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Віктор поставив відра з водою на лаву в сінях у Явдоші й збирався піти, але бабуся схопила його за рукав, натякнувши, щоб зайшов до хати. Він сів на широку лавку біля дверей і чекав подальших вказівок.
Хазяйка мовчки дістала горщик з печі, махнула рукою на годинник, мовляв, час обідати, і налила велику миску борщу з квашеної капусти, подала до нього шматочок сала, цибулю та краюху рум’яного хліба. Потім згадала і поставила на стіл пляшку самогону. Її зігнута спина була обгорнута пуховою шаллю, хоча в хаті було тепло і на ногах були валянки.
Віктор тихо сказав:
– Від борщу не відмовлюсь. А от пити не буду, я поклявся не брати в рот, ікону поцілував, самому батюшці сказав, що цю заразу не візьму в рот. Ото якось перепив, приревнував, самого себе дивувало, як мене тоді не засадили. А за поламані стільці довелося платити. Мати казала, що у тебе спина скрутило, от я й вирішив принести води. Зараз поїм борщ і дрова принесу. Може, ще яку роботу знайду. Бачить мама, що біля телевізора сиджу, так і витягає з мене роботу.
Віктор на власний жарт засміявся так, що аж захлинався. Явдоша почала постукувати по його спині так, ніби цвях у стіну забивала. Віктор продовжував доїдати борщ із салом і цибулею, а потім запитав:
– Бабусю, а коли ти спати лягаєш, спина випрямляється чи тобі доводиться дугою лежати?
Явдоша глянула на Віктора блакитними, примруженими від усмішки очима і махнула рукою.
– Ото ж любила була молода, красива, скільки волосся мала, і брови такі дугі хавкали, а очі, мов дві світлячки. У мене Ганнуся також красуня! Ось сама подумай, як її не любити! Давай я буду якості перераховувати, а ти загинай пальці. Тільки боюся, пальців на руках не вистачить: красива, статна, скромна, працьовита, акуратна, ощадлива, добре співає, гарно танцює, не жадібна, незаміжня, не п’є, не курить, не шляється. Ось бачиш, скільки переваг.
Віктор бачив, що очі Явдоші сміються. Її груди рухалися від сміху, але голос із середини не виходив.
– Бабусю, а ти Ганнусю знаєш?
Явдоша розвела руками, знизавши плечима: “Хто вас знає, які ви, добрі чи погані”.
– Звісно, ми не такі, як ви. Ви батьків слухалися. А ми як: якщо щось не до вподоби, то враз рот відкриємо й поперед батька в пекло. У нас на все своя думка. Батько перед тим, як щось зробити, завжди зі мною радиться. А мама взагалі мене хазяїном вважає. Всі ж брати розлетілися по містах, я наймолодший, поки не одружений, з ними жити буду. Я хочу одружитися і багато дітей народити. Ганнуся моя статна. Як ветеринар кажу, вона може скільки завгодно народити. Забув сказати, що вона здорова. Ну що, пальців не вистачило на руках? От!
Віктор ситно поїв, від тепла печі його розморило. Незважаючи на те, що у Явдоші боліла спина, в хаті було дуже чисто. Особливо в очі впадала велика ліжко з пір’яним матрацом, з подушками до стелі та з підзорником.
Віктор голосно задумався:
– Ото була б мені така ліжко в першу шлюбну ніч! А може, і не треба: зваришся на пір’ї вкруту і про всі справи забудеш.
А голосом продовжив:
– Ось Ганнуся закінчить навчання, повернеться до села, і весілля закотимо. Вона навчається на медсестру. От уяви собі, виходить: я лікую худобу, а вона людей. Хоча мама моя на тата часто каже худоба. Дивлюсь, ми всі не краще худоби. Ось чув, Миколка у Петра мотоцикл угнав і в озерце втопив. Ну не худоба?! А Віктор в сіннику курив, так ледве хату не спалив. Теж худоба!
