What a wonderful display of honesty, Mrs. Galina—truly commendable!

**Diary Entry A Lesson in Trust**

*”Honesty seems a fine thing, Margaret,” I muttered under my breath, barely containing my frustration. “Our kids roasted in that garden last summer while we spent the entire year fixing up your cottageonly for Anastasias children to enjoy the comforts while ours sit at home? Very fair of you!”*

*”Well, I said it was for the grandchildren,” she retorted, unfazed. “I never specified which ones! Did you think you were the only family I had? Your lot had their turnnow its Anastasias. Thats fair!”*

I clenched my jaw. Fair? *Fair* wouldve been equal time. But noMargaret had already promised Anastasia the whole summer. “Bring yours next Wednesday, just for a few days,” she offered, as though granting some grand favour. As if a handful of days could make up for the sweat and savings wed poured into that place.

I hung up, rubbing my temples. The children had spent all year dreaming of that cottagethe new playground, the paddling pool, the adventures. And now? Someone elses kids would splash in the pool *wed* bought.

It had all started so innocently. Last summer, wed visited Margarets cottage for the first time in a decade. The place was a wreck: creaky windows, an outdoor loo, overgrown weeds, sagging roof. Inside, the furniture belonged in a museum, the wallpaper peeled, and the air reeked of damp.

*”So much to do, so much”* Margaret had sighed, waving a hand at the chaos. While my husband, Edward, hacked at the weeds, she served tea and mused aloud: *”Id love to have the grandchildren here, but what would they even do? Dig for worms in the stream? Its no fun for them.”*

Id thought of my own childhood summerschasing butterflies, weaving daisy chains, even the sting of a bee Id mistaken for a fly. Simple joys. *”What if we fixed it up?”* Id suggested. *”Bit by bit. Make it a proper holiday for them.”*

Margarets eyes lit up. *”Exactly! Better than wasting money on Spain. Ill host them every summer!”*

And so wed poured everything into it. New windows, a proper bathroom, a swing set, even a pool (inflatable, but the kids adored it). Our boys came back raving about their adventurescatching grasshoppers, spotting hedgehogs. *”Can we go again next year?”* theyd begged.

Wed believed we were building something together. A family effort.

Yet Anastasia? Shed contributed a bag of sand. *One bag.* While wed skipped holidays, scrimped, and laboured, shed sat silentuntil now, when *her* children reaped the rewards.

Fuming, I rang my mother. *”Shes played you,”* Mum said bluntly. *”Couldve been upfront. Instead, shes strung you along.”*

But the real blow? Realising there were other ways. We rented a little cabin on the outskirts of towncosy, with an apple tree and a barbecue. Mum offered to stay with the kids while we worked. They spent the month splashing in *our* pool, swinging on *our* swings, picking blackberries in the woods.

*”Even better than Grandmas!”* they declared.

And it was. No feeling of being used. Just ushappy, together.

As we drove home, Edward sighed. *”Let Margaret and Anastasia foot their own bills now. Well manage our own way.”*

A hard lesson, but a necessary one. Ill still move mountains for my childrenbut never again on empty promises.

**James Whitmore**