З життя
Він упевнений, що може без мене, а я без нього? Давайте дізнаємось
Чоловік сказав, що без мене він упорається, а я без нього — ні. Що ж, побачимо.
Після восьми років шлюбу я, Олеся, нарешті скинула з себе пута стереотипів, які роками вбивали мені в голову мама, бабуся та свекруха. Вони повторювали, що гарна дружина — це жінка, яка встигає все: працює, виховує дітей, тримає будинок у ідеальному порядку, готує смачні обіди, а чоловік завжди ходить у випрасуваній сорочці, ситий і задоволений. Я намагалася відповідати цьому образу, але мій чоловік, Ярослав, не цінував моїх зусиль. Він звик, що я все роблю сама, і навіть не помічав, як я видихаюся. Я втомилася — втомилася бути невидимою, втомилася тягнути все на собі.
Перед очима завжди були приклади моєї родини. Мама, бабуся, старша сестра Марія — всі вони були ідеальними господинями, які жили заради сім’ї. Мама працювала у школі, поверталася додому до обіду, готувала їжу, а потім до півночі перевіряла зошити. Ніхто не замислювався, що це подвиг — це була її «жіноча доля». Тато досі не знає, де лежать його шкарпетки. Мама приносить йому капці, накриває на стіл, подає вечерю. Я ніколи не бачила, щоб він узяв у руки пилосос або швабру. Так, він багато працював, пізно повертався, але заробляв добре. Завдяки цьому він купив мені і сестрі квартири. Мама могла б не працювати, але вважала, що її внесок у сімейний бюджет важливий. Так її виховувала бабуся, а мама виховувала нас.
Марія, моя старша сестра, вийшла заміж на п’ять років раніше мене і у всьому наслідувала маму. Вона навчалася на вчителя, народила двох дітей і зробила свій дім зразком порядку. Коли я бувала у неї в гостях, там все було ідеально: доглянуті діти, блискучий дім, на столі свіжа випічка. Після весілля я теж мріяла про таку сім’ю. Я хотіла бути ідеальною дружиною, все робити сама. Але Ярослав, на відміну від мого батька чи чоловіка сестри, не заробляв багато. Він часто повертався пізно, але його зарплати не вистачало на всі наші потреби. Я заспокоювала його, казала, що він талановитий і з часом зробить кар’єру. А сама крутилася, як білка в колесі.
Ярослав не допомагав по дому. До весілля він жив з батьками, і його мама, Ганна Іванівна, оберігала сина від «жіночих» справ. На її думку, чоловік має лагодити, робити ремонт і носити важке. Але у Ярослава була грижа, тому важкі речі теж відпали. За вісім років ми зробили один ремонт, і то наймали бригаду. Я ж перенапружувалася, щоб усе було ідеально: прибирала, готувала, прала, прасувала. Я хотіла бути тією самою «гарною дружиною», але сили танули з кожним днем.
Два роки тому я народила другу дитину. Вагітність і пологи далися важко, я ледве пересувалася, але Ярослав, замість підтримки, почав бурчати. Його дратували несмачний борщ, невипрасувана сорочка, пил на полицях. Я, вичерпана, з немовлям на руках, намагалася тягнути все, як раніше. Мама і свекруха в один голос твердили, що я не роблю нічого особливого — це звичайна жіноча робота. Я вірила їм, хоча всередині росло відчуття, що я тону під вагою їхніх очікувань.
Все змінилося, коли мій семирічний син, Данило, відмовився прибирати іграшки, заявивши: «Це бабине діло, мама прибере». Він повторив слова батька. У той момент у мені щось зламалося. Якби я була в іншому настрої, можливо, зійшла б з цього, але тоді мене накрило хвилюванням гніву та розпачу. Я кричала, плакала, не в силах зупинитися. Це була не просто істерика — це був крик душі, втомленої бути невидимою. Я заспокоїлася лише через годину, але зрозуміла: так більше не буде.
