tog henne till sin lägenhet i stan. – Varja, jag har alltid drömt om någon som du – snäll, ärlig och omtänksam. Nu struntar vi i allt och gifter oss. Bröllopet blev enkelt och litet, men de bjöd in Marina – som genast började vara spydig, men Anna-Lisa stoppade henne snabbt. Marina gick tidigt, ingen brydde sig, dottern brydde sig inte heller. Stefans släkt gillade Varvara, och han tänkte: Förr eller senare kommer lyckan, och den kom till oss med Varja. Snart väntade Varvara barn, och lyckan var dubbel. Sent omsider fann hon lyckan – och hade glömt hur det var att leva under mammans kontroll. Hon blommande, både till det yttre och inre – för hon hade lärt sig älska sig själv och Stefan. Tack för att du läser och stöttar! Lycka till!

Under sin tidiga barndom levde Ingrid Nilsson ett stillsamt och blygt liv i Sverige, långt från dagens brus.

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Galina kom hem från ICA och började packa upp varorna. Plötsligt hörde hon ett konstigt ljud från sonens och svärdotterns rum och gick för att kolla. – Valentina, vart ska du? – undrade Galina när hon såg svärdottern packa väskan. – Jag reser härifrån! – sa Valentina med tårar i ögonen. – Men hur? Vart? Vad har hänt? – undrade Galina. – Titta här, – sa Valentina och gav henne ett brev. Galina tog emot det, vecklade ut och frös till av det hon läste

Gunilla kommer hem från affären och börjar packa upp varorna på köksbordet. Plötsligt hör hon ett konstigt

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Only With a DNA Test—We Don’t Want Anyone Else’s Child, Declared the Mother-in-Law “Just a Hundred Thousand Pounds!” Lizbeth Sneered. “That’s a Bargain Price for Your Son’s Freedom! Or Maybe You Can Scrape Together Two Hundred?” “If I Have To, I’ll Find It,” Maria Muttered. “So, You Agree? If It’s Only a Matter of Price.” “Maria, Did You Think Long Before Making Me This Offer?” Lizbeth Asked. “Let’s Set Money Aside for Now! Woman to Woman—Tell Me Honestly.” “Let’s Skip the Sermons,” Maria Pulled a Sour Face. “None of Us Are Without Sin! And You, As a Mother of Many Kids, Should Understand—You’d Do Anything for Your Child…” “So, You Want to Simply Buy Me Off?” Lizbeth Shot Back. “Or Buy Off My Daisy? Throw Us Some Money Because We’re Struggling, and You Think That’ll Make Everything Alright? “Your Johnny Fooled My Daisy, Got Her Pregnant, and Now…” “I Don’t Even Know How to Put It—Is He Running Away, or Hiding Under His Mum’s Skirt So Someone Cleans Up After His Mess?” “Lizbeth, Let’s Be Honest,” Maria Said. “Johnny’s Only Eighteen! He’s Not Ready for a Family or a Child. He Needs to Study! Get a Job! How Could He Support a Family With a Child?” “And Johnny Didn’t Think of That When He Was Chasing After Daisy?” Lizbeth Scoffed. “Time He Learns About Grown-Up Responsibilities. “He’s Fathered a Child—He’d Better Step Up. Otherwise, There Are Plenty More Options—Courts, Child Support…” Maria’s Jaw Dropped in Shock. “Careful or a Crow Will Fly In!” Lizbeth Snorted. “Just Because I’m Run Off My Feet Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Know What’s Going On!” “I’m Not Here to Quarrel—I Want to Settle This Peacefully!” Maria Managed to Say. “And I’m Willing to Pay for the Trouble, So To Speak.” “And What Is It Exactly You Think You’re Paying For?” Lizbeth Asked. “For Johnny Getting Daisy Pregnant? For Running From Her for Two Months? Or for Daisy Going Off for an Abortion? Or Is This a Down Payment on Future Child Support?” Maria Was Stunned by the List, But That Last Point Especially Bothered Her. After All, That Meant Her Son Could Be Dragged Through the Courts at Any Time! “Don’t Try to Confuse Me!” Maria Waved a Finger. “I’m Offering You Real Money to Resolve This Once and For All! “How You Handle It Is Your Business—Have an Abortion, Keep the Baby, Put It Up for Adoption—I Don’t Care! “Just Make Sure My Johnny Is Out of It Completely! And If It’s Not Enough, Stop Preaching—Just Name Your Price! “I’ll Even Take Out a Loan in My Husband’s Name If Needed!” “Maria, Why Don’t You Just Get Lost!” Lizbeth Replied. “As a Decent Woman, I Won’t Say Where to Go. “But For Coming Here With Such an Offer—Well, You Don’t Know the First Thing About Decency! “So Take Your Money and Shove It—You Know Where and How Far!” “Lizbeth, Let’s Settle This Like Adults!” Maria Said Angrily. “Take Your Peaceful Intentions Elsewhere!” Lizbeth Retorted. “Or I’ll Let the Dog Out!” To the End, It Was Unclear if Maria Had Managed to Protect Her Son, But While Lizbeth Was Angry, She Wasn’t About to Let Her Daughter Anywhere Near Johnny. That Gave Him Time to Get His Life Together and Go Off to University. If Lizbeth Changed Her Mind, Johnny Would Be Long Gone—Off