Waves, Wails and Wishes

A fictional story about the magic of me-time

This is a fictional story about the magic of me-time—the kind that feels impossible in the middle of chores, noise, and endless snack requests. It’s about one overwhelmed mother, a mysterious parcel, and a wish whispered in desperation.

A little magical realism, a little emotional truth—and a quiet reminder that even five minutes can change everything.

I hope you enjoy Waves, Wails and Wishes part of the upcoming collection of short stories under the working name “The Wish Come True”.

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The death of my grandmother could not have come at a worse time. The postman rang while all four of us were in tears—me from despair and frustration, the kids from anger and who knows what else.

I signed for the parcel and smiled at the postman politely. Because what else do you do? Scream, Help! My children are making me go crazy?

I tried to open it there and then—it looked official. Then Liane grabbed my arm, trying to pull me down. She wanted to see what it was I was holding.

Rex snatched it from my hand and pushed Liane away. She started wailing. I was about to join in.

“Stop it. Stop it, both of you!” I shouted—my voice louder than needed, but it got their attention.

Ross chipped in too, probably feeling left out.

“No!” I shouted again. “It’s for Mummy. I need to open it.”

While the kids argued over who would hold it next, I grabbed it tight and made a runner upstairs to my room. I shut the door—which I very rarely do.

The gang followed, of course, and started banging on it, expressing their frustration with loud shouts.

I opened the parcel. Inside was a small note that began with: “I regret to inform you…”

I hadn’t seen my grandma since I was a child, but nevertheless, my heart did a deep somersault. She was my last living grandparent. I could feel the line of succession shift, with me now standing right in front of my parents, and them at the end of the line.

There was an envelope with barely readable handwriting, addressed to Margarita.

Dear Margarita,

—the inside of the postcard continued. I could swear I heard her voice: deep, melodic, and very slow.

No one called me that apart from officials. Everyone knew me as Rita. Then I remembered my mum mentioning in passing that it was my grandma who had named me after Bulgakov’s Margarita, because my mum had trouble bonding with me when I was born.

My dad wasn’t around. He didn’t know I existed until I was a year or so. So my grandma looked after me.

Suddenly I was overcome with tears and sadness—this woman, who I barely knew, had looked after me all by herself when I was a baby. I remembered my own babies and how difficult it was at times, but how much love and affection I felt for them even in the midst of sleep deprivation, crying outbursts, and illness.

I was her baby for a year or so—and then I was gone. She pretty much never saw me again, apart from a few occasional visits. No overnight stays. I was rarely allowed to take any toys she gifted me.

All these memories descended on me at once. One memory replacing another—a perfect, incoherent mess. Just like my life right now.

It was the first time in what felt like years that I allowed myself to cry this deeply and this sincerely.

Then the banging on the door caught my attention. Ross’s angry voice kicked me out of my solemn, tearful—but much-needed—state.

“Mum! If you don’t open right now, I’ll break the door! That’s not fair! We want to see what’s in there!”

Oh, do you? Will you break the door now, I see, I thought. Panic, despair, and something else enveloped my essence. Who does he think he is? An eight-year-old boss of my life?

When did they declare ownership of the household? When did they start running it instead of me?

Seb was working abroad for the next two months. I wasn’t used to parenting on my own.

I fell slightly apart—and they took the opportunity.

In my head, I saw myself as a wounded deer, and them as a pack of hyenas attracted by my blood. The image made me shudder—but that’s how I felt: alone, lost, helpless, overwhelmed, and slightly under the weather.

I ignored their hysterical demands and increasingly louder banging.

“Leave me alone a bit, will you?” I shouted.

“I want a snack!” Liane wailed.

“I want ice cream!” Rex joined in.

“I want to see what’s in the parcel!” That was Ross.

Three kids, three different agendas. None included me. None included Mummy’s well-being or her need for privacy.

Through my tear-covered eyes, I continued reading the postcard:

Be brave to wish for things, my pet,

But only one per day.

Make sure you dare to wish, my dear,

Go crazy—dream away!

What on earth was that?

I opened a small box without even thinking. It contained a sort of pendulum made of the most beautiful emerald and sapphire stones.

I stared, mesmerised.

Seb used to say that my eyes were sapphire on good days—and when I was angry, the emeralds showed up and he knew to hide well.

It put a smile on my face. He was only gone two days, but I missed him so much.