Ввечері я наважилася на розмову з Ярославом. Заспокоївшись, я хотіла пояснити, як мені важко, як я задихаюся без його допомоги. Я не просила взяти на себе все — лишень розділити навантаження: сходити за продуктами, посидіти з дітьми, щоб я могла прийняти душ, прибрати раз на тиждень в квартирі. Але він перервав мене: «З чим ти не справляєшся? З дітьми? З прибиранням? З готуванням? Я тебе утримую, поки ти у декреті, а ти хочеш, щоб я робив твою роботу? А ти що робитимеш — лежатимеш на дивані?» Його слова порізали, ніж ножа. Він не почув мене, не захотів зрозуміти. Наприкінці сварки він кинув: «Я без тебе справлюся, а ти без мене — ні». Що ж, побачимо.
З того дня я вирішила: досить. Я повернулася на роботу на півставки. Раніше я давала уроки англійської, тепер знову взялася за це. У нашому будинку почалася холодна війна. Я перестала бігати за Ярославом: не готувала йому, не прала його речі. Готувала лише для себе та дітей, пЯ зрозуміла, що моє щастя – не в тому, щоб добиватися чийогось схвалення, а в сміливості жити так, як я заслуговую.
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The Carer for the Wife — What do you mean? — Lida thought she must have misheard. — Where am I supposed to go? Why? What for? — Oh, can we just skip the dramatics, please? — he grimaced. — What’s not clear here? There’s no one left for you to take care of. Where you go is none of my concern. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? Weren’t we planning to get married…? — That was your idea. I never said any such thing. At 32, Lida decided to turn her life around and leave her small hometown. What was left for her there? Endure her mother’s nagging? Her mother simply couldn’t stop scolding Lida about the divorce, constantly asking how she managed to “lose” her husband. Yet Vas’ka wasn’t worth a kind word—drunk and a womaniser! How did she end up marrying him all those eight years ago? Lida wasn’t at all upset about the divorce—in fact, she felt she could finally breathe again. But she argued constantly with her mum about it, and they also fought about money, which was always in short supply. So, she’d head off to the county town and land a great job there! Look at Svetka—her old school friend—she’d been married for five years to a widower. Who cares if he’s 16 years older and hardly a heartthrob, at least he has a flat and a decent income. And Lida reckoned she was just as good as Svetka! — Well, thank heavens! You’ve come to your senses! — Svetka encouraged her. — Pack your things, you can stay with us for a bit, and we’ll sort out the job situation. — Won’t your Vadim Petrovich mind? — Lida was unsure. — Don’t be silly! He does whatever I ask! Don’t worry, we’ll get by! Still, Lida didn’t want to stay long at her friend’s place. After just a couple of weeks and her first wages, she rented her own room. And just a couple of months later, she had a stroke of luck. — Why is a woman like you working in the market? — said one of her regulars, Edward Boris, with concern. Lida knew all her regulars by name by now. — It’s cold, it’s hard work—not ideal. — Gotta earn money somehow, — she shrugged, — unless you have another offer? Edward Boris wasn’t exactly a dreamboat in her eyes—twenty years older, a bit pudgy, starting to bald, and with a shrewd look in his eye. He was always particular about choosing his vegetables and paid to the penny. But he dressed well and drove a nice car—definitely not a down-and-out, not a drunk. He also had a wedding ring, so she never considered him as husband material. — You strike me as responsible, steady, and clean, — Edward Boris switched to a familiar tone, — have you ever cared for anyone who was ill? — I used to look after a neighbour, actually. She had a stroke, her children live far away, so they paid me to help. — That’s great! — he exclaimed, and then put on a somber face: — My wife, Tamara, has had a stroke too. The doctors say she has little chance of recovery. I’ve brought her home, but I haven’t got time to look after her. Will you help? I’ll pay you properly. Lida didn’t have to think long—much better to be in a warm flat changing bedpans than freezing on the market for ten hours a day serving picky customers! He even suggested she live there, so no more rent. — They’ve got three spare rooms! You could play football in there! — she delightedly told her friend. — No children either. Tamara’s mother was a real madam—even at 68, she acted half her age. She’d just remarried and was busy with her husband. No one else to care for the invalid. — Is she really that sick? — Oh yes, poor thing can’t move or speak. She won’t get better. — You