to the City, Where He Could Disappear for Years. Maria Barely Controlled Herself From Grabbing Lizbeth by the Hair: “Unbelievable—Too Proud to Take Money! “I Came Here to Help, and She Threatens to Let the Dog Out! “With People Like Her, You Wouldn’t Sit in the Same Field—She’d Run Circles Around You!” But Maria Didn’t Know Then It Wasn’t the End—This Was Just the Beginning. It Had Actually Begun Earlier— Most Parents Don’t Catch Wind of Their Kids’ Problems in Time. Usually, They Find Out Much Later, When There’s Not Much Left to Fix. When Maria Heard Through the Grapevine That Her Johnny Had Gotten Lizbeth’s Daisy Pregnant, Her Heart Nearly Stopped. “My Johnny Go for Daisy? But She’s—” Not Wanting to Say Too Much, Maria Changed Tack, “From a Big Family! He’d Never Look at Her!” “Just Passing on What I Heard,” Mrs. Ingram Said. “Ask Anyone in the Village—Everyone Knows, Except You!” As Mrs. Ingram Cackled, Maria Went Back Inside. Her Husband and Son Were Out in the Woods, Promising Not to Return Until Evening. Maria Was Supposed to Tidy Up the House, But Her Mind Was Elsewhere. The News Mrs. Ingram Brought Was the Worst Possible. “Why? How? With Who? Why Would We Want Anything to Do With Them?” After a Day of Nerves, Maria Was Nearly Beside Herself. When Johnny Came Home, She Laid Into Him: “What Were You Thinking? Aren’t There Proper Girls in the Village?” Johnny Had to Confess. He’d Hoped to Wait Out the Summer and Flee to College. Maybe He’d Get Away With It There. But Not Once His Mum Knew. Johnny Started Crying, Trying to Get Her Sympathy. He Was No Looker, Not Smart, Not Popular—But at That Age, His Hormones Were Raging and His Friends Teased Him About Being a Lifelong Bachelor. “But Daisy Said Yes!” “Daisy Would Say Yes to the Devil Himself!” Maria Fumed. “She’s Nineteen and Boys Run a Mile From Her! “No Sensible Lad Wants to Get Mixed Up With a Family Like That—they’re Dirt Poor, Kids Everywhere, Dad’s Laid Up! “You Marry Daisy, and You’ll Be Looking After Her Whole Brood for the Rest of Your Days!” “But Mum, She’s Kind and Gentle!” Johnny Sobbed. “And Her Looks Don’t Bother You?” Maria Snapped. Johnny Blushed and Looked Away. “It Only Happened a Couple of Times,” He Mumbled. “Once Is Enough!” Maria Responded. “Now You’ve Got Consequences to Deal With! “You’re Meant to Be Off to University! What Will You Do With a Kid? They’ll Slap You With Child Support!” “Maybe It’s Not Mine?” Johnny Asked Hopefully. “You Wish! But No One Else Would Go Near Daisy,” Maria Sighed. “If We Can’t Reach an Agreement, It’s DNA Test or Nothing—We Don’t Need Someone Else’s Cast-Off!” “She Swore She’d Always Be True,” Johnny Said. “Let’s Hope She Lied,” Maria Grumbled, Getting Out Their Savings Box. “George!” This Was Her Husband, So Johnny Left the Room. “Not Much in Here,” Maria Called Out. “It’s in the Account,” George Replied. “One More Week Until It Matures.Remember?” “Easy to Forget When Your Head’s Spinning!” Maria Collapsed Into a Chair. “Heard What Your Son Got Up To?” “Growing Up Fast!” George Grinned. “Should We Start Saving for the Wedding?” “Are You Crazy? What Wedding? With Who?” Maria Almost Choked. “Never! We’ll Pay Them Off. Think a Hundred Thousand Is Enough?” “How Would I Know? Lizbeth’s Hard Up Now—She Might Take Pennies!” “It’ll Take More Than That,” Maria Shook Her Head, Counting Up Their Cash. “We’ve Got Two Hundred Thousand. I’ll Offer a Hundred at First—if She Bargains, I’ll Go to Two. In a Week, There Might Be Five Hundred.” “Want Me to Come With?” George Asked. “You Should Have Watched Johnny Closer—Then We Wouldn’t Be Paying! I’ll Go Myself.” *** Lizbeth’s Response Was Vague, and There Was No Point Asking Daisy—She Definitely Had No Say in Anything. But Johnny Got Through the Summer and Went Off to College. His Parents Forbade Him From Coming Back Before Next Year. With the Main Character Gone, What Was There Left to Say About Him? People Talked About Daisy—Pregnant, Then a Mum. Lizbeth Copped Her Share, Too. “Couldn’t Even Get Maintenance Out of Johnny! Now They’ll Be Living On Air!” Lizbeth Answered the Village Gossip: “It’s None of Your Business! “We Won’t Be Knocking on Your Door for Help—We’ll Get By!” By June, Johnny Was Back in the Village. His Parents Kept Him Home. Once He’d Finished Exams, He’d Be Off Again—No Need to Be Seen! Uni Was Waiting. But Johnny Flunked the Exams—Badly. Not Even a Paid Place. “George, Go Talk to the Army Recruitment Office!” Maria Insisted. “If He Gets Drafted, He’ll Forget the Whole Thing! Maybe He’ll Get In Next Year!” No Luck. For Pushing Too Hard, George Caught a Beating and Got Fifteen Days’ Detention. When George Came Back, He Shared the Only Way for Johnny to Get an Exemption: “He Has to Marry Daisy and Acknowledge the Child! As Long as the Kid’s Under Three, He Gets a Deferment! “Then He Gives Daisy Another—Another Deferment! By Then He’ll Be Too Old to Serve!” “Have You Lost Your Mind?!” Maria Cried. “I’d Rather Send Him to the Enemy Than Have Those In-Laws!” “Then He’ll Have to Serve,” George Said. Maria Didn’t Want Her Son in the Army Any More Than She Wanted Him Married to Daisy…but What Choice Was There? “We’ll Beg if We Have To!” Maria Relented. “George, Grab the Cash! Maybe She’ll Agree…” “After She Told You Where to Go?” George Laughed. “After Everything She Heard About Us This Year? “Better Let Him Serve Than Let Lizbeth Make Us Her Village Punchline!” “I’ll Get Down on My Knees! And So Will You! We’ll Beg Her!” “I Can’t See Lizbeth Agreeing—Not After All This,” George Said. “Might as Well Send Johnny Off Into the Woods Till He’s Twenty-Seven!” “Get the Money and Let’s Go!” Maria Ordered.

Only with a proper paternity test. We dont need anyone elses troubles, proclaimed Mrs. Holt, my mother-in-law.

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Lånad lycka Anna påtar på sin lilla jordplätt – årets vår kom tidigt, snön har redan smält fastän mars bara nalkas sitt slut. Solen värmer så skönt att Anna går ut, vill stötta staketet som ramlat och laga vedboden. Hon tänker att hon kanske borde skaffa några hönor och en gris, och kanske en hund och en katt också. “Nu får det räcka, nu har jag fått nog”, småler hon åt sina egna tankar. Det kliar i fingrarna – hon längtar efter att få plöja jorden och sätta frön, barfota springa genom myllan som hon gjorde som liten, känna den fuktiga, varma jorden mellan tårna. “Än får vi leva”, säger Anna högt till någon okänd. Då hörs ett “Hej”. Vid grinden står en tonårstjej i grå rock, tunna strumpbyxor och skor med kartongsula – alldeles för kyligt klädd, tänker Anna, sådana rockar delar de ut på svenska skolor och folkhögskolor. Fötterna trippar oroligt. “Hej” säger Anna kort. “Ursäkta, får jag låna er toalett?” “Jaså, jaja, gå du – rakt fram och sen runt hörnet där.” Anna ser nyfiket efter flickan. “Tack, du räddade mig. Jag letar lägenhet… hyr du ut nåt rum?” “Det har jag inte tänkt. Vad vill du ha det till?” “Vill hyra ett rum. Vill inte bo på internat, där super de och killarna ränner.” “Hur mycket vill du betala då?” “Fem kronor… Har inget mer.” “Kom in vetja.” “Får jag låna toaletten en gång till?” “Spring…” “Vad heter du?” frågar Anna när hon släpper in henne. “Oliwia”, svarar flickan tyst som en mus. “Så Oliwia… varför kom du hit, egentligen?” “Jag… rummet…” “Ljug inte. Du, vad vill du?” Frågan får flickan att nästan gråta – hon måste på toa igen. Anna går med. “Du springer väl inte bara på toa? Vad är det egentligen?” “Det gör ont… kan knappt hålla mig.” “Spring då…” Anna väntar vid dörren; till sist samlar flickan sig. “Nå? Om du vill stjäla har du kommit fel – här finns inget. Vem har skickat dig?” “Ingen… Jag… är det du som är Anna Samuelsson?” “Ja, det är jag.” “Du känner inte igen mig… mamma? Det är jag, Olli… din dotter.” Det händer nästan inget i Annas ansikte, men tårarna rinner. “Olli… dottern min?” “Ja, mamma… Det är jag. De gav mig aldrig din adress på barnhemmet, men min lärarinna hjälpte mig. Jag letade och nu är jag här.” Anna sitter tyst, håller om flickan vars ansikte är vått av tårar. Att bara få sitta, omfamna sin dotter, behöver inga ord. Allt är klart ändå. Sen springer Anna mer, som mormor lärde henne – värmer vatten, gör te på dill, pysslar om sin Olli. Sinne för livet kommer åter: grisen, odlingen, renovera kappan… Tanken på Olli räddade henne från ensamhet och tankar om döden. *** Tiden går; Olli blir kär i Ivan från byn. Anna är först rädd, men Ivan är pålitlig och stannar. Hon syr och skaffar till sig och barnen, arbetar i ett kooperativ efter fabrikens nedläggning. Ivan bygger hus, fixar ladugård, företaget går bra och familjen växer. Anna blommar, orkar leva för alla år hon förlorat. Hon oroar sig, men döljer smärtan i bröstet. När Anna är sjuk säger hon: “Olli… förlåt mig, jag är inte din riktiga mamma…” “Mamma! Så säger du aldrig. Du är min mamma, bara min!” Efter Annas död sitter Olli med mammans dagbok. Där står det att Annas förflutna var hårt – eländig barndom, fattigdom, vägval som ledde till förlusten av möjlighet till egna barn. Men Olli blev hennes mening, hennes ljus. Olli visste redan; hade letat upp sin biologiska mor, refuserad, ratad, men fått den riktiga mamman i Anna som älskade henne. På graven lägger Olli och dottern Aina en blomsterkrans: “Var du snäll, farmor?” “Den allra finaste”, svarar Olli. “Ser hon mig?” “Hon vakar över dig, alltid.” Och vinden viskar i björkarna: “Vi finns här, vi älskar dig.”