Ну найгіршим виявився Сергій. Він зустрічався з Надею, обдурив її, вона завагітніла, а він з міста наречену привіз. Надя сама не своя була, думали, що руки на себе накладе. А вчора йде пузата, усміхається, каже, що хлопчик буде, що на щастя його Бог дав. А я от подумав, як ця худоба буде мимо дому проходити, знаючи, що в ньому живе його син? А я Ганнусю ніколи не залишу! Дивлюся на неї, і мені хочеться її так обійняти!! Так!! Щоб вона в руках розтанула, щоб ми з’єдналися в єдине ціле. Але ж вона скромна дівчина, до весілля ні-ні. Ось одруження проведе межу, і хоч вбий, вона її не перетинає, не потягну ж я її волоком через межу. Ось фельдшер вона вийде класний, швидко твою спину випрямить! Уколи не болючі робить, комарик болючіше кусає. А я іноді думаю, що коли колгосп нам котедж виділить, то я по тобі, бабусю, сумуватиму, адже жити не поруч будемо. Але нічого страшного, допомогу і розмову з тобою завжди знайду час. А що в тебе ще є скуштувати?
Явдоша знову взяла ухват і дістала з печі розсипуху з м’ясом. Гречка пахла так, що Віктор ледве носа не скрутив. Взяв ложку в руки, як маленька дитина, стукав по столу. Явдоша усміхалася, її очі світилися від того, що її страви сподобалися молодому парубку.
– А ти полеж на перині, поки я їстиму. Чи вона у тебе для краси? Нічого, ми як-небудь її помнемо з Ганнусею.
Віктор знову подавився, але Явдоша не била його по спині. Їй хотілося його пожаліти, сказати спасибі за те, що провів час разом, поспілкувався, не поспішав додому і приділив їй стільки уваги. Вона шорсткими, мозолястими руками провела по його спині, легенько постукала, а потім поцілувала в тім’я.
Віктор встав з-за столу зі словами:
– Ну от як тепер працювати з повним шлунком? Тут би на перині повалятися.
Засміявся і пішов у двір. Приніс кілька оберемків дров, підмів сінці, зайшов до хліва, оцінив апартаменти поросяти, вклонився господині та пішов додому.
– Де ти там забарився? Ганнуся назвонюється, а ти з Явдошею ніяк не наговоришся?
– Та хіба від неї підеш? То одного просить розказати, то іншого, – зі сміхом відповів син. – Мамо, а вона з народження німка?
– Ні, сину. Дівчиною вона під час війни співала, як Зикіна. Ото ходила по хатах і співала пісні патріотичні. А як німці прийшли, вона затягнула “Священну війну”, так німці їй язик відрізали. Партизани врятували її, не встигли вороги її стратити. Ми-то думали, що німка від народження заселилася до нас, а тут недавно голова нам розповів. Її село на спадок пішло, а наше ж процвітає, так воєнкомат посприяв їй у придбанні хати. Ти знаєш, сину, ми, люди, часом гірше за худобу. Забилися в свої хороми, а про інших дбати не хочемо. А ж бо, хай вона німка, а все розуміє.
– Мамо, та вона очима розмовляє! Я їй про Ганнусю розповідаю, а вона вся світиться. А як про Сергія розказав, так такі блискавки з очей блищали! І знаєш, мам, в неї руки дуже ніжні. Здавалося б, хто вона мені? Ніхто. А мені хочеться з нею спілкуватись, ділитися.
І знаєш, чому? Тому що вона добра, душею розмовляє. І, мам, вона не жестикулює руками, як німі, вона ніби задумалася. Завтра я обіцяв у сараї дещо поколотити, дуже вона просила. Чекатиме. Тож не вигадуй мені роботу із пальця, я буду зайнятий.
