З життя
«Він їсть за трьох, а думає лише про себе… Я не дружину, а холодильник в домі замінила»
Думав, що замки на холодильник — це смішно, на кшталт жартів з інтернету. А потім побачила його на власні очі — залізний замочок з ключем у крамниці дрібниць. Стояла, дивилась і вперше серйозно подумала: а може, й справді варто купити? Не від дітей ховати їжу, не від злодіїв. Від власного чоловіка…
Мене звуть Соломія, мені тридцять, живу з чоловіком і донькою у Львові. Працюю, стараюся, кручуся як вітер у льоху, як кажуть у нас. Але попри всю метушню, найбільше виснажує не робота, не дитина, а чоловік, з яким ділю дах. Мій чоловік, Тарас, не бачить нікого, крім своєї тарілки. Він їсть. Постійно. Без розбору, без міри, без сорому.
Приходжу додому втомлена, знаючи, що в холодильнику заначка на вечерю — шматок сала, трохи сиру, можливо, йогурт для доньки. Відкриваю дверцята — а там пусто. Не трохи з’їдено — зовсім нічого. Мовчки, без застереження, він усе знищив. За ніч. Ковбасу, сир, навіть полуницю, куплену для дитини — все зникло. Ніби в безодню.
Нещодавно купила дитині чорниці. Знаєте, які вони дорогі поза сезоном? Але донька побачила в крамниці й попросила. Я не могла відмовити. Дома вона їла по трішечки, з таким захопленням, з такою радістю… Я навмисне відклала половину на ранок, поставила в холодильник. Прокидаюся — контейнер пустий. Він усе з’їв. До останньої ягідки. І ще й посміявся: «Ну то йди, купи ще! Гроші в нас є, у чому проблема?»
А в тому, Тарасе, що ти взагалі не думаєш! Ні про доньку, ні про мене! Не запитав, не подумав, просто з’їв, ніби це твоє за правом. А я — як годівниця, тільки й роблю, що купую та готую. Ти з’їв останню ковбасу — і що? Ні докору сумління, ні бажання якось це виправити.
Він виріс із матір’ю, яка з дитинства годувала його до відвалу. Величезні порції, постійні смаколики. Він високий, колись займався спортом, але звички лишились. А я? Я змалку звикла до помірності. Сама так виховую доньку — не в надлишку, а в усвідомленні. Але з батьком у неї приклад зовсім інший: з’їсти все й одразу.
Я не проситиму економити. З грошима у нас усе гаразд: працюю в дизайнерській агенції, він — у транспортній компанії, дохід стабільний. Справа не в грошах, а в повазі. У вмінні думати не лише про себе. Побачив — замислись, кому це призначалось. Донька просила? Дружина відклала? Невже так складно?
І ось я знову стою перед холодильником. Знову пусто. Знову гнів збирається десь під серцем. Я стомилась. Я виходила заміж не за кухню. Хотіла бути коханою жінкою, матір’ю, подругою. А не постачальником їжі для дорослого чоловіка, який бачить у домі лише тарілку й диван.
Кажу йому: ти не живеш із родиною, ти живеш як самотній, тільки з повним доступом до нашого холодильника. А він лише махає рукою: «Ти господиня погана, якби добра, то їжа не переводилась б. У нормальних дружин усе під рукою». Серйозно? То може, й пральну машинку за дружину призначимо?
Все частіше думаю — може, не замок на холодильник потрібен, а ключ до власного життя. Того, де я не зобов’язана бути обслуговуючим персоналом. Того, де мої бажання хоч хтось враховує. Того, де я — не просто дружина, а людина, яку чують і поважають.
Раптом усвідомлюю: іноді найважче — не визнати проблему, а знайти в собі силу щось із нею зробити.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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