Främmande lycka 29 mars Våren har kommit ovanligt tidigt i år här i Småland, snön har redan smält undan

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No Refusals Allowed — I’ll definitely be home by midnight, a hundred percent, — he said, buckling his belt and glancing at his wife. — Nine, ten at the latest… Just a couple of hours, that’s all. His wife quietly straightened the napkins on the table and moved a bowl of salad. Their son sat glued to his phone, one earbud in, the other ear just enough to catch what was happening around him. — You said that last year, — she reminded him. — And the year before. — This year the fares are through the roof, — he tried to joke. — I’d be mad not to go out. We’ve got the mortgage to pay. — And who’s in charge of the holiday for us? — she asked softly. Their son looked up. — Dad, seriously. This year, at least, I’m not at nan’s or off at camp, I’m at home. Can we not do the “back soon” stories? He winced. At forty-five, he already knew the look of disappointment in his family’s eyes — and knew the week of guilt-walking the flat that always followed. — I’m not out all night, — he said more gently. — Surged pricing until around nine or ten, then it’ll drop. I’ll be back by eleven, promise. We’ll watch the Prime Minister, pop some bubbly, do the whole thing proper. — You’re not like other people, — his wife replied with a joyless smirk. — You’re more like an app. He wanted to argue, but said nothing. He went to the corridor, shrugged on his coat. In the mirror: a tired face, stubble, shadows under the eyes. A driver with a 4.93 rating and a constant sense that everyone has some kind of problem with him. — Take your hat, — called his wife. — And don’t pick up any drunks. Last time I had to hear all about someone being sick in the back. — I’ve got a filter set, — he grumbled. His son came to the door, leaning on the frame. — Dad, let’s do it like this. If you’re not going to make it by twelve, just let us know in advance — no more “just a sec”, yeah? He nodded. His son offered a fist bump. He bumped back. — I’ll make it, — he said stubbornly. Outside, a few rogue fireworks were already going off. People bustled with carrier bags, fairy lights twinkled in windows. He unlocked his old Skoda, got in, started the engine. Lights blinked on the dash, his phone on the holder lit up with the minicab app interface. In the corner, a notification: “31 December. Surge pricing active. Multiplier up to 2.8.” He sighed, went online. The first booking came in instantly. — Let’s go, — he said to himself. The first job: a 2.5 surge, three-minute pickup. He pulled out, slid into the traffic, caught the green. Client messaged: “Please hurry. It’s urgent.” No smileys. At the estate, they were waiting. A man in an unbuttoned jacket jogged about in the snow, scanning the block. Nearby, a woman leaned on the handrail, holding her stomach, obviously pregnant even with her coat on. He braked sharply, jumped out. — Was it you who called? — Yes-yes, — the man hurried over, flinging open the back. — To the maternity unit, just like in the app. Can you go quick? She’s having contractions. The woman got in carefully, wincing. — Don’t panic, — she muttered to her husband. — It’s still not… ahh… He got behind the wheel, checked the satnav. The maternity ward was the other side of the borough — twenty minutes in normal times. Now, the satnav said thirty-five. — Buckle up, — he said. — I’ll do my best. The man sat up front, eyes glued to his wife in the mirror. — Third child, — he said as if explaining. — We thought it’d be like the others. Came on really quick this time. — It’s fine, — he replied, though anxiety coiled in his chest. — We’ll shoot up the main road and get there quick. On the main road there was, of course, no shooting up anywhere: cars crept like tortoises, both directions. Salutes and fireworks crackled somewhere up ahead, winking in windshields. He squeezed between a minibus and a big black Range Rover, caught a gap, dived into a bus lane. Flashed by a traffic camera. — That’s a fine, — he muttered. — I’ll cover it, — the man promised instantly. — Just get us there. The woman hissed again, gripping the handle. — How long? — she asked. He checked. Twenty minutes. — Fifteen to twenty, tops. I’ll push it. And he did, threading every gap, cursing inside at those stopped dead, chasing every elusive green. One question whirred in his head: “If anything happens in here, who’s at fault? Me? The husband? The app?” At a traffic light, his wife messaged: “Everything’s ready here. When are you coming?” No answer — too much was happening: contractions in the back, a husband hyperventilating like it was him on the verge of labour. — Come on, you both know the trick — breathe in, out. Like they taught you at the antenatal. — Have you given birth too? — the woman gritted her teeth. — Taken my wife to the hospital three times, — he said. — Nearly a midwife by now. The husband snorted. — Did you ever make it? — Twice I did, once not. All ended well though. He remembered that night: wife in back, panic, shouting. Back then he wasn’t cabbing yet — he was on shift at the factory, using a work car. Time ran out, their boy was born in the A&E. Years later his wife still reminded him how he yelled at a traffic jam like cars would listen. They screeched up to the hospital in seventeen minutes, straight under the barrier; guard came out looking annoyed but, seeing the woman, waved them through. — You’re here, — he