З життя
Батьки сказали, що дадуть гроші, але за однієї умови: моя мама має дати стільки ж.
Під час свят чоловік за столом завів розмову про будівництво будинку, бо не хотів більше жити з батьками. Свекри сказали, що дадуть нам гроші за однієї умови: моя мама також має внести таку ж суму. Саме в цей момент відкрилася моя таємниця. Я давно мала сказати про це чоловікові, але так і не знайшлося слушної нагоди, а тепер він хоче зі мною розлучитися.
Перед святами між мною та моїм чоловіком сталося серйозне непорозуміння. Воно було настільки серйозним, що чоловік зажадав розлучення. Ми зібралися всією родиною за святковим столом, і він підняв тему будівництва будинку. Йому набридло жити з батьками. Саме тоді відкрилася моя таємниця, про яку я давно хотіла сказати чоловікові, але не змогла знайти відповідного моменту.
Завжди жила з мамою та бабусею, батька у мене не було. Бабуся разом із мамою мешкали в двокімнатній квартирі, а з часом обміняли її на дві окремі, додавши трохи грошей.
Я тоді поїхала вчитися. Одна квартира була переписана на мене, мама хотіла, щоб у мене було щось своє, за що я їй дуже вдячна. Я здавала свою квартиру в оренду, а на зібрані гроші оплачувала навчання в університеті.
Після одруження ми почали жити з батьками чоловіка, а мою квартиру я так і далі здавала в оренду, відкладаючи гроші на банківський рахунок. Я не розповідала про це чоловікові, хотіла колись зробити йому сюрприз.
Коли чоловік сказав свекрам про будівництво будинку, вони погодилися дати нам гроші за умови, що моя мама також вкладе відповідну суму.
Я мала б погодитися з їхньою умовою і передати мамі зібрані гроші, щоб виглядало так, ніби це вона зібрала їх для нас. Але я все розповіла, про гроші та квартиру. Тоді я зрозуміла, що це був не найкращий час для такої відвертості. Ох, що там трапилося! Свекруха одразу заявила, що я мала б жити там ще одразу після одруження, а не у них.
Чоловік же був ображений через те, що я приховала сам факт існування цієї квартири. Він сказав, що більше ніколи не зможе мені довіряти. Ми посварилися, я зібрала свої речі і поїхала до мами. Згодом я запропонувала чоловікові, щоб ми жили в моїй квартирі, або продали її, а на гроші побудували будинок, але він відповів відмовою. Сказав, що ніколи цього не зробить, і більше того – не хоче мене бачити.
Я не розумію, чи дійсно я зробила настільки велику помилку, що заслуговую на таке? Адже ця квартира, ці гроші – усе це було б спільним. Я також не хочу просити та принижуватися ні перед чоловіком, ні перед його батьками. Мама хвилюється, що все це сталося через неї, що потрібно було з самого початку сказати правду, хоча б чоловікові, якщо не його батькам. Але який сенс зараз про це говорити?
Мама настільки перейнялася цим, що вчора поїхала до свекрухи, але та навіть не впустила її на поріг, сказала, що ми – брехуни, і вона не хоче мати жодних справ з нами.
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“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband. These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed...
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