analysisWe need to adapt story to English culture: replace cities, countries, currencies, names. Change first and last names to English. Girl names to ones only exist in English culture. Use English idioms. Convert rubles to pounds sterling. Keep story length similar, surreal dreamlike. Must be just the story text.
We must ensure all names: Sister-in-law (золовка) perhaps «Emily». Main character Marина -> «Claire». Husband Andrej -> «Andrew». Mother-in-law Tamara Pavlovna -> «Margaret». Sister-in-law Svetlana -> «Olivia». Child Artem -> «Jack». Need English-only girl names: e.g., «Olivia» is common but also elsewhere. Could choose «Bridget»? but she is sister-in-law. Use «Bridget». Also «Svetlana» -> «Bridget». The mother-in-law Margaret. The birthday woman Margaret? Actually «Tamara Pavlovna» is birthday woman. She is mother-in-law. Use «Margaret». The sister-in-law is «Bridget». The other sister-in-law «Olivia»? Actually story has two sisters: Svetlana (sister of dead husband) and Tamara (mother of dead husband). Let’s assign: Svetlana -> «Bridget». Tamara -> «Margaret». The main wife «Marina» -> «Claire». Husband «Andrew». Son «Artem» -> «Jack». The other sister-in-law «Svetlana» is also «Bridget». Ensure unique.
English places: maybe set in a large country house in Yorkshire. Currency: £. 300 rubles = about £4? Actually 300 rubles ~ £3.5. Use «£4». Use «pounds». Use «pound». Use «shilling»? Keep simple.
Adapt references: «holiday table» -> «Christmas dinner». Use English idioms: «you should be grateful we even put up with you». Keep surreal dream vibe.
We must keep size similar. Carefully rewrite.
Let’s produce final.You should be grateful we even put up with you, the sisterinlaw snapped from across the festive table.
Is that all? Claire lifted the modest corner of the gift bag with two fingers, her voice dripping with disgust. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, look at this generosity.
Claire, enough, Margaret, the birthday matriarch, pressed her lips together, a cold approval flashing in her eyes. Bridget tried.
Tried? Bridget laughed, flinging the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the nearest discount store? She could have been a bit more generousshe lives here on everyones allowances and pays not a penny for the mortgage.
Heat rose to Claires cheeks like spilled paint. She stood by the covered table she had set up since dawn, feeling like a misbehaving schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, Jack, sitting beside her, folded his eyes into his plate, already understanding everything.
I thought it was practical, Claire whispered, not looking up. The old ones were completely worn out
Practical? Bridget leaned back, the picture of confidence, a lingering sense of superiority on her face. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. Theres more room in the house that way.
The only sound breaking the tension was the clink of a fork as Jack dropped it. He leapt up without a word and bolted from the room. Claire shivered, ready to follow, but the commanding tone of her motherinlaw stopped her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve scolded the boy, and now youre on the verge of tears. Hes growing up yet behaves like a little girl.
Claire sank into her seat, feeling an icy numbness settle inside. She stared at the empty chair where Andrew had sat five years ago. He would never have spoken to her like that; one look from him would have put Bridget in her place. But Andrew was gone, and she was alone in that vast, unfamiliar house where every slice of bread seemed to demand a price of humiliation.
The celebration was irrevocably ruined. Relatives and neighbours pretended nothing had happened, yet their conversations dimmed and their glances at Claire were full of awkward sympathy. She forced a smile, refilled glasses with juice, cleared empty plates, longing for the day to end.
When the last guests departed, Bridget, already gathering her husband, paused at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not being cruel, she said in a tone that allowed no rebuttal. I say what I think. You should be grateful we even tolerate you after everythingboth for Andrews memory and for Mothers sake.
The door slammed shut. Claire was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Margaret slipped silently into her room, saying nothing. Exhaustion pressed down on Claire like lead. She sank onto a stool and wept silently, not from offenseshe was almost used to itbut from sheer helplessness.
Late that night, after tidying the kitchen, she slipped into Jacks room. He lay awake, face pressed to the wall.
Jack, are you sleeping? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Bridget hate us? he asked without turning.
Claire ran her fingers through his hair, searching for words to untangle the suffocating web of family ties.
Shes not cruel, just complicated. She misses dad a great deal, as do we.
Dad would have scolded her, Jack said confidently. Hed never have let her hurt you.
Exactly, he wouldnt have, Claire agreed, a lump forming in her throat. Sleep now, love. School tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no room of her own; after Andrews death she and Jack had been crammed into the former childrens bedroom, while the former master bedroom now stood empty, turned by Margaret into a memory room where everything remained as it had been when her son lived. Only Margaret was allowed inside.
The house, once cosy and spacious, had become a golden cage owned by Andrews parents. After Andrews passing, Margaret became the sole proprietor. Claire, a qualified accountant, had not worked for years; she now held a parttime callcentre job to fetch Jack from school. Her tiny wages vanished on school uniforms, supplies, and modest bills. They survived on Margarets allowance, which Bridget wielded like a weapon.
One morning Margaret behaved as if the previous nights tirade had never occurred. She sipped coffee at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand.
Good morning, Claire said softly, placing a pot of porridge on the stove for Jack.