said. The husband dived to help her out. The woman tried to stand, doubled over. — Good luck, — he said. — Hope it’s quick. — Thanks, — she breathed. — Happy New Year. A little extra cash was pressed into his hand above the app payment. He wanted to refuse, but his fingers closed anyway. — For the fine, — the man explained. — And… thank you for not refusing. He watched as they staggered toward admissions, then his phone pinged: “Great trip! Client left you a tip.” Then another: “High demand in your area. Stay online to keep earning.” Time: twenty to nine. Three hours to midnight. Technically, still on schedule. He messaged his wife: “Carrying on till ten max. First ride was to the maternity — couldn’t say no.” Added a smiley, erased it, sent the message plain. Reply came in a minute: “I get it. Just please remember about us.” He sighed and hit “Available”. Second job: almost straightaway. A teenager, pick-up from a shopping centre by the tube. Surge 2.8, client five minutes away. — At least it’s not a mum-to-be, — he muttered. Outside the shopping centre, people loaded down with shopping bags, some popping bubbly in the street. A skinny boy in a light jacket, no hat, sat on a bench, phone in hand, little sports backpack at his feet, constantly glancing round. — Did you call for a cab? — he asked, rolling down the window. — Yeah, — boy came over. — Can you wait a second? I’m trying to call my mum, she’s not picking up. He glanced at the timer, the crowd, the boy. — Get in, — he said. — Try her on the way. Boy got in back, buckled up, clutched his phone. Destination: neighbouring borough, a random estate. Nothing special except the notes: “Child travelling alone. Please call mum on pickup.” He grimaced. He didn’t like jobs like this — what if something goes wrong, who’s responsible then? — How old are you? — he asked, pulling away. — Fourteen. Nearly fifteen. — Why alone? — Mum’s at work. She said she’d come get me, but her boss wouldn’t let her go. So I set off on my own and she called the cab. It’s just… well, a bit of a special night. The phone rang again. The boy checked the screen. — That’s her, — he said, answered. — Hello. Yeah, I’m in the car. Yeah, he’s fine. Driver’s here, you talk to him. The boy passed over the phone. — Hello? — he said. — Hello, — a quick female voice, noisy background, someone shouting. — Is this the driver? Have you got him, is everything okay? — He’s in, we’re on the way. Should be about twenty minutes if traffic plays nice. — Please take him to the door, don’t just drop him off. I left him the keys with a neighbour, he knows the drill. It’s just… — her voice cracked. — I’m on shift, I can’t make it. I promised… — I’ll get him there, don’t worry, — he said. — I’m a dad too. He caught himself saying it again — as if it meant something. — Thank you, thank you so much. And… happy new year. Phone returned to the boy. — Mum working then? — he double checked. — Sainsbury’s. She’s there till ten tonight. Then she’ll come if the bus shows up. — What’s the special occasion? The boy fidgeted. — I managed the whole term without getting any detentions. And… well, she promised we’d be at home just us this year. The boss said she had to work or she’d be kicked off the rota. He nodded. Too familiar — except his “boss” was now an “app” and a “surge rate”. Silence in the car. Outside, Christmas trees glowed in the estates, lighted windows, the occasional firework. At a crossing, another message from his wife: “We’re making salad, Sasha says if you don’t make it he’ll ban you from your app himself.” He grinned, typed back: “Tell him my rating’s higher than his grades.” Then deleted “than his grades” and wrote: “Trying my best. Still on track.” — You got family at home? — the boy asked. — Wife and son. He’s about your age. — And you’re on shift? — Well yeah. Holiday, isn’t it? Everyone’s out and about, money pretty much drives itself. — My mum says that too, — said the boy quietly. — But then she sleeps the whole next day and I’m alone with the cat. He couldn’t reply. For a second he wanted to ignore the drop-off address and take the kid straight to his mum’s work — but that, even for him, would be too much. They reached the estate smoothly. The block was an average one, lots of entryways. Boy pointed out where. — Here, — he said. — Can you wait ‘til I get inside? Just in case. — Of course. The boy got out, adjusted his bag, keyed in a code on the entryphone. A woman in a dressing gown came out, phone in hand. The boy said something, she nodded and waved to the driver. He waved back, pressed “End Trip”. Straight away, the app flashed: “Great trip. Stay online to earn more.” Ten to ten. Just over two hours left. Phone buzzed. His wife. — So? — she asked as he answered. — Still breathing? — Breathing. Coming to you, — he said. — Just one more quick ride on the way, that’s it. Already in the area. — Do you really believe that? — she asked calmly. He stayed quiet. — I’m not angry, — she continued. — I just want clarity. We’ve done everything, Sasha’s fighting with the fairy lights. He acts like he doesn’t care, but I see him. — I’ll make it, — he repeated. — Honest. — Okay. But, if you know you’re not going to, just tell us. Don’t disappear. