З життя
Нам нічого від тебе не треба
Від тебе нам нічого не треба
— Сину, схаменися, поки не пізно! Хлопчик зовсім на тебе не схожий! Твоя Олена нагуляла його від свого колишнього, а вину вирішила на тебе звалити! Я ж знаю!
— Мамо, ну годі вже! Дмитрик — мій син… Що ти вічно все ускладнюєш? Все, я додому поїхав.
Галина Сергіївна все життя виховувала сина сама. У них із Олексієм були чудові стосунки: він ніколи не грубив, не сперечався, добре навчався в школі. Коли виріс, став інженером, як мріяла мама. Тепер настала черга влаштувати синове особисте життя. І вона знайшла йому наречену. Добру дівчину Людмилу, дочку своєї подруги Антоніни.
За наполяганням мами Олексій і Люся почали зустрічатися, але романтика у них якось не складалася, і, помучившись кілька місяців, пара розлучилася. Потім Олексій зустрів Олену. Їхні стосунки розвивалися стрімко, молодик відразу впізнав у симпатичній дівчині споріднену душу. Вони одружилися через три місяці, чим дуже розсердили Галину Сергіївну. А ще через півроку Олена завагітніла. Народився хлопчик, якого назвали Дмитриком. І все б добре, тільки от свекруха невістку недолюблювала. І при кожній зустрічі бурчала на сина, хоча з моменту весілля минуло вже чотири роки:
— Ти подивися, на кого вона тебе перетворила? Зовсім не охайний став…
— Мамо, ну який неохайний! Сорочка трохи в машині пом’ялась…
— Сідай, поїж хоч! Твоя, мабуть, нічого не приготувала. Так і будеш голодним.
— Мамо, я вдома повечеряю. Олена добре готує.
— Знаю я її добре… Котлети з магазину або, гірше того, пельмені. А ось Людмила на курси кондитерські пішла. Яка ж розумниця…
Олексій відбивався від матері, як міг. Він намагався не слухати її розповіді та претензії дружині, звісно, не передавав. До того ж всі вони були безпідставними. Але Галина Сергіївна продовжувала свою холодну війну проти невістки. І одного разу її тактика дала результат…
— Привіт, сину… Щось твоя Олена мене не шанує… Все один у гості ходиш!
— Мамо, ну як вона може сюди ходити, якщо ти чіпляєшся до неї з кожної дрібниці?
— Чіпляюся, тому що є за що. Повір мені! І поки ти тут сидиш, п’єш чай, вона, мабуть, з колишнім своїм на побачення ходить. Знаю я, хто у неї до тебе був. Костя той безтолковий! І хлопчик весь в нього. Вона нагуляла, а ти тепер годувати будеш.
Того вечора Олексій посварився з матір’ю. Йому набридли всі ці претензії та розмови. Додому він повернувся не в настрої.
— Тато, тато, привіт! — вибіг до нього назустріч маленький Дмитрик.
— Привіт, сину. Ну як у тебе справи? Чим займався?
— Ми з мамою на дитячий майданчик ходили. Там був дядя Костя. Він мені шоколадку купив. І сік!
У голові Олексія миттєво промайнула думка — а раптом мати має рацію. Ввечері він допитував дружину:
— Чому ти зустрічалась зі своїм колишнім?
— Льош, випадково зустрілися. Ми гуляли, він мимо проходив, ну і ми заговорили. А потім він нас до дому провів.
— З якого це дива він мою дружину й сина проводить? А може Дмитрик і не мій, а його?!
— Льош, що ти таке говориш? Ти зовсім?
Того вечора подружжя сильно посварилося. Вперше за весь час після весілля. З тих пір скандали в їх будинку стали постійними. В якийсь момент Олена не витримала, зібрала речі, забрала маленького сина і переїхала у своє рідне місто до батьків.
Потім був розлучення і Олексію призначили аліменти. Він був упевнений в тому, що дитина не його. Але судитися не став, вирішив платити. Більше всіх поточними обставинами була задоволена Галина Сергіївна. Вона розгорнула цілу кампанію по відновленню відносин сина з тією самою Люсенькою, яку називала «ідеальною невісткою».
І вона перемогла. Олексій одружився на Люсі. І відразу ж після весілля нова дружина показала свій справжній характер. Чоловіка пеліла з приводу і без. Хотіла жити на широку ногу, смачно їсти і гарно пити.
— Он у Ірини Василь вже другу шубу їй купує! А Суркови машину на представницького класу змінили. А я, як сирота, в минулорічному пуховику ходжу та ще й на Калині їжджу! І що це за чоловік такий!
Так минуло довгих п’ятнадцять років. Олексій працював на двох роботах, не покладаючи рук, а дружина Люся курорти відвідувала і ні в чому собі не відмовляла. Дітей вона не хотіла, мовляв, спочатку для себе пожити треба, та вже потім… Галина Сергіївна, дивлячись на це, хотіла було і тут свої порядки навести, та невістка її швидко на місце поставила.
