З життя
«Забирайся з моєї квартири негайно!» — я більше не можу терпіти сестру і її дітей
«Соломіє, виганяйся з моєї хати негайно!» — більше не можу терпіти сестру та її дітей.
У невеликому містечку, де ранковий гомін базару змішується із запахом свіжого хліба, моє життя в сорок років перетворилося на пекло через сестру. Мене звати Ганна, і я живу одна у своїй двокімнатній квартирі, яку з трудом купила після розлучення. Але моя молодша сестра Соломія, її три дурні сини та її безвідповідальність довели мене до межі. Вчора я вигукнула їй з порога: «Виганяйся звідси зараз же!» — і тепер не знаю, чи правильно вчинила, але сил терпіти більше немає.
Соломія — моя рідна, але це не виправдовує хаосу.
Вона молодша за мене на п’ять років. Колись ми були близькі, попри різні характери. Я — організована, працьовита, завжди тягнула все сама. Вона ж — вітрогонка, вічно в пошуках «щастя». У неї троє синів від різних чоловіків: Тарасу дванадцять, Юрку вісім, а Іванку п’ять. Вона живе в орендованій кімнаті, перебивається випадковими заробітками, і я завжди їй допомагала — грішми, продуктами, одягом для дітей. Коли вона попросилася пожити в мене «на пару тижнів», я не змогла відмовити. Це було три місяці тому.
Моя квартира — моя фортеця. Після розлучення я вклала в неї все: ремонт, меблі, затишок. Працюю адміністратором у готелі, і моє життя — це порядок. Але з приїздом Соломії та її дітей мій дім перетворився на ярмарок. Її сини носяться по коридору, кричать, ламають речі, малюють на шпалерах. Вона ж, замість виховувати їх, сидить у телефоні або йде «по справах», залишаючи дітей на мене.
Хаос, який забрав мій спокій.
Від першого дня я зрозуміла — це помилка. Тарас хамить, Юрко розмальовує стіни, Іванко розмазує їжу по столу. Вони не слухаються ні її, ні мене — ніби звикли, що мати тягає їх від одного «ваньки» до іншого, а мій дім для них — просто чергова зупинка. Соломія не прибирає, не готує, не допомагає. «Ганно, ти ж одна, тобі не важко», — каже вона, а я вже не можу дихати від її нахабства.
Моя квартира тепер як прохідна. Брудний посуд у раковині, розкидані іграшки, плями на дивані. Я повертаюся з роботи і замість відпочинку мию підлогу, готую вечерю на п’ятьох, намагаюся заспокоїти дітей. Вона ж або спить, або торохтить із подругами. Коли я прошу прибрати, вона закатує очі: «Ой, Ганно, дай спокій, я й так втомилася». Від чого? Від життя за мій рахунок?
Остання крапля.
Вчора я повернулася додому і не впізнала свою хату. По коридору метушилися її сини, один ледь не збив мене з ніг. На кухні — гора брудного посуду, у вітальні — розлитий компот на килимі. Соломія сиділа на дивані, гортаючи стрічку. Я вибухнула: «Соломіє, виганяйся звідси зараз же!» Вона подивилася на мене, ніби я божевільна: «Ти серйозно? Куди я піду з дітьми?» Я відповіла, що це не моя справа, але всередині тремтіло. Її діти завмерли, дивлячись на нас, і мені їх шкода, але так більше не може.
Я дала їй тиждень знайти житло. Вона розплакалася, почала казати, що я жорстока, що кидаю рідну сестру. Але де була її турбота, коли вона руйнувала мій дім? Де подяка за все, що я для неї зробила? Мої подруги кажуть: «Ганно, ти права, годі бути їх діжкою». А мати, довідавшись про сварку, телефонує й благає: «Не виганяй Соломію, вона ж з дітьми». А я? Хіба я не заслуговую на спокій?
Страх і рішучість.
Я боюся, що вчинила надто жорстоко. Соломія з дітьми дійсно у складній ситуації, і я відчуваю провину, особливо за племінників. Але я не можу жертвувати собою заради її безвідповідальності. Мій дім — це все, що в мене є, і я не хочу, щоб він став притулком для її хаосу. Я запропонувала допомогти з пошуками житла, але вона відмовилася: «Ти просто хочеш позбутися нас». Може, так. І я не бачу в цьому нічого поганого.
Я не знаю, як пройде цей тиждень. Чи пробачить мене мати? Чи зрозуміє Соломія, що сама винна? Чи я залишуся «злою сестрою», що вигнала родину на вулицю? Але я знаю одне: я втомилася бути їх рятівником. У сорок років я хочу жити у своїй хаті, де панує порядок, де я можу вільно дихати, де ніхто не топче мої межі.
Мій крик про свободу.
Ця історія — мій крик про право на своє життя. Соломія, можливо, любить своїх дітей, але її безвідповідальність руйнує мій світ. Її сини, можливо, не винні, але я не можу бути їхньою матір’ю. У сорок років я хочу повернути свій дім, свій спокій, свою гідність. Хай цей крок буде болючим, але я не відступлю. Я — Ганна, і я обираю себе, навіть якщо це розіб’є серце моїй сестрі.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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