З життя
Meine Tochter, die Verlorene! Ich gab ihr mein Erbe, doch sie vergisst ihre Wurzeln!
Meine Tochter ist undankbar! Ich habe ihr mein Unternehmen übergeben, а она hat vergessen, wer sie großgezogen hat!
Ich könnte meine Geschichte nach einem Werk von Friedrich Schiller benennen – „Wilhelm Tell“ (Wilhelm Tell), weil ich in einer ähnlichen misslichen Lage bin.
Wenn ich zurückblicke, sehe ich, dass ich nicht der Einzige bin, der in solch einer Situation feststeckt. Die Geschichte kennt viele Beispiele, in denen Kinder alles auf dem Silbertablett serviert bekommen und die Menschen vergessen, die sie großgezogen haben.
Ich wünsche meiner Tochter nichts Schlechtes. Möge sie ihren eigenen Weg gehen.
Aber ich habe nicht die Absicht, sie weiterhin mit Arbeit und Gewinn zu versorgen, da sie beschlossen hat, dass ich in dem Geschäft, das ich aufgebaut habe, keinen Platz mehr habe.
Ich habe ihr ein bereits laufendes Geschäft anvertraut.
Mein ganzes Leben lang habe ich gearbeitet, aufgebaut und entwickelt. Ich habe klein angefangen und Schritt für Schritt Erfolg gehabt.
Jetzt besitze ich ein Netzwerk von Hotels und mehrere Restaurants. Das ist das Ergebnis vieler Jahre harter Arbeit, schlafloser Nächte, Fehler, Rückschläge und Aufstiege.
Als meine Tochter heranwuchs, beschloss ich, ihr einen Teil des Geschäfts zu übergeben. Sie war klug und ehrgeizig. Ich hoffte, dass sie mein Werk fortführen würde, dass sie das, was ich von Grund auf geschaffen hatte, bewahren und vermehren würde.
Ich übergab ihr eines der Restaurants. Darüber hinaus schenkte ich ihr 30% der Firma.
Ich führte sie ins Geschäft ein.
Ich übergab ihr Kunden, Kontakte und Wissen.
Aber je mehr sie bekam, desto weniger Wert schien es für sie zu haben.
Sie glaubte, dass ich nicht mehr gebraucht werde.
Im Laufe der Zeit änderte sich ihre Haltung mir gegenüber. Sie begann zu denken, sie sei nicht nur die Eigentümerin des Restaurants, sondern auch des gesamten Unternehmens.
Sie mischte sich in die Führung der Hotels ein und traf Entscheidungen ohne mein Wissen.
Es kam soweit, dass sie, wenn ich morgens ins Restaurant kam, um mir eine Tasse Kaffee und etwas vom Buffet zu holen, rief:
— Du isst auf meine Kosten!
Ich war schockiert.
— Wie das auf deine? Habe ich dir nicht dieses Restaurant übergeben? Ist das nicht ein Teil des Geschäfts, das ich über Jahre aufgebaut habe?
Sie wischte nur mit der Hand ab.
— Das ist jetzt mein Restaurant. Ich bin nicht verpflichtet, dich zu ernähren.
Es schien mir, als hörte ich nicht meine Tochter, sondern eine völlig fremde Person.
Sie haben sich mit den Reiseveranstaltern gegen mich verbündet.
Doch das war noch nicht alles.
Sie fand einen gemeinsamen Nenner mit den Reiseveranstaltern und schloss hinter meinem Rücken Geschäfte mit ihnen ab.
Sie war die Einzige, die die Bankdaten kannte, sie erhielt die Zahlungen.
Und ich…
Sie wies mir einige Beträge zu und warf sie mir mit den Worten zu:
— Das müsste reichen.
Reichen?
Mir, der dieses Unternehmen gegründet hat?
Der Jahre, Nerven und Kraft investiert hat?
Ich warf sie aus der Firma.
Als die Saison zu Ende ging, konnte ich nicht länger warten.
Ich berief eine Sitzung ein.
Ich entzogen ihr die Rechte an 30% des Unternehmens.
Ich holte mir die Kontrolle zurück.
Ich warf sie aus dem Geschäft, das ich ihr selbst anvertraut hatte.
Sie dachte, ich würde das nicht tun.
Sie dachte, ich würde es hinnehmen.
Sie hatte sich geirrt.
Sie klagte mich … zweimal!
Daraufhin begann ein wahrer Krieg.
Sie reichte zwei Klagen ein.
In der ersten forderte sie die Hälfte des Unternehmens.
In der zweiten — die Rückgabe der 30%, die ich ihr einmal geschenkt hatte.
Sie verlor beide Prozesse.
Doch anstatt daraus Lehren zu ziehen, beschloss sie, Rache zu nehmen.
Die Tochter erstattete Anzeige gegen ihren eigenen Vater!
Sie machte eine Anzeige gegen mich.
In der Folge wurde eine Steuerprüfung für die letzten fünf Jahre angeordnet.
Ein Jahr lang ließ man mich nicht in Ruhe.
Ein Jahr lang kämpfte ich durch die Ämter, um meine Ehrlichkeit zu beweisen.
Ein Jahr lang sah ich zu, wie meine eigene Tochter versuchte, das Unternehmen zu zerstören, das ihr Erbe sein sollte.
Ich erinnerte mich, wie ich einst ihre kleine Hand in meiner hielt, wie ich ihr das Laufen lernte, wie ich wollte, dass sie alles Beste hatte.
Und jetzt…
Jetzt war sie bereit, mich zu vernichten, nur um mehr zu bekommen.
Dankbarkeit? Fürsorge? Familie? Macht euch nicht lustig!
Wie leicht vergessen Menschen, wo sie herkommen.
Wie schnell vergessen sie, wer ihnen die Chance gegeben hat.
Wie leicht verraten sie die Nächsten.
Meine Tochter hat vergessen, wer sie war.
Sie glaubt, dass sie alles allein erreicht hat.
Na schön…
Jetzt wird sie tatsächlich ihren eigenen Weg gehen.
Ohne meine Unterstützung.
Ohne mein Unternehmen.
Ohne mein Erbe.
Ich verfluche sie nicht.
Aber ich habe nicht die Absicht, ihr weiterhin zu helfen.
Möge sie lernen, wie es ist, ein Leben von Grund auf zu bauen.
Möge sie verstehen, was es bedeutet, nichts zu haben und alles selbst zu erreichen.
Und ich kann lediglich wiederholen:
Bewahre, Herr, den, der plötzlich sieht…
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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.”
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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