I felt a strong desire to put it on. And I did. It felt familiar, like I’d seen it before—like it was mine all along and we were reunited after a long separation.

I suddenly felt at peace.

But then came the increased wailing, the shuffling, and what sounded like things falling. It snapped me out of it.

I jumped to my feet, flung the door open, and shouted as kindly as I could:

“Could you leave me alone just for five minutes? My gran has died, and I can’t even pay her minimum respect because you three demand my non-stop attention! It’s not snack time yet. No ice cream today! And it’s a private message—and I request privacy!”

And I slammed the door behind me.

The wailing continued.

“I wish I could be somewhere on a beach,” I whispered, “just for a few hours. All by myself.”

I started crying like a child—out of desperation, unfairness, and who knows what else.

And suddenly—I felt a gentle breeze on my skin.

I was no longer in my room.

I was on a beach.

There was no one else in sight—just waves, seagulls, and sand.

At first I panicked. What happened? Where am I? Where are the kids? How will I get back?

Then a thought crossed my mind. I must be asleep. I must have passed out from all the nerves and crying.

Oh well, I thought. Even if I’m asleep for a bit—kids have been fed. Hopefully they don’t make too much noise for the neighbours to call the police.

I decided to go ahead with my dream—and enjoy it while it lasts.

It felt so real. I could smell the salt on my skin.

I crouched and touched the water. It licked my fingers—wet and cool. The seagull songs reminded me of those rare days at my grandma’s. We only visited her several times over couple of summer, when she lived by the sea.

“She’s moved far away,” Mum would say when I asked about sea-grandma.

“We won’t see her ever again,” Dad would reply, “because she’s a witch” he’d whisper as if to himself.

I decided to go for a quick dip. The water looked inviting. I took my dress off and stepped into the waves.

I let them caress my body, as if washing all the worries away.

I breathed as deeply as I could. It felt so satisfying.

The waves engulfed me, gently rocking me. I swam in and out. They carried me, threw me up in the air, then down again. I started laughing.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much fun in the water. Lately, it was always about safeguarding the kids.

Stop. This was my dream. It was about me.

A couple more minutes, then I’ll go back to being their mum. Now I am Rita—born Margarita—enjoying this game with the sea.

I laughed, jumped, and let it cover me—hair, eyes, and all. Surprisingly, I wasn’t uncomfortable. On the contrary, it felt liberating—letting the sea swallow me whole, then spit me out. Playing with me, like I played with its waves.

Eventually, I crawled back to the beach and dropped onto the warm sand, letting cheeky waves tickle my feet.

I looked up. The sky was the most beautiful blue—cartoon-bright, not a cloud in sight. Birds crossed above me lazily.

The sun and wind dried me better than any towel.

I suddenly wanted ice cream—must’ve been Rex’s influence. I smiled.

That boy. If he could, he’d have ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even as a baby, he’d grab his brother’s ice cream and devour it before we could say, Oh no, Rex!

He also loved being cold. Only wore shorts—even in winter. Preschool wasn’t impressed. But what could we do? He is who he is.

I put my dress back on and stretched, every single bone in my body relaxing. When I opened my eyes again—

—I was standing in the middle of my room.

Wow. Did I sleep standing? That’d be a first.

I heard gentle sobbing outside the door. To my surprise, I no longer felt anger or desperation hearing it. Instead, a wave of gentleness swept over me.

I opened the door.

All three kids sat on the floor in front of it. Liane was crying, Ross was hugging her, and Rex was whispering to his toy penguin.

“Thank you so much for giving me a few minutes of me-time,” I said sincerely. “Shall we go and get some snacks?”

Liane stretched her arms toward me, and I picked her up. Her tear-covered face made my dress instantly wet.

“That’s okay, Mum. I had it covered for you,” Ross said—though seconds earlier, he looked far from impressed with me.

“Can we have some ice cream maybe later?” Rex asked hopefully.

“Maybe later,” I replied, noncommittal—but he was happy with it.

I took his hand, and all four of us went downstairs toward the kitchen.

I looked at the clock on the wall. No more than 15 minutes had passed since I opened the door to the postman.

But the difference was immense.

As if I’d been to the beach and back.

As if I’d frolicked in the water to my heart’s content, then lain on the beach, kissed by the sun and the sea wind, lulled by the songs of seagulls.

All I really needed… was a few minutes to myself.