Margaret nodded without looking up.
Im off to my friends cottage for a couple of days. Foods in the fridge, keep an eye on the house, and dont forget the lilies in the sitting room.
Will do, Margaret.
When Margarets door shut, Claire breathed freely for the first time in ages. Two days of silence, two days without cutting remarks and venomous comments.
She walked Jack to school, then returned to the empty house, bucket in hand, to water the lilies. Margaret adored her plants. In the sitting room, an old chest of drawers bore photographs: a smiling young Andrew, a cheerful Bridget, a tiny picture of the two of them on their wedding dayhappy, hopeful.
Her eyes fell on the closed door of the former master bedroom, the memory room. Curiosity, stronger than any moral warning, pulled her inside. The door was unlocked. She entered, listening for any sound. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as Margaret had left it: the double bed draped in silk, a vanity with perfume bottles she dared not touch, Andrews bookshelf.
She ran her fingers over the spines of classics, histories, fantasiesAndrews favorites. Between two volumes of Dickens she found a thick folder she didnt recognize. The cover simply read Documents.
Her heart hammered. Inside lay old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, astonishingly, a will. It had been drafted by Margarets late husband, Ian, six months before his death.
Claire read, and the words blurred before her eyes. In stark black ink it stated that the house belonged not to Margaret, but to their son, Andrew, with the sole condition that Margaret could live there for life. No mention of Bridget.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. It meant that after Andrews death the sole heir was his son, Jack, and as his legal guardian she was effectively the owner. Margaret had known this all along and had kept it hidden for years.
She slipped the folder back into the drawer, shut the door, and left, her mind a fog of disbelief. Should she confront Margaret with the document? Stage a scandal? Imagine Bridgets face when she learned she had no claim to the house The thought made Claire uneasy. She wanted peace, not war. She only wanted a quiet life for herself and Jack.
For two days she drifted through the house like a ghost, weighing her options. She could assert her rights now, hire a solicitor, force the truth into the open. But what then? Live under the same roof with people who would despise her even more? Or evict the elderly motherinlaw, a woman who had raised Andrew? Andrew would never have wanted that.
When Margaret returned, Claire greeted her with practiced calm, helped with the bags, poured tea. Margaret chatted about her friends garden, her seedlings. Claire listened, nodding, while internally rehearsing her speech.
That evening, alone in the kitchen, Claire finally spoke.
Margaret, we need to talk.
Margarets eyebrows rose in surprise.
About what?
About the house, Claire said, keeping her voice steady. I know about the will.
A long, ringing silence fell. Margaret set her teacup down slowly.
You rummaged through my things? she asked, voice icy.
I found the folder in Andrews memory room.
That room is my sons! Margaret snapped.
Our sons, Claire corrected. My things are still there. It was our bedroom.
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Margaret finally asked, her tone metallic. Kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No. I dont want to sell. This is Jacks home, his fathers home, his grandfathers home. I just want the humiliation to stop. I want Bridget to stop treating us like strangers. By law this house belongs to us.
Margaret breathed heavily.
I did this for the family, she said hoarsely. I never wanted Bridget to end up with nothing after Im gone. I thought we could all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Margaret, Claire replied. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are barely tolerated. Andrew would not have allowed this.
Margaret turned to the window, her shoulders sagging.
What will you do now?
Nothing, Claire said. Ill leave the will where it is. I wont start a lawsuit. But I need you to speak to Bridget, to change how you treat us. Jack is your only grandchild, and he must not grow up feeling unwanted.
The next day was Saturday. As usual, Bridget arrived with her husband and their little girl. Claire set the table, tension buzzing like static. Margaret sat pale and silent.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Bridget chirped, plopping onto a chair. Did the housekeepers mood spoil your breakfast again?
Bridget, shut up, Margaret snapped, sharper than ever before.
Bridget stared, baffled.
Whats wrong?
I want you to apologise to Clairefor yesterday and for everything thats happened before.
Bridgets face stretched.
You want me to apologise? To her? For speaking the truth?
Its not the truth, Margarets voice trembled. Claire and Jack are not guests. This house it belongs to them.
Bridget turned slowly to Claire, then back at her mother. Confusion flickered to anger in her eyes.
You you knew all this? You kept it hidden? You let us think she was nothing?
…I thought I was doing what was best for everyone, Margaret whispered.
You call this family? Bridget shouted, standing up. Its all a lie! Youve been feeding us a story for years! She jabbed a finger at Claire. You knew and said nothing!
It was only yesterday I learned about the will, Claire said quietly.
Lies! Collusion! Bridget screamed, grabbing her bag. Im not coming back to this house! She stormed out, husband following, the front door slamming shut.
Margaret hunched over, hands covering her face, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. Jack, who had been watching from the corner, walked over and took Claires hand.
Claire placed a hand on Margarets shoulder.
Dont cry, Margaret. It will get better.
Margarets tearstreaked eyes met hers.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Claire replied firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Claire didnt know if she was speaking the truth, or what tomorrow would bring. Yet as she felt Jacks small fist gripping hers, and saw the weary woman before her, she felt, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the keeper of her own house and destiny. The road ahead would be hard, but she now knew she had the right to fight for her place in the sunfor herself and for her son.
