З життя
«— Я вам млинців приготувала, — мовила свекруха… О сьомій ранку, в неділю»
— Я вам млинців напекла, — сказала свекруха… О сьомій ранку, у неділю.
Коли я виходила заміж за Андрія, подруги шепотіли мені з заздрістю: «Тобі пощастило! У тебе ідеальна свекруха». І справді, Марія Степанівна спочатку здавалася жінкою витонченою, розсудливою і, головне, доброзичливою. Вона не лізла з порадами, не вчила життя, а на весіллі й звела тост, де підкреслила, що «не має наміру заважати молодій сім’ї будувати своє щастя».
Минуло п’ять років. І я вже не впізнаю ту милу жінку. Бо тепер вона стоїть біля нашого порогу щонеділі о сьомій ранку — з пахучою пательнею млинців, банкою варення й голосом, ніби спеціально налаштованим на найгучніший: «Діточки, вставайте! Я вам сніданок принесла!»
А почалося все невинно. Після весілля ми з Андрієм оселилися в його матері у двокімнатній хрущовці у Чернігові. Я намагалася бути ввічливою, не перечити, допомагати по господарству. Спочатку все йшло гладко — без сварок, без гучних сцен. Свекруха не чіплялася, хіба що інколи дорікала, що я не так витираю пил або погано прасу рушники. Та це дрібниці, правда?
Через два роки ми назбирали на перший внесок і купили квартиру в новобудові на іншому кінці міста. Я з полегшенням зітхнула — тепер у нас було своє. Свекруха навідувалася лише у вихідні, завжди попередньо дзвонила. Ми навіть раділи її візитам — вона привозила пироги, помагала з дрібницями, інколи сиділа з нашою кішкою Мурою, коли ми виїжджали.
Але довго так не тривало. Одного разу Марія Степанівка згадала, що хоче переїхати ближче: «А раптом онучата з’являться — треба буде допомагати!» Ми з Андрієм переглянулися, але мовчали. Вона наполігла, щоб ми допомогли їй продати стару квартиру й купити нову — у сусідньому під’їзді. Тоді я ще подумала: нічого, якось виживемо.
Та відстань швидко зникла. Щойно вона переїхала, все пішло шкереберть. Свекруха випросила в Андрія додаткові ключі — «про всяк випадок» — і почала заходити без попередження. Я поверталася з роботи, а на кухні вже пахло юшкою: «Ось, вирішила вас пригодувати!» А ще прасувала мої речі, перала мою білизну, перебирала шафи — «я просто хотіла прибрати». Одного разу я застала її у нашій спальні, коли вона міняла постіль. Без запитання. Без стуку.
Я намагалася пояснити Андрію, що це вторгнення. Що мені важко. Що я почуваюся не господаркою, а гостею у власній оселі. Але він лише знизував плечима: «Та вона ж із найкращих спонук. Хіба ти не бачиш, як вона старається?»
А мені хочеться кричати: я не просила ні млинців, ні варення, ні випрасуваних сорочок! Я хочу прокидатися у вихідний, коли сама захочу. Хочу ходити вдома у піжамі, а не натягувати халат, бо «матуся прийшла». Я хочу жити як доросла жінка у своїй хаті, а не як дівчинка, яку все ще виховують.
Але якщо я скажу їй це прямо — вона образиться. До сліз. І скаже, що я невдячна, що вона віддала все, а я її виганяю.
Як пояснити, що турбота — це не контроль? Що допомагати — не означає нав’язуватися? Що любов не вимірюється кількістю принесених млинців?
Я не знаю. Але я втомилася. І з кожним неділним ранком, з кожним передчасним дзвінком у двері в мені росте розпач. Невже спокій у власному домі — така недосяжна мрія?
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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