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it, and hung up. Inside, he seized up. He knew how it was: “just a short ride”, “just five more minutes”, then suddenly it’s 11:45 and you’re somewhere on the A40 with a drunken stag do singing “God Save the Queen”. He checked jobs. The “No Refusals Allowed” button glowed red. These were priority jobs: hospitals, kids, social services. The pay wasn’t always higher, but if special mode was on, you couldn’t turn them down. He’d switched it on last year, wanting to do some good. It landed him in all sorts of situations, leaving him wrung out for days. New job. “No Refusals Allowed.” Seven-minute pick-up. Address: the local NHS clinic. Comment: “Elderly gentleman. Pick up from chemist, take home. Urgent.” — Bloody hell, — he breathed. If he exited now, the job would go to someone else — but maybe further away, maybe someone who’d ignore it. Some elderly gent standing in the cold, on New Year’s, all the chemists shut. He remembered his own dad, one year ago, sitting with a fever, waiting for him to get off work and deliver his tablets. He was late that time too. Dad used to joke he survived just to spite him. — Let’s go then, — he told himself. — One grandad isn’t the whole A40. He accepted. Chemist turned out to be by the clinic where he’d idled half his childhood in queue. Outside: a short old man in a worn overcoat, a shoulder bag, clutching a pharmacy bag, checking his watch. — You called for the cab? — he asked, pulling up. — Yes, — the old gent nodded, carefully squeezing into the front. — Hope you don’t mind, my leg’s not what it was. — Of course. Belt on, please. Home was the next borough, not far. Satnav said twenty-five minutes. The time: 10:20. — We’ll make it, — he muttered. — Sorry? — the old man asked. — Road looks clear, we’ll get there in no time. — Doesn’t have to be quick, — the old man sighed. — Just need to get back. He gave a lopsided smile. — You’ll get there, for sure. Off they went. Silence for a bit. Then: — I’d hoped for no drama today. And then my blood pressure shot up, heart going mad. Daughter was panicking, wanted an ambulance. I said: what ambulance, they’re swamped! Got myself to the chemist, but couldn’t make it back. So she got you. — Daughter lives with you? — he asked, for conversation’s sake. — Yes. Lost her husband, kids are all over the place, so just us now. She’s at home worrying. She’s got, what do you call it… anxiety. Always convinced I’ll keel over. He nodded. Too familiar. His wife never stopped worrying over him — crash, drunk punter, you name it. — Why are you out driving tonight, then? — the old man asked. — Your family not mad? — They are, — he admitted. — But the mortgage doesn’t pay itself. — Everyone has one these days, — the old man sighed. — When I was your age, I thought retirement would be feet up, digging potatoes in the garden. Well… not quite. He trailed off. Phone buzzed again — this time, his son. — Dad, — his son said as soon as he answered. — Where are you? — Taking an old chap home from the chemist. You next. — How long is “next”? — son’s voice was flat but tense. — Half an hour there, half back. I’ll get there. — Are you sure? He checked the satnav. A jam ahead, blazing red. — Well… I’ll do my best. — Just be honest, — said the boy. — Are you going to be in the car when Big Ben strikes? — I don’t want to be, — he sighed. — But… — Got it, — the boy cut him off. — I’ll tell mum you’re busy. We’re opening the no-alcohol bubbly. I’ll pour one for you too. — Sasha… Only the dial tone. A painful tightness twisted in him. He half-wanted to turn round, drop the old gent at the nearest tube, hightail it home. But he saw the man clutching his medication as if it were a lifebelt. — You alright? — the old man noticed his tension. — Yes, — he lied. — Just my lot waiting at home. — That’s a good thing, — the old man said quietly. — My wife died on New Year’s Day. Everything ready: salads, fizz, the usual. She went into the kitchen and… He trailed off. — Sorry, didn’t mean to bring you down. But — if someone’s waiting for you, you’re lucky. Even if you’re late. He had no answer. The jam hardly moved; up ahead, someone had started a firework show right in the road, every car held up. He watched people recording with phones, felt every minute tick by. He flicked on the secondary satnav, checked the backstreets. Riskier: snowbanks, double-parked cars — but quicker if he made it through. — Try the estates, — advised the old man. — Left here, I know the way. — They’ll be blocked. — We’ll make it. Used to be a bus driver, remember? Know all the shortcuts. He went for it. The man was right; a few tight squeezes, one snow bump nearly did for them, but they made it. Saved ten minutes off the route. — There you go, — said the old man, satisfied. — Can’t beat the old ways. — Cheers, — he said gratefully. They reached the old man’s block at 10:55. The gent fumbled with his wallet. — Don’t, — he protested. — Keep your cash for the tablets. — Not for the pills, — the old man insisted. — For not leaving me here. Take it. He took it, got out, helped the gent up the steps. On the first floor, a woman in her forties in a Christmas jumper threw open the door. — Dad! I thought you’d collapsed somewhere. — Didn’t. Got a good driver. She turned to him. — Thank you so much. And… happy new year. He nodded and hurried back to his car. It was just after eleven. Home by car: twenty minutes straight. If the lights were green, he might just make it. If not… He got in, switched on. The app: “You are in a surge zone. Do not leave your shift!” “End Shift” was greyed out. “Available” was green. “No Refusals Allowed” still flashed red. He reached for the exit — and then a new job appeared. Again, “No Refusals Allowed”. Three