З життя
6 годин роздумів: Чому невістка була такою ворожою до нас?
6 років мене мучило питання: Чому невістка була такою ворожою до нас?
Я не спілкувалася з сином Тарасом шість років. Навіть не була запрошена на його весілля. Я знала, що в цьому винна моя невістка Софія. Не розуміла чому, але через неї страждала дуже.
З чоловіком у нас троє синів, а в нього є ще син від першого шлюбу. Звісно, я люблю всіх своїх дітей, але Тарас, найстарший, був настільки бажаним, що залишився моєю гордістю.
Шість років тому Тарас зустрів майбутню дружину. З самого початку все пішло не так. Перше враження від неї було скоріше позитивним. Перший її візит до нашого дому пройшов без проблем. Проблеми почалися з другого візиту. Ми сиділи за столом, коли вона раптово сказала Тарасові: «Ти так погано вдягаєшся. Я подарую тобі гарний одяг». Він відповів: «Не потрібно нічого мені дарувати, у кожного свій смак». Я стала на його сторону. Софія насупилася, але промовчала.
Наступного дня Тарас поцілував мене на прощання, а Софія навіть не підійшла. Я не усвідомила, що саме сталося. Лише пізніше зрозуміла, що одним коментарем накликала на себе невдоволення невістки.
Навіть на весілля мене не запросили
Через кілька місяців незвичної тиші Тарас запросив нас на день народження в Львів – вона була з того міста. Ми з чоловіком вирішили зупинитися в готелі, щоб залишити молодятам простір, але Тарас наполягав на тому, щоб ми залишилися в домі Софії, попередивши, що, ймовірно, її не побачимо, бо вона зайнята в магазині батьків.
На обід ми мали зустрітися в ресторані, але вона не прийшла. Через кілька днів Тарас сказав: «Мамо, я одружуюся з Софією». Потім додав, що не хоче великого весілля, лише невеличке святкування. Я це підтримала, сказала, що рада за нього.
Через тиждень він зателефонував і сказав, що Софія не хоче, щоб я була на весіллі. Запрошення отримав тільки мій чоловік. Брати теж не були запрошені. У мене не було слів, щоб описати, що я пережила в цей момент. Я передала слухавку чоловікові, і він сказав Тарасові, що не піде на весілля без мене і дітей. Тарас з роздратуванням кинув слухавку.
Наступні дні невістка намагалася вийти на зв’язок зі мною, але завжди потрапляла на мого чоловіка. Нарешті вона зателефонувала мені і з неприємним тоном сказала: «О, нарешті!» Я накопичила стільки гніву, що не витримала і сказала їй: «Знаєш, я не хочу більше про тебе чути!» Це була наша остання розмова.
Незабаром після цього вони поїхали за кордон. Протягом двох років ми нічого про них не знали. Моя сестра написала їм, і Софія відповіла: «Тарас тепер має нову сім’ю». Власне, син підтримував зв’язок тільки з братом Василем, з яким зрідка бачився, але більше до нас не приходив. Ось так минуло шість років.
Я намагалася вийти на зв’язок з Тарасом кілька місяців тому, бо дуже за ним сумувала. Написала два листи із вибаченнями – один для Тараса, інший для Софії. Жодної відповіді.
Коли моя мама померла три роки тому, Тарас не приїхав на похорон. Він не з’явився також, коли я втратила старшу сестру. За останні шість років ми отримали від нього лише одне повідомлення на день народження мого чоловіка. І з того часу – тиша.
Я відчуваю, ніби частина мене померла. Випадково дізналася, що вони переїхали в інше місто, але навіть не знаю, яке це місто. Щодня думаю про Тараса. Найгірше, що я навіть не розумію, як ми дійшли до цього. Довго думала, що Софія його маніпулює, що хоче його тільки для себе. Питала себе: чому вона була такою ворожою до нас? Не знаю, адже вона так і не захотіла мені про це сказати. Можливо, я сама припустилася помилки з самого початку. Як мені хотілося б, щоб усе пішло інакше!
Два місяці тому ми з чоловіком вирушили на коротку подорож до Західної Європи – виграли її в лотерею. Коли ми гуляли по одній із вуличок чергового містечка на маршруті, зупинилися на дитячому майданчику. Задивилися і почали мріяти про онуків… Одне миле хлопча підійшло до нас, ганяючи м’яч. Воно так нагадувало мого сина в дитинстві! Я усміхнулася, чоловік підкинув м’ячик малюкові, а той повернув – так і розігралися… За хвилину хтось покликав дитину: «Еміль!»
Я не могла повірити в таку випадковість – назустріч йшли мій син і Софія! Після того, як ми обійнялися, пішов потік слів, у якому ми всі, ніби, загубилися. І вони, і ми так були закриті в собі, що перестали намагатися спілкуватися… Так, зізнаюся, якби хтось мені сказав «не хочу більше чути про тебе», навряд чи я б намагалася. Але я усвідомила це тільки після довгої розлуки з сином і його сім’єю. Вони теж пройшли складний етап. Але питання нашого онука «де дідусь і бабуся» змусило їх передумати. Очевидно, всі ми стали мудрішими і хотіли забути минуле.
Ми залишили екскурсійну групу і залишилися в маленькому містечку, де ніби почали все спочатку – змінені, шукаючи порозуміння.
Тепер ми надолужуємо згаяні роки і насолоджуємося взаємною любов’ю та повагою.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight!...