I’ve Never Taken What Belongs to Someone Else Once, while still at school, Martha both despised and envied Nastya. She looked down on Nastya because her parents were hopelessly alcoholic, scraping by on odd jobs and living hand-to-mouth. Nastya always wore shabby clothes, seemed half-starved and downtrodden. Her father often hit her—sometimes for drinking too little, sometimes for drinking too much, sometimes for no clear reason at all. Nastya’s mother never stood up for her, too afraid of her husband’s heavy hand. Only her devoted grandmother brought any light to Nastya’s world. Once a month, from her modest pension, Grandma would give her beloved granddaughter a “salary” for good behaviour. Even if Nastya misbehaved, Grandma would always pretend not to notice and hand over her pay anyway—five roubles! For Nastya, that was the happiest day of the month. She’d rush to the shop and buy ice cream (one for herself, one for Grandma), halvah, and a few sweets. Every time, Nastya tried to make the treats last all month—but after two days, they’d always be gone. Then, as if on cue, Grandma would get her own ice cream from the fridge and say, “Here, sweetheart, eat this. My throat is sore today.” “How odd,” Nastya thought, “Grandma’s throat always seems to start hurting the day my sweets run out…” She secretly always hoped to get a share of Grandma’s portion. Martha’s family was the complete opposite. Their home was overflowing with comfort. Her parents earned good money and pampered their only daughter. Martha was always dressed in the latest fashions, and her classmates sometimes borrowed her things. She was never denied anything—well-fed, well-dressed, and shod in the best shoes. Yet Martha envied her classmate’s enchanting beauty, the warmth that radiated from Nastya, and her natural ability to get along with everyone. Martha, however, considered herself above even talking to Nastya. Whenever they crossed paths, Martha would glare at her so coldly, it felt to Nastya as if she’d been doused in ice water. Once, Martha insulted her in front of everyone: “You’re pathetic!” Nastya ran home in tears and told her grandmother. Grandma sat her down, stroked her hair and said, “Don’t cry, Nastya. Tomorrow, tell her, ‘You’re right—I belong to God!’” Nastya felt better right away. Martha was beautiful herself, but her beauty came with an air of coldness and distance. Then there was Max, the class heartthrob—carefree, always joking, not bothered by failing grades or scoldings from teachers. His outlook was sunny, and his optimism infectious; even the teachers liked him, despite his troublemaking ways. In their final years at school, Max began escorting Martha home after lessons and waiting for her at the school gate in the morning. Their classmates teased: “Here come the bride and groom!” Even the teachers noticed the blossoming romance between Max and Martha. Eventually, the final bell rang, prom night passed, and the classmates went their separate ways. Max and Martha married in a hurry—the “evidence of love” couldn’t be concealed, not even by Martha’s elaborate wedding dress. Within five months, she gave birth to a daughter, Sofia. After school, Nastya was forced to get a job. Her beloved grandmother had passed away, and now her parents depended on Nastya’s income. She had plenty of admirers, but none touched her soul, and she was ashamed of her alcoholic family. A decade slipped by… One day, in the waiting room at the addiction clinic, there were two pairs: Nastya with her mum, Max with Martha. Nastya immediately recognized Max—he was now an impressive man, but Martha was nearly unrecognizable: gaunt, hands shaking, dead-eyed, only 28 but looking much older. Max greeted Nastya, embarrassed. “Hello, classmate,” he said, not wanting Nastya to witness his family’s misery. “Hello, Max. Looks like trouble at home. Has it been going on for long?” Nastya asked quickly. “A while,” he confessed, awkwardly. “A woman who drinks—it’s a disaster. I know from my mum. My father literally drank himself to death,” Nastya sympathized. After the appointments, Max and Nastya exchanged numbers for support. Misery loves company, and Max started visiting Nastya for advice. She shared her hard-earned wisdom about living with alcoholics, what treatments worked, and what absolutely didn’t. She knew, as so many drowned in the bottle, it wasn’t always obvious from the surface… Max confided that he and his daughter Sofia had long lived alone—Martha had returned to her parents’ home. Max had shielded Sofia from her unpredictable mother. The breaking point was when Max came home to find Martha drunk on