minutes’ pickup, address two blocks away. Comment: “Child lost. Take to police station.” He froze. In his mind: son’s voice — “Just be honest.” Wife’s: “We’re all ready here.” The old gent’s: “If you’re waited for, that’s luck.” If he hit “accept”, there was no chance of midnight at home. Even just a ten-minute drop at the cop shop would be forty minutes, what with the paperwork, lost child, frantic parents. Could be longer if they drew it out. If he refused, someone else might get the job — but it could be a further cabby, might be left in the cold or it could all be fine. Or not. He felt sweat on his palms. At forty-five, he’d thought he was good at decisions. But there he was: a grown man in a car, staring at a screen, unable to press either button. Three seconds. Two. One. Auto-accept — the system took the job for him. — Oh, for God’s sake, — he swore. He could still cancel — but he’d lose status, perks, get penalised by the system. But more than that, something within him wouldn’t let him leave it. He’d seen enough for one night: the expectant mother, the lone boy, the old gent. — Right then, — he said. — Let’s save someone else. The child was a little girl of about eight, hugging a soft toy rabbit on a bench by the block. Standing beside her, a lady in a bobble hat, on the phone. — You here for her? — the woman noticed him. — Yes. What’s happened? — She was out with the dog at a party, then got lost. Found her here by the next block. Her parents are at the police station now — needed you to get her there faster than waiting for the patrol car. That OK? He wanted to say “no”. Family at home, twelve fast approaching, he’d done more than his share. But the little girl looked up, huge tear-bright eyes. — Will you come with me? — he asked. She nodded fiercely, clutching the rabbit tighter. — I’ll come, — the woman said. — I found her. Parents are waiting at the station. He nodded — relief; at least she wouldn’t be alone. They set off; the child in the back, woman with her. He checked the clock: 11:10. The police station was ten minutes away, if the roads weren’t total carnage. But everyone in North London seemed to be out at once, setting off fireworks and getting in their cars. — What’s your name? — he asked, hitting the road. — Vicky, — she whispered. — Vicky, don’t worry — we’re taking you to mum and dad. They’re waiting for you. — I wasn’t scared, — she said stubbornly. — I just didn’t know where to go. The woman in the back sighed. — Our courtyard’s all dug up, she got confused. I saw her wandering circles, looking lost. Good thing she had the address on paper in her pocket. He nodded. His mother had done the same — slip of paper with the address any time he went out to play. His wife rang. He answered without taking his eyes off the road. — Are you coming home? — she asked, skipping hello. — Taking a lost kid to the police. She got separated. Silence. — Of course, — she said finally. — Who else if not you? — I can’t leave her, — he said, quietly. — The parents… — I understand, — she cut him off. — I really do. It’s just… He heard a bang, then his son laughing in the background. — They’re starting the fireworks, — she said. — We’ll… we’ll begin without you. Off you go, superhero. — I’ll try for midnight, — he said, not believing it himself. — Don’t promise, — she replied, softly. — Please. Don’t promise what you can’t do. He wanted to say something — but the line died. He felt something break inside — not loudly, just another spring stretched to snapping point. — Hope you don’t mind I’m holding you up? — the woman in back asked. — Yes and no, — he said honestly. — But it’s not you. She didn’t press. Police station in fifteen minutes flat. Vicky was silent the whole way, only sniffling now and then. Parents already out front — mum snatched her up from the back seat, dad following, bags in hand. — Thank you, — he said, glancing over. — If it hadn’t been you… — Not me, — the woman said, nodding at the driver. The parents both looked at him — mum’s eyes brimming with tears. — Thank you. Happy New Year. — And to you, — he said. Time: 11:28. Direct route: fifteen minutes. That’s if every light is green, nothing blocks the way, no surprise jams. Satnav: twenty-two minutes. — Of course, — he muttered. App nudged: “Peak surge area. Stay on to earn triple.” He hit “End Shift”. The system blinked: “Are you sure? You’re in a surge zone.” He hit “Yes”. — Too late for perfection, — he muttered. — But let’s go. Home felt like a dream. Car horns, people everywhere, random fireworks shooting out from driveways. Every crossing a mass of drunks, someone waving him to stop, someone else hollering nonsense. He watched the clock. 11:35. 11:40. 