З життя
Скільки ж можна їсти? — голос чоловіка прогримів серед гостей
Віктор різко випалив під час застілля:
— Чому ти так багато їси? — його грубий голос заполонив всю кімнату, — об’їлась, як свиня!
Галя нервово усміхнулася під співчутливими поглядами колег, тихо засміялася і, як завжди, спробувала звернути все на жарт:
— Любий, ти ж мене будь-яку любиш, а м’ясо таке смачне, — і продовжила їсти, хоча шматок у горло не ліз, але визнати перед усіма, що їй боляче до сліз, вона не могла.
Ця маска щасливої дружини настільки приросла до неї, що вже важко було відрізнити реальні почуття. З першого дня шлюбу їй довелося обирати — терпляче зносити всі його коментарі або піти. Вона злякалася піти, кому вона ще буде потрібна?
Надумала, що такі дрібниці можна пробачити. Але з кожним роком цих дрібниць ставало все більше, і тепер, що б вона не робила, в голові завжди звучав його голос, що коментує і критикує: не вмієш готувати; хто так миє? руки не з того місця; подивись на себе — чудовисько!
З кожним словом вона все більше вірила, що товста, страшна, нікому не потрібна і нічого не вміє нормально робити. Навчилася усміхатися, коли він принижував її прилюдно, навчилася ковтати сльози і мовчати, коли він розповідав про свої пригоди.
Вона прощала його, переконуючи себе, що їй пощастило з чоловіком. Хто ще її прийме? І люди осудять, якщо піде.
Коли гості розійшлися, вона почала прибирати зі столу, стомлено складаючи посуд у мийку. Вечірка не вдалася. Чоловік напився і лежав на дивані, невнятно бурмочучи собі під ніс.
— Галя! Га-а-аль! Іди сюди, моя корівко! — мову його заплітало.
Вона не відізвалася. Хотіла піти з дому і блукати темними вулицями, аби тільки не чути і не бачити його п’яну пику.
— Галино! Галя! — не вгамовувався чоловік.
Вона увійшла до кімнати, витираючи руки рушником:
— Що?
Чоловік спробував встати, але лише скотився з дивана. Його обличчя стало червоним, як завжди, коли він випивав, сорочка вилізла з брюк, пом’ялась, відкривши живіт, очі бігали, сфокусувати погляд він не міг.
— Іди до мене!
— Лягай спати, вже пізно, — відказала Галя, зморщившись від запаху перегару. Підійшла до нього, спробувала підняти, але він схопив її і потяг поряд на підлогу. Вона пробувала його відштовхнути, але він міцно вчепився і почав цілувати шию і обличчя, дихаючи перегаром.
І тоді щось у її голові клацнуло. Вона відвернула голову, ухиляючись від його поцілунків, відштовхнула його з усієї сили і підвелася. Він валився назад, невлучно розкинувши руки, і непорозуміло дивився на неї.
І вона побачила: ось він, чоловік, який все свідоме життя критикував кожен її крок.
Ось він, п’яний, товстий, невмілий навіть яєчню власноруч приготувати, купити продукти без неї не може, сорочку без її вказівок не знайде, лежить безпорадно і вважає, що вона його не варта. Вважає себе благодійником, впевнений, що все життя обертається навколо нього.
А вона роками цю впевненість підтримує, терпить, приймає всі образи і створює для всіх ілюзію, що він головний. Він господар і все вирішує.
І тільки тепер вона зрозуміла — цей чоловік їй не потрібен. Вона більше не хоче так жити, не хоче бачити його щоранку, не хоче більше слухати образи, ловити жалісливі погляди від оточуючих, коли він на неї кричить. Досить, вона втомилася.
— Галя! Ти що? Галинко? — його трохи протверезив її погляд.
— Я залишаю тебе, — просто сказала вона і пішла у спальню збирати речі. Як стало легко на душі! Вона ніби скинула величезний камінь, який роками носила на собі.
— Чого? Куди? Галя! Куди ти підеш?
Куди пішла, а ну вернися!
Але вона вже не слухала.
Розкрила стару валізу і повільно почала складати речі…
My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife Over for the Sake of the Children—So I Checked Into a Hotel to Celebrate on My Own
My husband invited his ex-wife over for the boys, so I spent the holiday in a hotel Where are you...
