З життя
Моя мама тепер живе зі мною за тими самими умовами, що й я в юності з нею.
Ольга Соколова мене звати, і я живу в красивому містечку Кам’янець-Подільський, де історія охоплює кожний закуток. Моє дитинство пройшло в звичайній родині, але все змінилося, коли мені було сім років — батько покинув нас з мамою, Надією, залишивши на самоті з труднощами. Відтоді я бачила лише маму — строгу, непохитну жінку, що замінила мені весь світ. Вона намагалася дати мені все, що могла, але її виховання було холодним, як зимова ніч. У нашому домі не було місця для ніжності чи співчуття — лише жорсткі правила, безкінечні вимоги і тяжке почуття обов’язку, що давило з юних літ.
Повертаючись зі школи, я не знаходила теплого обіду чи ласкавого питання про мій день. Натомість лунали суворі накази: «Помий посуд, приберись у кімнаті, роби домашні завдання». Втома? Бажання поспілкуватися? Це не враховувалося. Мама вірила, що життя — це дисципліна і самостійність. «Я одна підтримую родину, — казала вона, — вчись обходитися самостійно». Її слова впивалися в мене, як леза, змушуючи дорослішати раніше. Я мріяла стати художницею, писати оповідання, але щоразу, коли намагалася поділитися, чула холодне: «Це не принесе грошей. Вчися на економіста або юриста». Мої мрії згасали під її поглядом, а прохання про щось своє зустрічали незмінну відповідь: «Радій, що маєш дах над головою і їжу на столі».
Роки минули. Я виросла, створила свій дім, роботу, навчилася жити інакше — з теплотою, увагою, турботою. Але коли мамі постаріла і попросила взяти її до себе, щоб не бути самій, у мені знову відкрилися старі рани. Усі ті роки, коли я жадала її любові і підтримки, спалахнули перед очима. І тоді я вирішила: якщо вона хоче жити зі мною, хай це буде на тих же умовах, що вона нав’язувала мені в дитинстві.
Я виділила їй кімнату в далекому кутку будинку. «Тут тобі буде зручно», — сказала я сухо, ставлячи просте ліжко, стілець і тумбочку. Вона здивовано подивилася на мене, але мовчала. Незабаром я склала розклад: чіткі години їжі, список домашніх справ. «Можеш допомагати з прибиранням і пранням», — додала я тим самим рівним тоном, яким вона колись командувала мною. Коли вона скаржилася на біль у спині чи втому, я відповідала її ж словами: «Радій, що є дах над головою і їжа на столі». Якщо вона намагалася заговорити про особисте, я обривала її короткими фразами, посилаючись на зайнятість.
Спочатку вона не розуміла, що я відображаю її минуле. Усміхалася, говорила, як добре бути разом. Але незабаром я помітила, як її погляд потьмянів, вона стала тихішою, частіше зачинялася в своїй кімнаті. Вночі я чула її зітхання, але не йшла до неї — пам’ятала, як сама лежала в дитинстві, дивлячись у стелю, і чекала хоч краплю тепла. Через кілька тижнів вона несміло запитала: «Олюнька, я тобі не в тягар?» Я згадала, як задавала то саме питання, і, копіюючи її інтонацію, відповіла: «Потрібно бути самостійною. Усі ми повинні вчитися жити без чужої допомоги». В її очах промайнуло щось схоже на жаль. Вона почала усвідомлювати, що її власні уроки повернулися бумерангом.
Одного вечора я застала її на кухні. Вона сиділа, дивлячись на свої зморшкуваті, слабкі руки, і тихо сказала: «Прости мене. Я хотіла зробити тебе сильною, але, здається, вимагала забагато». Я заціпеніла. У мені боролися образа і жалість. Хотіла помститися, довести її все, але, дивлячись на її змучене обличчя, зрозуміла: їй теж було нелегко. Можливо, вона просто не вміла любити інакше.
