З життя
Моя свекруха виховала ідеального сина, але не чоловіка.
Вибачте, але я попри всі старання не можу називати свою свекруху мамою. Коли я виходила заміж, мріяла саме про це, була настільки щаслива, коли Олексій зробив мені пропозицію, але тоді зовсім інакше уявляла собі наше подружнє життя. Я дуже хотіла вийти заміж, кохати і бути коханою. З заздрістю дивилася на щасливі шлюби своїх подруг, слухала їхні історії про те, як добре їм живеться в стосунках, наповнених любов’ю і взаємною турботою.
Мріяла про родину, в якій чоловік буде лицарем, моїм надійним плечем і захистом, а наші діти зростатимуть в щасливому домі, оточені любов’ю. Я дуже хотіла бути ніжною, люблячою дружиною і дати своєму чоловікові все, що в моїх силах.
Коли я вперше побачила, як він ставиться до своєї мами, подумала, що вона виховала його саме таким, яким я мріяла. Під час розмови перед весіллям, мама мого чоловіка сказала слова, які назавжди залишаться в моїй пам’яті: “Моя дорога, в житті мого сина завжди буде лише одна жінка. Пам’ятай, ніхто не буде важливіший за мене”. Спочатку я не зрозуміла весь сенс цих слів, але з часом, на жаль, усвідомила, що вона мала на увазі.
На початку нашого шлюбу мене не турбувало те, як Олексій піклується про матір. Я захоплювалася цим, адже він був добре вихований і мав сильний зв’язок із нею. Але з часом мене почало турбувати те, що він ніколи не відмовляв їй. Виконував її найнезвичайніші прохання, виходив з дому о п’ятій ранку, бо мама попросила свіжого пирога, або бігав по місту в пошуках дешевших аналогів ліків, щоб вона не витратила зайві гривні. Якщо вона дзвонила про скрип дверей, він одразу йшов це лагодити, навіть не кажучи мені слова. В нашому домі двері теж потребували ремонту, але це його не цікавило. Я була для нього невидимою.
Одного разу, коли Олексій приїхав за мною після роботи, вона почала звинувачувати мене у тому, що я бездушна і ледача. Я використовую його, замість того, щоб дати йому відпочити. Звісно, я могла би поїхати додому потягом чи автобусом, але не бачила в моїх діях нічого поганого. Олексій — мій чоловік, і я маю бути найважливішою жінкою в його житті.
Наступного дня я хотіла поговорити з ним про цю ситуацію, але він не бачив жодної проблеми. Після нашої розмови зателефонувала його мама і хотіла поїхати на дачу, Олексій лише сказав, що це матір, і він не може їй відмовити.
Олексій — чудовий син, але ніколи не повинен був стати чоловіком для жодної жінки, адже ніхто не витримав би такого ставлення. Мама Олексія не соромилась дзвонити посеред ночі, ділячись своїм поганим самопочуттям і безсонням. Їй було байдуже, що нам потрібно виспатися, щоб вранці піти на роботу. Що в цій ситуації зробив мій чоловік? Викликав таксі, бо ввечері випив кілька келихів вина, і поїхав перевірить, чому мама не може заснути. Замість подяки, вона накричала на нього, щоб він не дозволяв собі вечірніх п’янок, коли вона може потребувати допомоги.
Звісно, він міг утриматися від всього, не тільки від алкоголю, але хіба мій чоловік не має права на нормальне життя тільки тому, що є сином такої вимогливої та ревнивої жінки? Моя свекруха руйнує наш шлюб, вважаючи, що її син досі є її власністю, а я лише дружина, хоча маю бути для нього номером один.
Слава Богу, у нас немає дітей. Бо вони б відразу зрозуміли, що не можуть розраховувати на тата, адже бабуся завжди матиме першочергове значення. Після років принижень і відчуття себе другої, я впала в депресію. Проте навіть у такому стані не могла розраховувати на підтримку чи турботу зі сторони чоловіка. Найбільше розуміння і співчуття я отримала від своєї подруги, яка зрозуміла, наскільки підступна ця хвороба. У той час я дуже сподівалася на кілька слів підтримки, співчуття і розуміння від свого коханого, але замість цього він знову поринув у роботу в маминому саду.
Так, я визнаю свою поразку, не змогла стати для нього тим, ким була його мама, хоча дуже старалася. На жаль, всі зусилля залишилися непоміченими Олексієм. Він дійсно закоханий в одну жінку — свою матір. Ті слова любові, які він промовляв мені, були просто формальністю, умовою між нареченою та нареченим.
Я ніколи не прагнула ідеалу, адже ідеали не існують, я мріяла про щирі почуття. Хороший чоловік не мусить, як Олексій, складати одяг у шафі за лінійкою, в ідеальні колірні комбінації. Він може йти з друзями на пиво і повертатися опівночі, але не мій чоловік, він виховувався як ідеальний син.
Я дуже рада, що нарешті зрозуміла, що мій чоловік ніколи не стане тією людиною, про яку я мріяла. У нас немає дітей, адже він боявся, що обов’язки вдома його поглинуть, і у нього не вистачить часу для мами.
Олексій дбав про маму, як ні про кого в світі, я прийняла той факт, що ніколи не виграю. Я вирішила мати чоловіка, якого буду любити всім серцем і для якого я теж буду найважливішою. Я завагітніла і чекаю на свого маленького принца, для якого буду всім, хто буде мене любити і потребувати.
Я дала собі обіцянку, що виховаю свого сина справжнім, відповідальним чоловіком, який одного дня створить свою родину і зробить щасливою свою дружину.
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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…
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