З життя
Чужа родина
Відчужена родина
— Мамо, що це за лист ти весь час ховаєш? — Та це з села, від дідуся, — відмахнулася вона і взялася за приготування вечері. — А що у нас є дідусь? Ти казала, що на твоїй лінії вже нікого не залишилося.
Мама на мить зупинила нарізання овочів, а потім продовжила з подвоєною швидкістю. — Ну є… і що? Багато років тому я поїхала з дому, значить тоді не потрібна була, а тепер маю все залишити і кинутися на допомогу. Вона заплакала, а я не знала, що сказати. У нашій родині не було прийнято говорити про її рідних, я лише знала, що мама приїхала до міста одразу після школи, працювала, навчалася, жила в гуртожитку, потім народилася я, а батько нас залишив ще до мого народження.
Мама тримала образу на своїх родичів. А мені й запитати було ні в кого, що сталося тоді, багато років тому. Ввечері, коли мама заснула, я тихенько забрала лист із її кімнати і прочитала – почерк був красивий, дрібний, явно не належав старій, хворій людині. Писали, що дідусь зовсім зліг, йому потрібен хороший догляд та дорогі ліки. Просили маму, якщо можливо, забути колишні образи і свою гордість, адже мова йшла про життя людини.
Підпису не було. Я глянула на адресу. Це село було зовсім недалеко від нашого міста, у подруги дача була за декілька кілометрів від нього. По шкірі пробіг холодок… я часто їздила до неї в гості, а поруч жив дідусь. Яка ж несправедливість, чому мама так вчинила з нами… Наступного дня я, як завжди, вранці зібралася до університету, тільки прихопила ще гроші та сумку зі змінним одягом і вирушила на автовокзал.
Виходячи з автобуса, я вдихнула на повні груди чисте, прозоре, як сльоза, сільське повітря, йти довелося недовго, старенька хатинка стояла за кілька метрів від зупинки. Відчинивши хвіртку, я зайшла на подвір’я. — Ви до кого? — почула я чийсь голос, під яблунею сиділа жінка років сорока, перебираючи щойно зібрані гриби. — Я до Семена Андрійовича, це мій дідусь. — А, значить, Шурчина донька, — усміхнулася вона, — ну, здрастуй! Заходь у дім, я чай поставлю, дід заснув після обіду. Трохи легше стало йому.
У хатині було затишно і пахло пирогами. Поки жінка поралась біля плити, я змогла трохи її розглянути. Вражаюче, як вона схожа на маму, такий самий погляд розкосих очей, чорне, як смола, волосся, навіть в інтонації була схожа. Я перевела погляд на портрет на стіні, це була стара поцвіла фотографія, де зображені усміхнені чоловік і жінка з двома маленькими дівчатками, дуже схожими одна на одну.
Уловивши мій погляд, жінка сказала: — Це ми з твоєю мамою і наші батьки. Я — Софія, її сестра і твоя тітка, — усміхнулася вона. — Дуже приємно. Чому я про вас жодного разу не чула? Мама наполегливо твердила, що у нас немає ніякої рідні. Вона зітхнула, сіла за стіл, і почала розливати чай по чашках. — У образі твоя мати на нас. Я народилася слабкою, часто хворіла, наша мама не виходила зі мною з лікарень, батько, зрозуміло, працював день і ніч, щоб прогодувати нас та оплатити лікування. Шура жила спочатку з бабусею, а потім часто тато залишав її у сусідки. Звісно, майже вся увага батьків приділялася мені. З дитинства вона вклала собі в голову, що її ніхто не любить і нікому вона не потрібна, навіть коли все наче й налагодилося. Отримавши атестат, Шура поїхала до міста, більше ми її не бачили…
Вона зітхнула і додала. — Ти пий чай, напевно, голодна з дороги, зараз мої прибіжать і все зметуть. Двоє діток у мене — Оленка і Льоня, сама піднімаю, давно вже питали, чи є у нас якась рідня, от уже зрадіють… Того вечора я познайомилася з дідусем і двоюрідними братом та сестрою. Всі були дуже раді мені, а я нарешті зрозуміла, що це таке, коли говорять про велику та дружню родину, зібрану за одним столом. Я залишилася в гостях ще на кілька днів, купила всі необхідні ліки.
Кілька разів дзвонила мама і просила негайно їхати додому, але я не могла залишити діда, а тітка фізично не встигала працювати і доглядати за батьком. — Ось злетиш з бюджету, хто твою освіту оплачуватиме? — кричала в телефон мама, — я для тебе все робила, ночами не спала, виховувала, а де ти зараз? З людьми, які й пальцем не вдарили, щоб щось для нас зробити.
