З життя
Таке теж трапляється
Буває і так
— Все, досить, натерпілась. Подам заяву на розлучення! — кричала сердитим голосом Петрівна.
— Та подавай, подавай, налякала. Може, я все життя тільки про це і мріяв, — затягуючи цигаркою, відмахнувся напівп’яний Семенович.
— І подам, думаєш, не подам? Завтра ж піду в суд і віддам особисто Валентині Іванівні.
І вони розлучилися.
Написали оголошення про обмін трикімнатної квартири.
Петрівна була на пенсії.
Семенович все ще працював і заробляв непогано.
На наступний день після розлучення він прийшов, як завжди, обідати додому.
І тільки вдома згадав, що ж вони ж розлучилися, а він для себе обіду, звичайно, не приготував.
— Дай поїсти-то, — по-свойськи сказав він.
— А хто ти такий, щоб тебе годувати? — з гордістю відповіла вона.
— Ну, хоча б старий знайомий.
— Ой, у мене, може, старих знайомих не один десяток. Так що ж, накажеш мене їх усіх годувати, таке чи що? Посмішив.
— Ну, а якщо я тобі заплачу, нагодуєш?
— Заплатиш? — не очікувала такого повороту Петрівна. — А що, мені, може, все одно не з’їсти, краще тобі продам, ніж викидати за так. Тільки ціни будуть ресторанні. Я не гірше їх готую.
— Ресторанні, так ресторанні. Наливай, тільки швидше, а то час йде.
— А, що це ви мені ти кажете, громадянине?
— Та, годі, зовсім уже розійшлася, — сказав Семенович, швидко уплітаючи суп, який чомусь здався набагато смачнішим, ніж раніше, може, тому що заплатив за нього.
Так він і заходив щодня додому обідати та платив, як у ресторані. І йому було добре — не треба возитися з цими продуктами, каструлями.
І їй добре — все зайві гроші. А готувати все одно треба, що для однієї, що для двох — яка різниця.
Крім обіду, він користувався кухнею-рестораном і вдома вранці, і ввечері.
Добре, що гроші були…
Петрівну все далі захоплювала ідея домашнього ресторану.
Вона спеціально сходила в єдиний ресторан у їхньому невеличкому містечку. Подивилася, як оформлені столи, написане меню, як подають, у що одягнені офіціантки.
Загалом, запам’ятала все, що могла.
Одного разу Семенович прийшов додому і завмер біля дверей на кухню.
На столі біла скатертина, ваза з квітами, біля тарілки лежать серветка і ще якась бамажка.
Він підійшов до столу, взяв бамажку і прочитав: “Меню”.
— Тьху ти, ну вигадала бабуся.
Однак прочитав його, і на останньому рядку погляд зупинився: горілка -100 грамів – 40 гривень.
— Що будемо їсти? — запитала Петрівна, увійшовши на кухню.
Семенович підняв очі і трохи остовпів, не впізнавши своєї дружини.
Нарядне плаття облягало звідкись узяту фігуру, поверх був надітий акуратний білий фартух, волосся зібране в “зачіску”.
А головне, обличчя її осявала усмішка.
— Мені, будь ласка, все найдорожче і, будь ласка, горілки 100 грамів, ні 200 грамів.
Але Петрівна довго не могла витримати своєї нової ролі.
— Ага! — зраділа вона, — значить, все-таки не кинув, а я вже подумала: невже одумався, дай, думаю, перевірю.
— Перевірю. Ось ти! Знову за своє — починаєш заводитися. А я, може бути, з тобою на брудершафт хотів.
— Ой, стала б я з тобою на брудершафт пити. Більше мені нічого немає.
А самій чомусь стало трохи шкода Семеновича.
Якось раз Семенович прийшов додому, але на кухні його ніхто не зустрічав.
Петрівна захворіла.
Увечері вона говорить:
— Хоч би натер спину.
— За гроші, будь ласка.
— О, кат. Ладно заплачу. На, помаж.
— А що це ви мене “ти” називаєте, громадянко?
— Смієшся?
Так вони і жили.
По оголошенню про обмін квартири ніхто не звертався.
Вечорами вони дивилися телевізор, а на ніч розходилися по своїх кімнатах.
Одного разу довгим зимовим вечором вони сиділи та грали в карти.
Семенович каже:
— Послухайте, Петрівна, а що це ви все одна та одна?
— А вам, Семенович, не нудно — все один та один?
— Так, нудувато трохи.
— Так і мені, вроді, як теж трохи нудно.
— Слухай, Петрівна, а виходь ти за мене заміж.
— А що, треба подумати, — кокетливо відповіла вона…
“Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not good? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” I’m Still Amazed My Niece Found a Husband—Perhaps Just Because of Her Mum When Alina was a child, my sister refused to send her to nursery school; as a teenager, she wasn’t allowed out, she spent all her time at home—she became a bit of a recluse. When Alina was at university in our town, her mother made sure she always came home before 6pm. At 20, her mum would phone at half seven, shouting if she wasn’t home yet. It was absurd, just nonsense. Alina met her future husband in her second year at university; they studied together in the library, he was two years older, shared his notes with her, helped her out—a friendship that blossomed into love and eventually into dating. That’s when my niece began defiantly breaking her mother’s rules. The niece eventually married and her mother finally allowed her to start a new life of her own. Now let me tell you a recent story. I was at my sister’s house when Alina called, her voice breaking between tears and giggles so much we could barely understand her: “Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not a good wife? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” At that moment, my sister’s expression changed instantly; she told her daughter to calm down and asked what exactly all good wives are supposed to be able to do. “Make soup, Mum,” she said, and we burst out laughing. “Don’t laugh at me! You never taught me how, I’ve looked up recipes online but they never taste right!” So, my sister and I quickly taught her, step by step, how to make soup, giggling at each other all the while. That evening, my niece called to thank us—her husband had complimented her, saying it was delicious. And, best of all, according to her, she’s now a proper wife!
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“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
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