the floor and three-year-old Sofia teetering on the windowsill, poised to fall from the fifth floor. After that, Max took no more chances. Martha refused help, convinced she could stop anytime. She was drawn to the abyss—and wanted to fall as far as possible. Their marriage ended. Later, Max invited Nastya to a restaurant and confessed: he’d loved her since their schooldays, but was too afraid of rejection, then Martha had become pregnant… Life tumbled on. Meeting at the clinic had seemed like fate. Chatting with Nastya was like a soothing balm. Max proposed marriage, and after all these years, Nastya was finally ready to accept his love—especially now that Martha was out of the picture. Nastya and Max married quietly, and she moved in with him. At first, Sofia was wary of sharing her father’s love, but Nastya’s kindness soon melted her heart, and before long, Sofia started calling her “mum.” A few years later, Sofia gained a little sister, Molly. One day, their doorbell rang. Nastya opened it to find—Martha, utterly changed, reeked of alcohol, a living warning. “You snake! You stole my husband, my daughter! No wonder I’ve hated you all my life!” Martha hissed. Nastya stood calm, confident, beautiful. “I have never taken what was not mine. You gave up your family by choice, never understanding why. I have never uttered a bad word about you. I truly pity you, Martha…” With that, Nastya closed the door on her uninvited guest.
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A Life Put Right: “Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister or her family! They have their own life, we have ours. Did you ring Natalie again? Complain about me? I warned you—don’t blame me if anything happens,” snapped Brian, gripping my shoulder painfully. As always, I quietly retreated to the kitchen, blinking back bitter tears. No, I’d never complained to my sister about the life I shared with my husband. We just talked. We still had elderly parents; there was always something to discuss. That infuriated Brian. He despised my sister Natalie—her family enjoyed a peace and comfort that ours never had. When I married Brian, I was the happiest girl in England. Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I hadn’t given a thought to his lack of height—Brian barely reached my chin—or to his mother, who turned up at the wedding barely able to stand. I later learned she was a longtime alcoholic. Blinded by love, I ignored the warnings. But a year into our marriage, I began to question my happiness. Brian drank heavily, staggering in late and reeking of cheap whisky. Then came the string of affairs. I worked as a nurse at the local hospital. My pay was measly. Brian preferred the company of the pub over supporting his wife. I stopped dreaming of children. Instead, I doted on our pedigree cat. I wanted no child with an alcoholic for a father, even if I still loved Brian. “You’re a fool, Lydia! Look at all the men watching you while you waste yourself on that little tyrant. What do you see in him? You’re always covered in bruises from his fists. Think no one notices those black eyes under all that concealer? Leave him before he actually kills you, silly girl,” scolded my colleague and friend. Indeed, Brian often unleashed his anger in violence. Once he beat me so badly I couldn’t manage my hospital shift. Worse: he locked me in the flat and took the keys. After that, I grew to fear him. My soul shriveled; my heart raced whenever Brian turned his key in the lock. I thought he blamed me: for childlessness, for being a poor wife, for everything. So I never resisted when he lashed out. Why did I still love him? I remembered his mother’s advice, witch-like as she was: “Listen to your husband, love him with all your heart, forget your family and so-called friends. They’ll never do you any good.” So I left behind my friends, my family, and surrendered to Brian’s will. But I liked Brian’s melodramatic apologies. On his knees, kissing my feet, covering our bed with stolen rose petals from the neighbour’s garden. I soared in those moments. Of course, I knew the roses were pilfered, sold for cheap by a drinking mate to win his own wife’s forgiveness. But I forgave, too. Perhaps I’d have spent my life as Brian’s doormat, always picking up the pieces, had fate not intervened… “Let go of Brian, I’ve had a son with him. You’re barren; it’s time you stepped aside for our child’s sake,” demanded an impertinent stranger at my door. “I don’t believe you! Leave now, before things get worse!” I shouted back. Brian denied everything, but I pressed on: “Swear he’s not your son!” I knew he