З життя
Ультиматум от жены сына
**Дневник свекрови**
Сегодня утро началось с удара ниже пояса. Моя невестка, Татьяна, холодно посмотрела на меня и выдала: «Галина Николаевна, с сегодняшнего дня вы готовите себе отдельно. Выделяю вам полку в холодильнике — занимайтесь, как хотите. Только чтоб я этого не видела». Я онемела. Как так? Я, свекровь, которая кормила семью годами, теперь должна ютиться на одной полке, словно студентка в общаге? До сих пор трясусь от злости — если не выскажусь, сердце разорвётся.
Мы с супругом, Виктором, живём в одном доме с сыном Игорем и его женой Таней уже два года. Когда они поженились, мы с радостью предложили им переехать. Дом большой, я думала — помогу молодым, поддержу. Таня поначалу была милой: улыбалась, хвалила мои щи, даже просила научить её печь пироги. Ну дурочка, радовалась, что невестка попался золото. А теперь — вот такой нож в спину. Будто мои борщи и гречневая каша — отрава для её изысканного желудка.
Всё началось с её претензий. Стала ворчать, что я «слишком жирно готовлю», что ей «надо следить за фигурой». Ну и что? Вари себе сельдерей, кто мешает? Но нет — она пошла дальше. То суп не той консистенции, то котлеты пережарены, то «зачем так много сметаны». Я терпела, не хотела скандалов. Игорь, мой сын, тоже просил: «Мам, не обращай внимания, у неё нервная работа». Но я видела — дело не в работе. Она просто решила, что кухня теперь её царство, а я там лишний гость.
Апогеем стали вчерашние блины. С утра замесила тесто, напекла их тонкими, румяными, как Игорь любит с детства. Позвала всех к столу. Таня спустилась, глянула на стопку блинов, будто на преступника, и заявила: «Галина Николаевна, мы теперь на правильном питании. Каша по утрам, а не ваши блины». Я хотела ответить, но тут она выдала этот ультиматум. Полка в холодильнике. Отдельное питание. В моём же доме! Где я тридцать лет стояла у плиты, где каждый сантиметр пропитан моей заботой!
Попыталась поговорить с Игорем. Сказала: «Сын, я что, теперь постоялец здесь? Это твой дом, но я не прислуга». А он, как всегда, в роли миротворца: «Мам, Таня просто хочет чувствовать себя хозяйкой». Хозяйкой? А я тогда кто? Виктор, муж, тоже не поддержал. «Галя, не раздувай, — буркнул. — Молодёжь сейчас другая». Другая, говоришь? Да я-то всю жизнь для семьи пахала, а теперь мне место — у холодильника?
Честно, думаю собрать вещи и уехать к подруге в Воронеж. Но это же мой дом! Почему я должна уступать? Я всегда старалась быть хорошей свекровью: не лезла в их отношения, не комментировала её странные салаты с авокадо, даже посуду за ней мыла, когда она «уставала». А теперь мне говорят — сиди в уголке и не мешай.
Вчера всё же пошла на кухню, пожарила себе картошку с грибами. Таня увидела и ехидно так: «Ну вот, Галина Николаевна, так ведь лучше?» Лучше?! Лучше — когда семья ест врозь? Я всегда считала — за одним столом все обиды забываются. А теперь у нас война из-за тарелок.
Что делать — не знаю. Может, поговорить с ней по-хорошему? Сказать, как больно? Но боюсь, она опять начнёт про «границы». Или просто перестать готовить вообще? Пусть Игорь с ней жуют свою овсянку, а я закажу пельмени. Посмотрим, как долго они протянут без моих щей.
Но больше всего жаль Игоря. Он между молотом и наковальней. Я не хочу его ранить, но и ползать перед невесткой не стану. Я всю жизнь строила этот дом, растила сына. И теперь какая-то девчонка диктует, где мне место? Нет уж, Таня, так не пойдёт.
Пока решила — буду держаться. Готовлю себе, но не сдаюсь. Может, она одумается. А нет — созову семейный совет. Войны не хочу, но и молчать больше не буду. Этот дом — мой. И место за общим столом — моё. А Тане стоит задуматься — стоят ли её «границы» раскола семьи.
**Урок:** Никогда не отдавай кухню без боя. Иначе однажды окажешься на отдельной полке — и не только в холодильнике.
For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping...
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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