Тієї ночі я принесла дві чашки чаю і сіла навпроти. Ми говорили вперше за багато років — про життя, про минуле, про мої мрії, що так і не здійснилися. Вона слухала, не перебиваючи, і я вперше відчула, що мої слова не зникають у порожнечі. З того дня усе почало змінюватися. Я зберегла порядок у домі, але додала м’якості. Ми стали проводити час разом не за розкладом, а за бажанням. Я зрозуміла, що її суворість загартувала мене, але доброту я знайшла сама.
Тепер я не жалію, що покликала маму до себе. Наша історія — не про помсту, а про те, як навіть через роки болю і розчарувань можна знайти шлях до примирення. Вона дала мені силу, хоч і сувору, а я навчила її теплу. Ми обидві змінилися, і в цьому домі, де колись панував холод, тепер лунають тихі розмови і стукіт чашок об стіл — знаки нової близькості, що народилася з давніх ран.
My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife Over for the Sake of the Children—So I Checked Into a Hotel to Celebrate on My Own
My husband invited his ex-wife over for the boys, so I spent the holiday in a hotel Where are you...
Never Truly Forgotten Every day, Prohor commutes from his job in London: a ride on the Tube, then the bus, before finally arriving home. The journey lasts over an hour each way. His car spends more time parked than on the road, thanks to London’s notorious rush hour traffic—he finds it easier and faster by public transport. Two years ago, his family life changed drastically; he and his wife quietly divorced. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mum. There were no dramas—Prohor was never one for arguments. He’d noticed his wife had changed over the years, grown restless, and often left late, claiming she was meeting friends. When he asked, —Why are you always out so late? Most wives are at home by this hour. —None of your business. Those ‘normal’ wives—just hens. I’m different: clever, social, and need more than just home. Besides, I’m not a farm girl like you. —So why did you marry the farm boy? —Picked the lesser of two evils, she’d retort before shutting down the conversation. Soon after, she filed for divorce and moved Prohor out of the flat; he’s since got used to renting and isn’t ready for marriage again, though he keeps looking. On the Tube, like most, he doesn’t waste his travel time—scrolls through social media, reads news, jokes, and watches clips. Scrolling absentmindedly, one image jolts him—it’s an ad: Folk Herbalist Mary, Natural Remedies He recognises the face immediately—his first love from school: unrequited, unforgettable. He remembers her well, that strange but beautiful girl from his class. Barely making his stop, he rushes home on foot, skipping the bus just to clear his head. Inside, he forgets his dinner and sits in the corridor, staring at his phone, jotting down the number in the ad before his device demands a charge. While his phone powers up, memories flood back: Mary was always different from their first day in Year 1. Quiet, modest, with her school dress a little below the knee—unlike the other girls. Their small village outside Oxford was a place where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew much about Mary. She lived with her grandparents in a unique house by the woods—like something out of a fairytale. He fell for her—childishly, yet to him, seriously. She had a handmade rucksack with beautiful embroidery, and rather than the usual “hiya”, she’d always greet people with: “Good health to you.” She was like a character from an old English legend—never rowdy, always polite. One day Mary missed school, and the kids went to check on her. Outside the village, they saw her home—and a crowd: her grandmother’s funeral. Mary in her headscarf, wiping her tears, her grandfather silent but present. After the burial, the children were even invited in for the wake. That memory stuck—his first funeral. Mary returned to school soon after. Time passed, the girls matured, took to makeup and fashion battles. Only Mary remained as dignified and natural as ever, her cheeks rosy without a hint of blush. The boys started courting; Prohor tried his luck with Mary. She didn’t respond at first, but at the end of Year 9, he managed: —Can I walk you home after school? She replied, quietly, privately, —I’m promised, Prohor. It’s tradition in our family. He was confused—what tradition? Later he learned her grandparents were Old Believers, her parents having died young, leaving her their legacy. Mary excelled at school, wore no jewellery, kept to herself despite the others’ gossip. She blossomed every year, by Year 10 there was no denying her beauty. After graduation, classmates scattered. Prohor moved to London for university. He heard Mary married her betrothed and moved to a remote village, living