couldn’t. Brian was silent. I understood everything then. “Lydia, I’ve never seen you smile. Is everything alright?” asked Mr. Harrison, our hospital’s consultant, who I’d assumed barely noticed me. “Everything’s fine,” I replied shyly. “It’s wonderful, when people’s lives are in order. That’s when life is beautiful,” he said mysteriously. Mr. Harrison had once divorced his cheating wife and now lived alone, with a grown daughter. He was unremarkable: glasses, balding, short. Still, his aftershave sent a shiver through me; I found him strangely irresistible. After his kind words, I realised my life was chaos. Time was marching on, and I was running out of it to sort myself out. I left Brian and returned to my parents. Mum was astonished: “Lydia, what happened? Did he kick you out?” “No, Mum, I’ll explain later.” I was too ashamed to describe my married life. Later Brian’s mother rang, cursing and blaming me. But I had already begun to breathe again, thank goodness to Mr. Harrison. Brian raged, stalked me, threatened me. But he didn’t know I was finally free. “Brian, stop wasting your time on me—your son needs you. I’ve turned the page. Goodbye,” I told him calmly. I returned to Natalie and my parents. I became myself again—not a puppet. “Goodness, Lydia, I barely recognise you! You’re glowing, happier,” my friend exclaimed. Then Mr. Harrison proposed: “Lydia, let’s get married. I give you my word—you won’t regret it. Just call me by my first name at home; save the formal titles for work.” “But do you love me, Harrison?” “Oh, forgive me—I forget women need to hear it. I believe I do. But actions matter more.” “I do, Harrison. I know I’ll love you for certain,” I replied, overjoyed. Ten years passed. Every day, Harrison showed me his gentle devotion. No empty promises or theatrical apologies like Brian. He cared for and cherished me, always surprising me with his generosity. We never had children together—perhaps I was truly “barren.” But Harrison never blamed me, not once. “Lydia, it seems it’s our destiny to just have each other. That’s more than enough for me,” he reassured me whenever I mourned lost motherhood. Harrison’s daughter gave us our darling granddaughter, Sarah, who became the centre of our world. As for Brian, he drank himself to death before fifty. His mother still scowls at me across the market, but her anger no longer reaches me. I almost pity her. And as for us—Harrison and me? Our life is in order now. Life is wonderful.
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I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
ILL REMIND YOU Miss Mary, the swirl here just isnt working. The quiet, sad words came from little Tom, a...
My Dear Wife – When my brother would visit, he always asked, “How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” “Love and endless patience—that’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “Not for me,” he’d laugh. “I love all women—each one’s a mystery. Why live with an open book?” My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. She fell in love with Peter for life, but for him, it was only a fling. Anna moved into Peter’s crowded family home, treasured her collection of porcelain figurines, and believed she’d caught happiness by the tail. I, meanwhile, was hoping to find the one woman to love forever—and I did, marrying my wife over fifty years ago. Anna and Peter lasted ten years. She gave her all to their marriage, but he grew restless, drinking more, staying out with questionable friends, and finally, smashing her precious figurines in a drunken rage—leaving only one intact. After they divorced, Anna and her son returned to her hometown, and Peter spiraled deeper, remarrying and divorcing, his once-promising future lost to drink and chaos. Years later, terminally ill and alone, Peter asked me to deliver a suitcase filled with porcelain figurines and his savings to Anna—his final apology for all she’d endured. I found Anna, now caring for her ill son, and gave her Peter’s last gift. She thanked us in a letter—and sold the figurines to fund a new life in Canada for herself and her son. “I’m grateful that Peter considered me his dear wife,” she wrote. “Perhaps he never stopped loving me after all.”
MY DEAREST WIFE How on earth do you manage to live with the same wife all these years? Whats your...
Fate on the Hospital Ward Bed: A Nurse’s Unlikely Love Story with a Tuberculosis Patient—From an Abandoned Husband and a Cold Wife to Building a New Family, Heartbreak and Healing Across the Years
FATE ON THE HOSPITAL BED Miss, here, take these groceries and look after him! Im afraid to go near, let...