З життя
Як я “виселив” тещу без жодного слова заперечення
Коли я одружився з Олесею, мені здавалося, що з тещею мені неймовірно пощастило. Вона не лізла в наші справи, не повчала, не роздавала безкінечних порад, як це роблять багато «святі матусі». До того ж, готувала вона божественно, завжди була ввічливою та іноді навіть кумедною у своєму старомодному погляді на життя. Здавалося б — ідеальна теща. Але, як кажуть, у кожній бочці меду є ложка дьогтю…
Спочатку все було чудово. Ми жили окремо, навідувалися до неї по вихідних, пили чай із пампушками, слухали оповіді з минулого. І все йшло своєю чергою, поки в нас з Олесею не народився син — Данилко. Ось тоді й почалося. Спочатку бабуся приїжджала раз на тиждень. Потім — через день. А згодом і зовсім залишилася у нас.
Звісно, з пристойності ми нічого не казали. Зрештою, допомога по дому — річ не зайва, особливо коли в домі дитина. Дружина повернулася на роботу, а мама вже тут — борщ на плиті, підлога блищить, білизна розвішана, дитина сита й щаслива. Здавалося б — мрія. Але ця мрія швидко перетворилася на нав’язливий жах. Бо теща, не питаючи, залишалася у нас на тиждень, потім на два. Потім їхала додому «лише речі забрати» — і знову до нас.
Вона жила з нами, як господиня: робила перестановки, ховала мої улюблені чашки, пекла вареники, коли я хотів звичайну яєчню. Ми перестали відчувати себе у своїй же хаті. Я натякав дружині, мовляв, може, мама трохи відпочине вдома, але Олеся лише махала рукою: «Та як же ти скажеш, їй самій нудно, хіба трохи терпіння жаль?»
І я терпів. Аж поки випадок не підказав мені геніальний вихід.
Данилкові було тоді два роки. Одного разу він підійшов до мене перед сном і сказав, що боїться темряви. «Тату, у темряві живуть Вовкулаки…» — прошепотів він налякано. Я, як міг, заспокоював його. «Сину, якщо страшно — просто смійся. Сміх прожене будь-яких Вовкулаків. Ти регочеш — а вони тікають!» — випалив я, не надто замислюючись. Данилко кивнув і пішов спати.
І от через пару ночей, о третій годині ранку, я чую, як мій син іде коридором… й регоче. Гучно. Жахливо. Щиро. Регіт розноситься по всій хаті. Я ледве не впав з ліжка, але зрозумів — він іде до туалету, «проганяє» Вовкулаків. Наступного ранку — те саме. І так — ніч за ночею. Нам, дорослим, це навіть кумедно. Але не тещі.
Через кілька днів вона підійшла до мене, вся напружена, і заявила:
— Я більше не можу ночувати в цьому домі! Тут якась нечисть, якісь істоти! Дитина регоче вночі, ніби через нього щось говорить! Мені аж моторошно! Я поїду до себе. А якщо й приїду — то лише вдень. І то тільки якщо ви очистите будинок.
Слово «знахар» вона, звісно, не вимовила, але суть була зрозуміла. Я згодно кивнув. Дружина знизала плечима — «мама є мама». А я, намагаючись не виказати тріумфу, просто пішов варити собі каву. Один. На своїй кухні. У своїй улюбленій чашці.
З того часу минуло майже два роки. Теща приїжджає виключно вдень — привезти палянички, попеститися з Данилком, обговорити з Олесею новини. Але до вечора їде. Чітко. Без натяків залишитися. Іноді, правда, скаржиться на самотність. Але я відразу згадую про «Вовкулаків» — і все стає на свої місця.
Мораль? Іноді навіть наймиліші люди можуть порушити твої межі. Головне — вчасно їх відновити. І, повірте, для цього не потрібно сваритися, ображатися чи конфліктувати. Досить трохи… вигадки.
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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