a simple rural life—herding cows, working the land, raising a son. None of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does now,” Prohor muses, “Herbalist… Looks even lovelier than before.” Sleep eludes him, morning comes and the routine repeats—work, but the past and beautiful Mary won’t let go. First love never fades, always stirs the heart. After several days in a daze, he finally messages her: —Hello, Mary! —Good health, she replies, unchanged as ever. “What concerns you?” —Mary, it’s Prohor, your old classmate. Remember we shared a desk? Saw you online—had to write. —Of course, Prohor, the brightest lad in our class. —This is your number, can I ring you? he asks. —Of course, she replies. After work, he calls; stories and memories exchanged. Where do you live? What’s life like? —I’m still in the old family home by the woods, she tells him. Came back after my husband died—a bear attack in the forest… Grandfather’s gone too. —Sorry, I had no idea… —It’s alright, Prohor, it was long ago. Life goes on. You’re just calling for a chat, or do you need some herbs? I sometimes advise. —Just wanted to say hello. No herbal remedies needed, just saw you and all the memories came flooding back. Miss the old village—my mother’s gone now. They reminisce and say goodbye. But a week later, restless, Prohor calls again: —Hi, Mary. —Good health, Prohor. Missing someone or fallen ill? —Just missing you, Mary—please don’t be cross, but could I visit you? —Come if you like, she says, unexpectedly. Whenever you get the chance. —My holiday’s next week, he beams. —Good, you know the address. He spends the week preparing, choosing gifts for Mary—wondering what she’s like now. At last, he drives from London to his old village—six hours, not a hardship, he loves long drives. Arriving, he’s shocked at the changes. New homes, shops, even the local factory thriving, the high street buzzing. —Wow, thought our village, like so many others, must’ve faded away. But it’s thriving, he says aloud. —It’s a proper town now, replies a passing pensioner with pride. Been granted borough status for ages. You haven’t been back for years, have you? —Years and years, says Prohor. —Our mayor’s a good man—really cares about the place, so it’s grown and blossomed. Mary waits for Prohor at the old house when he calls to say he’s arrived. As his car turns in, Mary’s heart races. No one ever knew how she’d loved Prohor since school—a secret she’d have carried forever had he not reappeared. Their reunion is joyful. Sitting for hours in the gazebo, the old house your typical English cottage—aged, yet welcoming. —Mary, I’ve come on business, he says, with a serious look. —I’m listening, she answers a bit nervously. —I’ve loved you all these years, surely you can’t still turn me away? Mary leaps up, throws her arms around him. —Prohor, I’ve always loved you, too—since I was a girl. Prohor spends his holiday with Mary, and as he leaves, he promises, —I’ll sort things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. I’m not going anywhere else—I was born here, and here I’ll make myself useful.
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Dandelion Jam After a mild, snowy English winter, everyone in the quaint town is longing for the fresh green leaves and colourful blooms of spring. Taissa, living in her cosy flat with her granddaughter Vera—whose parents, both doctors, have gone to work in Africa—finds herself cherishing the new season. The rhythms of the town change: market stalls buzz, neighbours gather on garden benches, and birdsong replaces alarm clocks. Taissa’s daily life intertwines with her lively neighbours—cheerful, well-read Valerie and grumpy Mrs Simmons—whose gossip and camaraderie brighten the days. Meanwhile, Vera happily attends school and dance class, proud to be watched over by her loving grandma. When Taissa strikes up a warm friendship with her thoughtful neighbour George Ellis, a widower with a distant daughter, they find comfort in shared stories and park strolls. Yet, tension brews when George’s daughter Vera visits and demands he sell his flat to move in with her family, suspecting Taissa’s intentions. An awkward confrontation ensues, but Taissa remains gracious. Life brings Taissa and George back together; he approaches her with a crown of dandelions and a jar of homemade dandelion jam, sharing its English folklore and health benefits. Their friendship flourishes over tea, recipes, and evenings under the old linden tree. Through spring’s renewal, two hearts discover sunshine in companionship and the sweet taste of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading and supporting my stories—wishing you all life’s brightest joys!
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