— Мам, про що ти? Ти адже навіть адресу свою не повідомляла п’ятнадцять років… чужі, рідні… Він насамперед мій дід. А вже події минулого часу пора б і забути… Йому потрібні догляд і турбота. Якщо ти не їдеш, з ним буду я. До речі, у тебе чудова сестра і племінники. Даремно ти так, мам… Вона кидала слухавку, злилася, набирала знову, але наші розмови ні до чого не приводили. Через тиждень я повернулася до міста, потрібно було продовжувати навчання, у мене був випускний курс, а серце було не на місці. Гроші, які вдавалося заробити розклеюванням оголошень і кількома годинами репетиторства на тиждень, я надсилала в село. Але це, звісно, були сущі дрібниці…
Відносини з мамою нагадували натягнуті струни, якось вона навіть умудрилася сховати мій паспорт, щоб я залишилася в місті на святкові вихідні, замість поїздки до села. Так пройшов рік, у метушні, клопотах та постійних сварках і скандалах. Отримавши диплом на руки, я тут же зібрала речі та поїхала. У селі тітка походатайствувала для мене про роботу в школі, життя пішло своєю чергою. Дідусь вже встав на ноги і здійснював невеликі прогулянки по саду, він був мені дуже радий. Але очі залишалися сумними, він чекав доньку…
Вересень наповнив моє життя метушнею та приємними клопотами, мені дали першокласників, я їх так полюбила, що кожного дня бігла на роботу, немов на свято. А тут краєм ока стала помічати, що я подобаюсь нашому вчителю історії, теж нещодавньому випускнику міського вишу, і що його теж у село занесло, думала я, зазвичай, усі в місто рвуться. А тут…
— Аню, ти б не списувала Олексея з рахунків, — шепотіла колись тітка, — хлопець хороший, руки з правильного місця ростуть, он який будинок вибудував. А те, що в місті не залишився, так бабуся у нього тут, одна одиниченька, сам він сирота, ось і живуть. Незабаром Олексій запросив мене на побачення, так і закрутився наш роман. Він став вхожим у наш дім, дідусь схвалив мій вибір, а коли Льоша зробив мені пропозицію, благословив нас. Весілля було призначено на кінець квітня, я заздалегідь повідомила мамі про це листом. Відповіді не було, мені було дуже прикро, що в такий важливий день її не буде поруч зі мною…
Напередодні дня весілля, коли ми з тіткою і двома моїми подругами поралися на кухні, готуючись до майбутнього святкування, в двері тихо постукали… Я кинулася відчиняти. На порозі стояла мама. Побачивши мене, вона заплакала. — Я… я зовсім ненадовго, от приїхала привітати тебе… Я запросила її увійти, але вона не наважувалася зробити і кроку. Тут з кухні прибігла тітка, почувши наші голоси, вийшов дідусь. Він обняв доньку, вони ще довго стояли, витираючи одне одному сльози. Дідусь щось говорив мамі пошепки, а вона плакала…
Ось уже багато років я живу в селі, у мене велика і дружня родина, підростають діти, я дотепер веду уроки в початкових класах, а головне – нарешті я знайшла рідних людей, яких колись мама вважала чужими. Мама нікуди не поїхала, нарешті вона помирилася з батьком і сестрою, а те, що було в минулому, нехай там і залишається…
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BITTERSWEET JOY What is it that you dont like about this young lady? Shes a good girl, well-mannered, tidy, does...
I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
ILL REMIND YOU Miss Mary, the swirl here just isnt working. The quiet, sad words came from little Tom, a...
My Dear Wife – When my brother would visit, he always asked, “How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” “Love and endless patience—that’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “Not for me,” he’d laugh. “I love all women—each one’s a mystery. Why live with an open book?” My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. She fell in love with Peter for life, but for him, it was only a fling. Anna moved into Peter’s crowded family home, treasured her collection of porcelain figurines, and believed she’d caught happiness by the tail. I, meanwhile, was hoping to find the one woman to love forever—and I did, marrying my wife over fifty years ago. Anna and Peter lasted ten years. She gave her all to their marriage, but he grew restless, drinking more, staying out with questionable friends, and finally, smashing her precious figurines in a drunken rage—leaving only one intact. After they divorced, Anna and her son returned to her hometown, and Peter spiraled deeper, remarrying and divorcing, his once-promising future lost to drink and chaos. Years later, terminally ill and alone, Peter asked me to deliver a suitcase filled with porcelain figurines and his savings to Anna—his final apology for all she’d endured. I found Anna, now caring for her ill son, and gave her Peter’s last gift. She thanked us in a letter—and sold the figurines to fund a new life in Canada for herself and her son. “I’m grateful that Peter considered me his dear wife,” she wrote. “Perhaps he never stopped loving me after all.”
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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