Never Truly Forgotten Every day, Prohor commutes from his job in London: a ride on the Tube, then the bus, before finally arriving home. The journey lasts over an hour each way. His car spends more time parked than on the road, thanks to London’s notorious rush hour traffic—he finds it easier and faster by public transport. Two years ago, his family life changed drastically; he and his wife quietly divorced. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mum. There were no dramas—Prohor was never one for arguments. He’d noticed his wife had changed over the years, grown restless, and often left late, claiming she was meeting friends. When he asked, —Why are you always out so late? Most wives are at home by this hour. —None of your business. Those ‘normal’ wives—just hens. I’m different: clever, social, and need more than just home. Besides, I’m not a farm girl like you. —So why did you marry the farm boy? —Picked the lesser of two evils, she’d retort before shutting down the conversation. Soon after, she filed for divorce and moved Prohor out of the flat; he’s since got used to renting and isn’t ready for marriage again, though he keeps looking. On the Tube, like most, he doesn’t waste his travel time—scrolls through social media, reads news, jokes, and watches clips. Scrolling absentmindedly, one image jolts him—it’s an ad: Folk Herbalist Mary, Natural Remedies He recognises the face immediately—his first love from school: unrequited, unforgettable. He remembers her well, that strange but beautiful girl from his class. Barely making his stop, he rushes home on foot, skipping the bus just to clear his head. Inside, he forgets his dinner and sits in the corridor, staring at his phone, jotting down the number in the ad before his device demands a charge. While his phone powers up, memories flood back: Mary was always different from their first day in Year 1. Quiet, modest, with her school dress a little below the knee—unlike the other girls. Their small village outside Oxford was a place where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew much about Mary. She lived with her grandparents in a unique house by the woods—like something out of a fairytale. He fell for her—childishly, yet to him, seriously. She had a handmade rucksack with beautiful embroidery, and rather than the usual “hiya”, she’d always greet people with: “Good health to you.” She was like a character from an old English legend—never rowdy, always polite. One day Mary missed school, and the kids went to check on her. Outside the village, they saw her home—and a crowd: her grandmother’s funeral. Mary in her headscarf, wiping her tears, her grandfather silent but present. After the burial, the children were even invited in for the wake. That memory stuck—his first funeral. Mary returned to school soon after. Time passed, the girls matured, took to makeup and fashion battles. Only Mary remained as dignified and natural as ever, her cheeks rosy without a hint of blush. The boys started courting; Prohor tried his luck with Mary. She didn’t respond at first, but at the end of Year 9, he managed: —Can I walk you home after school? She replied, quietly, privately, —I’m promised, Prohor. It’s tradition in our family. He was confused—what tradition? Later he learned her grandparents were Old Believers, her parents having died young, leaving her their legacy. Mary excelled at school, wore no jewellery, kept to herself despite the others’ gossip. She blossomed every year, by Year 10 there was no denying her beauty. After graduation, classmates scattered. Prohor moved to London for university. He heard Mary married her betrothed and moved to a remote village, living a simple rural life—herding cows, working the land, raising a son. None of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does now,” Prohor muses, “Herbalist… Looks even lovelier than before.” Sleep eludes him, morning comes and the routine repeats—work, but the past and beautiful Mary won’t let go. First love never fades, always stirs the heart. After several days in a daze, he finally messages her: —Hello, Mary! —Good health, she replies, unchanged as ever. “What concerns you?” —Mary, it’s Prohor, your old classmate. Remember we shared a desk? Saw you online—had to write. —Of course, Prohor, the brightest lad in our class. —This is your number, can I ring you? he asks. —Of course, she replies. After work, he calls; stories and memories exchanged. Where do you live? What’s life like? —I’m still in the old family home by the woods, she tells him. Came back after my husband died—a bear attack in the forest… Grandfather’s gone too. —Sorry, I had no idea… —It’s alright, Prohor, it was long ago. Life goes on. You’re just calling for a chat, or do you need some herbs? I sometimes advise. —Just wanted to say hello. No herbal remedies needed, just saw you and all the memories came flooding back. Miss the old village—my mother’s gone now. They reminisce and say goodbye. But a week later, restless, Prohor calls again: —Hi, Mary. —Good health, Prohor. Missing someone or fallen ill? —Just missing you, Mary—please don’t be cross, but could I visit you? —Come if you like, she says, unexpectedly. Whenever you get the chance. —My holiday’s next week, he beams. —Good, you know the address. He spends the week preparing, choosing gifts for Mary—wondering what she’s like now. At last, he drives from London to his old village—six hours, not a hardship, he loves long drives. Arriving, he’s shocked at the changes. New homes, shops, even the local factory thriving, the high street buzzing. —Wow, thought our village, like so many others, must’ve faded away. But it’s thriving, he says aloud. —It’s a proper town now, replies a passing pensioner with pride. Been granted borough status for ages. You haven’t been back for years, have you? —Years and years, says Prohor. —Our mayor’s a good man—really cares about the place, so it’s grown and blossomed. Mary waits for Prohor at the old house when he calls to say he’s arrived. As his car turns in, Mary’s heart races. No one ever knew how she’d loved Prohor since school—a secret she’d have carried forever had he not reappeared. Their reunion is joyful. Sitting for hours in the gazebo, the old house your typical English cottage—aged, yet welcoming. —Mary, I’ve come on business, he says, with a serious look. —I’m listening, she answers a bit nervously. —I’ve loved you all these years, surely you can’t still turn me away? Mary leaps up, throws her arms around him. —Prohor, I’ve always loved you, too—since I was a girl. Prohor spends his holiday with Mary, and as he leaves, he promises, —I’ll sort things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. I’m not going anywhere else—I was born here, and here I’ll make myself useful.
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Dandelion Jam After a mild, snowy English winter, everyone in the quaint town is longing for the fresh green leaves and colourful blooms of spring. Taissa, living in her cosy flat with her granddaughter Vera—whose parents, both doctors, have gone to work in Africa—finds herself cherishing the new season. The rhythms of the town change: market stalls buzz, neighbours gather on garden benches, and birdsong replaces alarm clocks. Taissa’s daily life intertwines with her lively neighbours—cheerful, well-read Valerie and grumpy Mrs Simmons—whose gossip and camaraderie brighten the days. Meanwhile, Vera happily attends school and dance class, proud to be watched over by her loving grandma. When Taissa strikes up a warm friendship with her thoughtful neighbour George Ellis, a widower with a distant daughter, they find comfort in shared stories and park strolls. Yet, tension brews when George’s daughter Vera visits and demands he sell his flat to move in with her family, suspecting Taissa’s intentions. An awkward confrontation ensues, but Taissa remains gracious. Life brings Taissa and George back together; he approaches her with a crown of dandelions and a jar of homemade dandelion jam, sharing its English folklore and health benefits. Their friendship flourishes over tea, recipes, and evenings under the old linden tree. Through spring’s renewal, two hearts discover sunshine in companionship and the sweet taste of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading and supporting my stories—wishing you all life’s brightest joys!
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