The Dream's Receipt
I hurried through London’s bustle to the tube, bound for Piccadilly. My family was arriving—their first visit to my new world. A grand surprise waited at my flat, my excitement so fierce it’d shatter any gauge. My youngest daughter, Kristina—Kiki to us—was graduating from Sheffield Hallam University in days. I’d asked her, 'What if my gift was the whole family together? I’ll cover everything.' 'Mum, you’d do that?' Kiki had said, astonished. 'Of course,' I replied, no doubt in my mind. We sorted it all—flights, a Sheffield flat, a car—for a London-Sheffield-London adventure, chasing both cities’ secrets. Kiki laughed, 'And as the Cherry on top, the big ceremony at Sheffield Hallam.' A product design graduate—good heavens, I still couldn’t believe it! More news burned in me: I’d accepted a job offer as a Trade Account Manager, a return to the industry where I’d thrived for over twenty years in Croatia as an interior designer.For decades, I’d woven joy through events—balloons, flowers, celebrations—sharing life’s happiest moments with clients for eight of those years. I’d dreamt of being an interior designer—a posh profession, a fortress for a foreigner to breach. So, I’d worked as a Live-in Carer, my skills opening other doors. This new role was a bridge to my past, a chance to immerse in British business culture, its customs and rules, and to grow. It sparked hope for my own venture one day—Cherry’s Festive Corner, a haven to craft joy and togetherness, just as I’d done for clients back home. I was still reeling—no more Live-in Carer. The nomadic chapter was finally closed. I’d fought for this, applying to countless jobs, enduring dozens of interviews. Gruelling, soul-crushing work. At my lowest, I’d told my kids, 'I’m done. If it means being a Carer forever, so be it!' They thought it was a phase, but when I deleted my job profiles, they saw the cliff edge of my despair. Fierce desire is essential for any achievement, yet too much blinds you. Years ago, I’d fled Croatia’s corruption and nepotism to escape that abyss. If I hadn’t, it would’ve snuffed out my optimism, my joy, my sanity. That job offer came when I’d given up, like a jolly good kiss from the British job market. "Cherry, you’re romanticising again," I thought. 'It’s perfectly romantic when you chase something for over a year and it finally notices you,' I countered, grinning.The Piccadilly sign flashed through the tube window, stirring my first Underground memory—lost, baffled by the announcer’s 'Next stop, Piccadilly. Mind the gap, please.' "What’s left?" I’d wondered. The Underground is a marvel, a tapestry of British know-how and culture. At the Piccadilly-Bakerloo corridor, I scanned the crowd, heart racing. After fifteen minutes, I thought, 'They’ve probably got lost.' I laughed, picturing the Drmic family’s tube adventure. Back at the exit, I spotted my middle daughter. 'Mum!' she shouted, flying into my arms. The warmth of her embrace! I hugged her so tight, pulling my whole family closer through her. She babbled, flustered, about their wrong turn. 'Quick, they’re waiting at Bakerloo!' Watching her, I saw her newborn smile, that single dimple on one cheek. 'You haven’t changed a bit,' I said, meaning that dimple.From the escalator’s top, we saw them: my ex-husband, my eldest with her two kids—my grandchildren. My heart swelled, full as it should be. Hugs, kisses, and chatter filled the air as passers-by smiled; one girl snapped a photo. On the train, they talked over each other—the flight, the sprawling airport, the tube. 'Grandma, I thought we were lost,' my grandson said, relief in his eyes. I hugged him. 'You should’ve seen me my first time—two stops early, utterly lost.' 'You’ve got the hang of the tube now, Gran,' he teased, '‘cause I don’t fancy getting lost again.' We roared with laughter. We spilled from the station, suitcases and bags in tow, nattering loudly like old times. My granddaughter said, 'It’s nice to see the sky again!' I replied, 'The same sky covers us all, darling, here and in Dalmatia.' Hand in hand, I marvelled at her—a beautiful young woman now. 'Seko, how are you feeling?' 'Okay, Gran, still a bit sore, but I manage.' A drunk driver had hit her a year before. I hugged her. 'It’ll be alright.'At my building, I gasped, 'I’ve lost the key!' 'Oh no, how? When did you last have it?' they chorused. A neighbour let us in, and I dashed up the stairs, saying, 'I’ll check at the flat.' I hid my face, barely containing my laughter. At the door, I asked my daughter to hold my bag, patting my pockets theatrically. Their worry tugged at me, but the surprise was worth it. I nudged a suitcase against the door—a dull thud. Rummaging in my bag, I let their questions swirl. My eldest cried, 'Mum, someone’s in the flat!' They froze. 'What?' I said. The door swung open—there stood Kiki, my Kristina. 'Kiki, aren’t you in Sheffield?' Screams of joy erupted, hugs and kisses flying. 'No lost key,' I grinned. 'Surprise, right?' 'If you wanted us to have a heart attack!' they laughed. 'Get inside! We’ve so much to tell!' Kiki and I had planned this for years. After three years as a Live-in Carer, often alone, far from family, this reunion was a rebirth.My flat’s small, but they didn’t care. They claimed corners for their bags, chattering away. In Croatia, coffee’s an all-day affair—mine was ready. We sprawled on the sofa, cushions on the floor, around the dining table—together. The drive back became a time machine. I shared my grandfather’s love for my grandmother, Kata—a tale of resilience. Orphaned by plague, he proposed at 33 to 17-year-old Kata, promising care despite little. She chose love over creed, birthing four, adopting two. Her death at 35 left him grieving decades, a lesson in enduring love. 'Hold these values—love, care, unity,' I urged my kids, their eyes wide with pride. Two days later, my contract arrived. Over Mirko’s delicious dinner, we debated it, pancakes on the table—our tradition. 'But I’m still Foreign,' I said. Kiki replied, 'You’ll be a Citizen one day. This job’s huge. Take it.' The argument was over. I signed the contract that night. It felt less like a job offer and more like a final oath of allegiance to my chosen home.In Sheffield, Kiki waved from the stalls, unmistakable despite identical gowns. The hall buzzed, grand and alive. The dean’s proud speech celebrated the students. I hadn’t grasped her triumph until then. Floating through memories—her protecting animals, fighting injustice, befriending the vulnerable—I saw her uniqueness. In Croatia, being different wasn’t a path to success. My dad had told me, 'No school for parenting, but you’ll know. Follow their dreams, don’t choose them.' I followed Kiki’s. The fight for my place in Britain felt like a decade-long bungee jump without a cord. But watching my daughter, a Dalmatian girl called Drmic, triumphantly accept two awards for Diversity and Inclusion—values that defied my past—I finally understood the full value of this journey. This country didn’t just give me a chance; it gave my daughters the freedom to be great without being molded. That contract I signed, surrounded by my family, wasn’t just a job; it was the receipt for my resilience and their belief. My grandfather’s love for Kata taught me enduring care, a legacy I pass to my kin. With the British spirit as my anchor, I am no longer a foreigner; I am a contributing citizen in the ultimate garden of hope.
