З життя
6 годин роздумів: Чому невістка була такою ворожою до нас?
6 років я питала себе: Чому невістка настільки вороже ставилась до нас?
Я не спілкувалася зі своїм сином Тарасом вже шість років. Я навіть не була запрошена на його весілля. Я була впевнена, що в цьому винна моя невістка Оксана. Я не розуміла причини, але через це страждала.
З чоловіком у нас троє синів, і в нього є син від першого шлюбу. Звичайно, я люблю всіх своїх дітей, але Тарас, найстарший, був настільки бажаною дитиною, що став моєю гордістю.
Шість років тому Тарас зустрів свою майбутню дружину. Вже на початку все пішло не так. Моє перше враження про неї було скоріше позитивним. Під час першого візиту до нас все минуло без проблем. Але з другого разу почало щось змінюватися. Ми сиділи за столом, коли вона сказала Тарасу: “Ти дуже погано одягаєшся. Я подарую тобі гарний одяг”. Він відповів: “Мені нічого не треба, у кожного свій смак”. Я підтримала його. Оксана насупилася, але нічого не сказала.
Наступного дня Тарас поцілував мене на прощання, а Оксана навіть не підійшла. В той момент я не усвідомила, що саме сталося. Згодом зрозуміла, що своїм одним зауваженням викликала невдоволення невістки.
Навіть на їхнє весілля мене не запросили.
Після кількох місяців мовчання Тарас запросив нас у Чернівці на свій день народження – Оксана родом звідти. Ми з чоловіком планували зупинитись у готелі, щоб залишити молодятам простір для святкування, але Тарас наполіг, аби ми залишилися в них, заздалегідь попередивши, що Оксани, можливо, ми і не побачимо, бо вона зайнята в магазині батьків.
Ми мали зібратися на обід в ресторані, але вона не прийшла. Через кілька днів Тарас дав мені знати: “Мамо, я хочу одружитися з Оксаною”. Потім додав, що не бажає пишного весілля, лише маленьке свято. Мене це не хвилювало, я сказала, що щаслива за нього.
Через тиждень він зателефонував і сказав, що Оксана не хоче бачити мене на весіллі. Запросили лише мого чоловіка. Його брати теж не були запрошені. Я не можу описати, що я відчувала в той момент. Я передала слухавку чоловікові, який сказав Тарасу, що не піде на жодне весілля без мене та дітей. Тарас, обурившись, поклав слухавку.
Протягом наступних днів Оксана намагалася зв’язатися зі мною, але завжди потрапляла на мого чоловіка. Нарешті вона застала мене, і з дуже неприємним тоном промовила: “О, нарешті!” Я накопичила стільки образи, що сказала їй: “Знаєш, я більше не хочу нічого про тебе чути!” Це була наша остання розмова.
Невдовзі вони виїхали до Бельгії. Протягом двох років ми не отримували жодних новин. Моя сестра їм написала, і Оксана відповіла: “Тарас вже має нову сім’ю”. Насправді син підтримував зв’язок лише з братом Василем, бачився з ним час від часу, але до нас більше не приходив. Так минуло шість років.
Кілька місяців тому я вирішила зв’язатися з Тарасом, тому що він мені дуже бракував. Я написала два вибачальних листи – один Тарасу, інший Оксані. Відповіді не отримала.
Коли три роки тому померла моя мати, Тарас не приїхав на похорон. Він не з’явився і на похорони старшої сестри. За останні шість років ми отримали від нього лише одне повідомлення з привітанням з днем народження чоловіка. І знову – тиша.
Відчуваю, що частина мене померла. Випадково дізналася, що вони переїхали в інше місто, але навіть не знаю, яке саме. Щодня думаю про Тараса. Найгірше те, що я навіть не розумію, чому так сталося. Довго думала, що Оксана ним маніпулює, що вона хоче його лише для себе. Я запитувала себе: чому вона так вороже налаштована до нас? Я не знаю, адже вона ніколи не захотіла сказати мені. Можливо, я сама зробила помилку з самого початку. Якби я тільки могла повернути час!
Два місяці тому ми з чоловіком вирушили в коротку подорож до Бельгії – ми виграли її в одній лотереї. І якось, гуляючи вулицями чергового міста, зупинилися на дитячому майданчику. Ми замріялись про онуків… До нас підійшов симпатичний хлопчик, який грав у м’яч. Він так нагадував мого малюка! Я посміхнулася, чоловік підкинув м’яч хлопчикові, а він грав далі… Через хвилину хтось покликав дитину: “Еміле!”…
Не могла повірити в такий збіг – перед нами з’явились син і Оксана! Після обіймів полилася ріка слів, в яких ми, здається, загубилися. І вони, і ми так само замикаємося в собі, що перестали намагатись спілкуватися… Так, визнаю, якби мені хтось сказав: “не хочу нічого про тебе чути”, я б навряд чи намагалася. Але я зрозуміла це лише після довгої розлуки з сином і його сім’єю. Вони також пройшли через складний період. Але запитання “Де дідусь і бабуся?” змусило їх задуматися. Всі ми, здається, стали мудрішими і хотіли забути минуле.
Ми залишили екскурсійну групу і залишилися в маленькому бельгійському містечку, де наче почали все з початку – змінені, в пошуках розуміння.
Зараз ми надолужуємо втрачені роки і насолоджуємося взаємною любов’ю та повагою.
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You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister—You’ve Got Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister! Not long ago, we celebrated my sister-in-law’s birthday. Alina has never had any friendly feelings towards me, and I’ve always felt the same about her. The celebration brought together all our relatives: grandparents, nephews, and of course the birthday girl. Each relative felt obliged to congratulate my husband on his sister’s birthday, while also admiring his generosity. My husband and I graciously accepted the congratulations, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. In my hand was an envelope containing £100 as a present. I thought it was a decent gift for the occasion, though hardly a display of extraordinary generosity. Everything became clear when my mother-in-law began her birthday speech for Alina. “Mark,” she said, “it’s your sister’s birthday today. She’s still single and without a partner, so as her older brother you should look after her and guarantee her security. Now that you own two flats, you’ll give one to Alina.” The room burst into applause while I nearly fell off my chair at the cheekiness of it all. But it didn’t end there. “Brother, make sure you give me the one in the new build! So, when can I move in?” Alina pressed, and I decided it was time for some clarification. My husband and I actually have two flats. One I inherited from my grandmother; we did a bit of redecorating and now rent it out. The money from that pays the mortgage for our flat in the new building—where we actually live. My husband has no rights to the flat I inherited; I’ve always planned to pass it on to our child—my sister-in-law isn’t even in the picture. “Forget it, the rented flat is mine and the one you’re dreaming about is our home.” “Child, you’re quite mistaken. You’re my son’s wife, so all your assets are jointly owned and should be managed by your husband,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “I have no issue with you helping, but not with my assets!” I said. “Mark, do you have anything to add?” “Darling, you and I will earn more money and buy another flat. Let’s just give this one to Alina; it’s her birthday today.” “Are you serious?” I asked, astonished. “If it ever comes to that, you can give her half of our flat after we file for divorce!” “Aren’t you ashamed to speak to your husband like that? If you want a divorce, you’ll get one! Son, pack your things and come home. And you—you’re vile and greedy!” my mother-in-law snapped. After that, I left that crazy house. I wasn’t going to stick around with people who think they have the right to dispose of my property.
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Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
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