Одного разу Олексію зателефонували з лікарні. Виявилося, що Галину Сергіївну відвезли в швидкій з інсультом. Жінка була важко хвора і після виписки з лікарні їй потрібен був догляд. Людмила сказала одразу:
— Я біля ліжка старої жінки дні й ночі просиджувати не збираюся. Давай оформимо її в будинок для пристарілих.
— Люся, ну давай я з роботи звільнюся…
— Ти в своєму розумі? А на що жити будемо? Ми кредит за мою машину ще чотири роки платити повинні…
В підсумку Галину Сергіївну відправили в будинок про престарілі, Олексій поїхав на чергову роботу, а Люся залишилася вдома. Через місяць Галина Сергіївна покинула цей світ. Олексій повернувся додому, щоб провести матір в останню путь, та в розладі забув попередити дружину про приїзд. Відкривши двері своїм ключем, побачив цікаву картину – дружину в обіймах сусіда… Скандалити не став. Просто зібрав речі і переїхав в квартиру матері.
Після похорону Галина Сергіївна Олексій сиднем сидів у її квартирі. З гіркотою згадуючи мамині поради. І навіщо тільки він прислухався до них… Тепер йому за сорок. Більшу частину життя прожито. І як виявилося, ні сім’ї, ні дітей, ні друзів… Навіть машини власної не мав – все купували лише для Люсі… Чоловік прокручував у голові своє життя і згадав про Олену та Дмитрика. Він так і не дізнався, чий Дмитрик син, його чи колишнього Олени. Та це тепер вже й не важливо…
Адже Дмитрикові, напевно, вже дев’ятнадцять… Зовсім дорослий став… Цікаво, який він зараз? – Олексій промовив ці слова в пустоту, і ніхто йому, звісно ж, не відповів.
…Наступного ранку він взяв квиток на поїзд і вирушив у рідне місто Олени. Дім і під’їзд знайшов без зусиль. Подзвонив у знайомі двері, але ніхто йому не відчинив. “Напевно на роботі” – подумав він і вирішив зачекати біля будинку. Постояв хвилин двадцять, повернув голову і отетерів… До під’їзду підходив хлопець — точна копія його самого, але на двадцять років молодший.
— Дмитрик… Дмитрику… Сину…
— Ви?… Що ви тут робите? — холодно запитав Дмитро.
— Сину, я дуже перед тобою винен… Який ти став… І на мене як схожий, ну просто як дві краплі води! А мама де?
— Мами немає. Вже давно. Вона загинула десять років тому. В ДТП…
— А ти? З ким ти живеш? Може тобі щось потрібно? Я готовий допомогти, всім чим завгодно! У мене є гроші. Тільки скажи!
— Я живу з бабусею. Нам нічого не треба.
— Але сину. Адже я ж хотів, я…
Олексій не закінчив. Дмитро зайшов у під’їзд і зачинив двері перед його носом.
— Сину! Синку, відкрий! Як же так, сину? Я ж твій батько! Батько!!!
Він ще довго стояв перед зачиненими дверима під’їзду, схлипуючи й розмазуючи по обличчю чоловічі сльози. А може й не сльози це були, а дощ? Після цього він приїжджав ще кілька разів, хотів налагодити контакт з сином. Просив, благав, намагався виправдатися. Але Дмитро категорично відмовився спілкуватися…
A Family Torn Apart: Secrets, Betrayal, and Redemption in an Ordinary English Home – The Heartbreaking Journey from a Sunday Dinner in Silence to a Miraculous Survival, and the Price of Forgiveness
RAW NERVE In the Taylor household, everyone lived their own separate lives. Mr. Simon Taylor, apart from having a wife,...
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.
LIFE IN ORDER “Linda, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! Theyve got their own lives,...
Bittersweet Happiness – Why Isn’t This Young Lady Good Enough for You? She’s a Wonderful Girl: Modest, Tidy, Studious—And She Loves You. A Mother’s Worries for Her Nearly Forty-Year-Old Son Who Can’t Settle Down, His Trail of Relationships, And the Unexpected Arrival of True Love with a Woman Seven Years His Senior, Mother of Three, Living in a Hostel—Culminating in the Birth of Their ‘Sunshine Child’ and the Joy and Challenges of Their Unusual Family
BITTERSWEET JOY What is it that you dont like about this young lady? Shes a good girl, well-mannered, tidy, does...
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...
I Never Took What Wasn’t Mine: The Story of Martha, Anastasia, and the Choices That Changed Their Lives Forever
NEVER CLAIMED ANOTHERS DUE Even as a schoolgirl, Martha looked down on Anne and, at the same time, envied her....
Worn Down by the Mother-in-Law and the Wife: That Night, the Most Stoic Man in Our Village—Steadfast Stephen—Came to My Countryside Surgery, Silent and Broken, Longing to Walk Away from the Nagging, Until a Kind Word Proved the Best Medicine for a Weary Soul
Fed up with the mother-in-law and the wife That evening, the quietest, most stoic fellow in all our village paid...