11:45. Got stuck behind a bus that stopped for a dozen pedestrians. Another red light. Another standstill. Radio presenters boomed out well-wishes, encouraging listeners to celebrate with their loved ones. — Yeah, yeah, — he muttered. — Try living it, mate. At 11:50, he finally made his street. In the estate, fireworks rocketed up, kids shrieking. He parked, ditched the car, legged it up to the block. Could barely breathe by the time he hit the third floor. Flat door already ajar. Inside, the Prime Minister’s address was on TV. He came in. Fairy lights glowing, salads, sausage rolls, kettle steaming. His wife sat hunched over the table, his son by the window with a glass of lemonade. Both turned to him. — See? — he tried a smile. — Told you I’d make it. His son glanced at the clock: three minutes to midnight. — Almost, — he said. His wife stood, took a glass, poured out the fizz. — Here, — she said. — Two minutes to pretend we’re a normal family. He took it — hands still shaking from the drive. On TV, the Prime Minister talked about the challenges making the nation stronger, the importance of family, helping each other. — Good timing, — his wife muttered. — Are you angry? — he asked. — I’m tired, — she replied. — Not quite the same. His son approached, clinked glasses. — Come on, dad, — he said. — At least you weren’t in the car for the countdown this time. He smirked. — Progress. They drank — the cheap prosecco warm, but it didn’t matter. After the first toast, the telly became background noise. They ate mostly in silence. Occasionally, his wife asked about holiday plans, their son replied monosyllabically. He felt the unspoken hanging between them all. At one point, his son stood. — Come on, — he said to his father. — Where to? — Show me your “adventures”. All those tales you come back with. He blinked. — What adventures? — You’ve got a dash cam, haven’t you? Let’s see what you’ve been up to saving the world. His wife laughed wryly, saying nothing. They went to his tiny home office-cum-junk room. He plugged in the dash-cam memory, his son curled up beside him. — It’s nothing much, — he warned. — Just another day. — Yeah — just another day: a woman in labour, a grandad, a lost kid. Typical taxi shift. He winced. They flicked through the footage: the pregnant woman, fussing husband. His son snorted. — That’s a bit of language, dad. — Wasn’t at them, just the traffic. — The traffic doesn’t care. Then the boy with the rucksack stared out the window. His son fell silent, watching. — That him? — his son asked. — Who? — The one who travelled alone. — Yeah. — Looked just like me in year seven — only my bag had superheroes on it. He smiled. — You had to get home by yourself that once, — he reminded. — Remember, I got stuck on shift, couldn’t collect you? His son grimaced. — Mum called me like thirty times. Thought her phone would burst. — I remember, — he said. — Never forgot. They scrolled to the video of the old man with the pharmacy bag. His son studied the way the old man sat, adjusted his seatbelt. — Looks like granddad, — his son said quietly. — I thought that too. — When you helped him in, your face looked…like you were… — Like granddad myself, — he tried to joke. — Like you were scared it’d go wrong, — his son said, serious. No answer. — So, — his son said. — Do you regret picking any of them up? He paused. Harder question than it sounded. — I regret not being in two places at once, — he said at last. — I regret you and mum sitting here without me. But if I’d said “no” to any of those… I’d tear myself up worse. — What if something happened to me while you were out saving everyone else? — his son asked. He flinched. — It didn’t though. — But it could have. Silence again. — I just haven’t found how to choose so everyone is happy, — he said. — I’m always afraid that if I say “no” to a stranger, I’m a bad person. If I say “no” to you guys, I’m a bad dad. — Bad? — his son echoed. — Sort of. His son sighed. — Dad, — he said. — You’re not a superhero. Relax. He blinked, surprised. — That a compliment or an insult? — Just a fact, — his son replied. — You don’t have to save everyone. But — I’m glad you didn’t leave that girl or the old man or the boy. Just… next time, be honest with us if you won’t make it. Then at least we won’t be sat like idiots, staring at the door. He nodded. Hurt, but fair. — I’m afraid to say I’ll be late, — he admitted. — Like, if I say it, that proves I’m a bad dad. Easier to fool myself, and drag you with me. — And then not make it, — his son said. — And then not make it, — he agreed. His son fidgeted. — Let’s do it like this, — he said. — Next time you know you’re not going to make it — just text or call. Say, “I can’t be there by twelve.” I’ll be cross, mum’ll be cross, but we’ll know. Deal? He looked at his son: calm, no drama. — Deal, — he said. — I’ll try. — That’s something, — his son said. From the front room, his wife called: — What are you two watching, a movie? Pudding’s cooling! His son stood. — Let’s go, Superman, — he said. — There are fireworks outside. He shut the laptop, lingered for a second. Faces from tonight flickered up: the pregnant woman, the lone boy, the grandad, Vicky with her bunny. And two more: his wife and his son waiting as the clock struck twelve. He realised there would never be perfect balance. Someone would always be left waiting. He’d always feel like he’d fallen short. But maybe, at least, he could stop lying to himself about making it everywhere. He went back out. His wife was pouring tea; the pudding on the table. She looked at him, tired but not quite so sharp now. — Well, Mr. Taxi, — she said. — At least you made it on camera this year for the chimes. — Next year, I’ll try to be here even earlier, — he replied. — Don’t promise, — she warned. — I’ll do my best, — he corrected. His son snorted. — Progress, — he said. Another boom outside. They all went to the window, watching fireworks flare over the estate rooftops. He stood beside them, felt their shoulders, listened to their breathing. On the kitchen table his phone pulsed with another app notification, but he didn’t look. Tonight, at least, his shift was over. If just for one night.

No Right of Refusal Ill definitely be home before midnight, he promised, tightening his belt and giving