З життя
«Ваша дочка знову кричить?!» — промовила жінка, яка зве себе бабусею
«Твоя дитина знову ревіть?!» — і це сказала жінка, яка називає себе бабусею.
— Чому твоя донька знову кричить?! — кинула мені свекруха з таким презирством, ніби я занесла в дім чужу дитину, а не рідну онуку.
— Вона хвора, температура, — спробувала я пояснити, задихаючись від втоми й нервів.
— А мені байдуже! Нехай не верещить! У мене голова розривається! — випалила вона, навіть не обернувшись у бік дитячої, де Маринка в пропасниці хрипко схлипувала, лежачи на зім’ятих простирадлах.
Я метушилася по хаті, наче в пастці. Дитина стогнала, ломило все тіло, я шукала жарознижувальне, машинально перевіряла воду у пляшечці, зашморгувала штори, щоб сонце не різало очі… Потім увімкнула проектор нічного неба — лише він трішки її заспокоював. Вона дивилася на мерехтливі зорі на стелі й на хвилинку припиняла скиглити, а я в цей короткий час бігла на кухню — варити кулешу, робити відвар, перевіряти підгузник. Все одночасно. І все — сама.
А свекруха… Сиділа у кріслі, розвалившись, у сукні з візерунком під зміїну шкуру, як королева у власних очах. Скаржилася, що в неї «голова тріскається», вимагала тиші й докоряла мені, що я «не можу заспокоїти свою дитину».
— Слухай сюди, — проказала вона, коли я знову пройшла повз, — скоро ти вилетиш звідси. Зі своїм скигливим виродком. У мого сина були дівчини в сотні разів кращі. Він не для того одружувався, щоб у домі був шабаш! Сім’я йому швидко набридне, я певна!
І знаєте що… Йди до біса. Ось просто йди. Тільки я не сказала це вголос. Я стиснула зуби й побігла до дитячої, бо моя донечка знову плакала — від спеки, від болю, від того, що ніхто, окрім мене, не міг її обмацати. Я знову вкрила її ковдрою, поцілувала в гарячий лобик, пригорнула до серця.
А потім знову на кухню. І знову — крізь її отруйні слова:
— У хороших матерів діти не ревуть!
— Та твоя мала просто розпещена!
— Такі жінки, як ти — ганьба!
— Моєму синові потрібна нормальна дружина, а не це…
А де був мій чоловік? Він завжди «зайнятий». Він не помічає, що його матір отруює мені кожен день. Каже: «Не звертай уваги, вона просто в літах». А те, що я падаю від втоми, що в мене тремтять руки, що дитина хворіє, і я залишаюся з цим пеклом сама — йому ніби й байдуже.
Я не знаю, що буде завтра. Не знаю, як довго ще витримаю в цьому домі, де нас із донькою ненавидять. Але я знаю одне — більше не дозволю нікому принижувати мою дитину. Я готова піти. Готова боротися. Я вже не просто дружина чи невістка. Я — мати. А це означає — я сильніша, ніж вони думають.
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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