almost sound happy about it, — Svetka eyed her. — Of course not, — Lida looked down, — but once Tamara’s gone, Edward Boris would be free… — Are you for real, Lida? Wishing someone dead for a flat?! — I’m not wishing anyone dead—I’m just not going to miss my chance! Easy for you to say, you’ve got it made! They had a huge fight and didn’t speak for half a year—until Lida confessed to Svetka her romance with Edward Boris. They couldn’t live without each other, but of course, he’d never leave his wife—not that type! So for now, she’d remain his lover. — So you’re shacking up with him while his wife is dying in the next room? — her friend was appalled. — Do you even see how vile that is? Or are you that blinded by his money—if he’s even got it? — Trust you to never say a kind word, — Lida retorted. They stopped talking again, but she barely felt guilty—well, perhaps just a bit. She cared for Tamara with real diligence, and since her affair with Edward Boris began, she took on all the housework too. After all, a man needs more than just a woman in his bed—he wants a good meal, crisp shirts, a clean flat. Lida thought her lover was very content, and she was enjoying her life too. She barely noticed Edward had stopped paying her for caring for his wife. Not that it mattered now—they were almost like husband and wife! He gave her money for shopping, and she managed the budget, not realising it was tight. And his job paid well enough—but never mind, once they got married it would all become clear. With time, the spark between them dulled, and Edward lingered less at home, but Lida put it down to the strain of having a sick wife. She pitied him, even though he barely spent a minute a day checking on Tamara. Even so, Lida wept when Tamara finally passed away. She’d given a year and a half of her life to that woman—you can’t get that time back. She organised the funeral too—Edward was “too grief-stricken.” He gave her the bare minimum for expenses, but she did everything properly. No one could accuse her of a thing. Even the neighbours, gossiping about her and Edward—nothing escapes them!—nodded approvingly at the funeral. His mother-in-law too seemed satisfied. So Lida never expected what Edward said next. — You understand there’s no need for your services anymore, so I’m giving you a week to move out, — he said on the tenth day after the funeral. — What do you mean? — Lida’s voice faltered. — Where should I go? Why? — Please, do we have to have this scene? — he sighed. — There’s no one left for you to care for, and where you go is none of my business. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? We were supposed to get married… — That’s your fantasy. I never said anything of the sort. Next morning, after a sleepless night, Lida tried to talk again, but he just repeated the same words and urged her to move quickly. — My fiancée wants to renovate before the wedding, — was all he said. — Fiancée? Who’s that? — None of your business. — Oh, none of my business?! Well, I’ll move out, but you’ll pay me for my work first. You were meant to pay forty grand a month. I only got paid twice. So you owe me £8,000. — You can do the sums, can’t you! — he snorted. — Don’t get carried away… — And you owe for cleaning too! I won’t nit-pick, just pay me ten grand and we’ll call it even. — Or what? You’ll go to court? There’s no contract. — I’ll tell Tamila—remember, your mother-in-law owns this flat. Edward’s face changed, but he recovered quickly. — Who’d believe you? — he huffed. — You know what? I don’t want to see you. Get out now. — You’ve got three days, darling. No ten grand, and there’ll be a scandal, — Lida replied, heading for a cheap hostel. She’d managed to save some of the housekeeping money. On the fourth day, having had no answer, Lida went back to the flat. Tamila, the mother-in-law, was there. Lida could see from Edward’s face she’d never get paid. So she told Tamila everything. — She’s making it all up! Don’t listen! — the widower protested. — Well, well, I’d heard rumours at the funeral, but I didn’t believe them — Tamila’s stare was fierce. — Now it all makes sense. And you, my dear son-in-law, don’t forget who owns this flat? Edward froze. — So, I want you out of here within the week. No—within three days. Tamila turned to leave, then paused at Lida. — And you, standing there like you expect a prize? Get out! Lida bolted from the flat, realising there’d be no money for her—not now. Back to the market again; there’d always be work there… **The Carer’s Devotion: Betrayal Behind Closed Doors in Suburban England**
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