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«Дважды радуемся гостям: как брат превратил выходные в тест на выдержку»
«Гостям радуются дважды»: как мой брат Серёжа превратил выходные в испытание на прочность
— Лёш, ты же не забыл, что в эти выходные к нам едет твой брат с женой? — напомнила мне моя Наташа, помешивая суп на плите.
— Помню, конечно помню, — проворчал я, хотя буквально час назад вылетело из головы. Просто слишком хорошо жилось без напоминаний о Серёже.
Каждое лето брат приезжал с супругой к нам на дачу под Пушкино, якобы «отдохнуть» — но отдыхали после этого только они, а мы с Наташей потом отходили всю неделю. Он привозил с собой… ну не столько жену, сколько ощущение, будто устроил у тебя дома своё день рождения, где ты ещё и кормишь, и развлекаешь.
Они прибыли на два часа раньше договорённости. Ещё у калитки раздался его голос:
— Ну и духота, Лёха! Дачка у тебя — просто загляденье! Сейчас я свои носки тут проветрю, а то в машине запарились.
Снял носки и развесил их прямо на спинку садовой скамейки. Наташа сделала круглые глаза. Я вздохнул.
— Обедать скоро? — сразу спросил брат.
— Мы вообще-то только позавтракали, — ответил я.
— Да ладно, мы с Тамаркой гостинцев привезли! Вот, смотри — эклеры, срок до завтра, зато со скидкой! И арбуз — полцены! Ставь чайник!
Пока я мыл руки, он уже уплетал арбуз, причмокивая. Сок капал на подбородок, вытирал рукавом. Наташа застыла, будто её громом поразило.
— Мы пока в нашу комнатку пройдём, отдохнём, как в прошлый раз, а? — и, не дожидаясь ответа, направился в спальню. В нашу. Хозяйскую.
Я только посмотрел на Наташу.
— Ну ты же сам говорил, что у него спина болит, а у нас матрас ортопедический… — прошептала она.
— Лёш, давай потерпим, всего пару дней, — добавила, увидев моё лицо.
Тут я понял: это будут самые долгие два дня в моей жизни.
Вечером приехала наша дочь Люда с мужем Васей и детьми. Мальчишки, Коля и Стёпа, носились по дому, показывая рюкзаки с игрушками и припасами для поезда — утром они уезжали в лагерь.
Ужин затянулся до ночи: Вася ковырялся в машине, Серёжа с Тамаркой сладко спали, пока мы ждали. На какое-то время всё даже стало казаться нормальным: шашлык, смех, дети. Пока не случилось это.
— Люд, ты ключи от машины не видела? Я точно сюда, на стол клал… — озабоченно сказал Вася, шарил по карманам. — Без них не поедем, а поезд через полтора часа.
Начался хаос. Перерыли весь дом, даже холодильник сдвинули. Дети чуть не плакали. Лишь один человек оставался спокоен: Серёжа, доедающий шашлык.
— У вас тут всегда такой движ? — усмехнулся он. — Хорошо, что мы с Тамаркой без внуков — с ума бы сошли!
Наташа закусила губу, а Люда подошла ко мне и прошептала:
— Пап, может, нажму кнопку на сигналке? Если ключи рядом — брелок запищит.
Вася вышел к машине, а мы замерли в доме. И вот — писк. Тонкий, еле слышный. То ли с дивана, то ли с кресла. Нет — из Серёжиной барсетки.
— Дядя Серёжа, это ваша сумка? — спросила Люда.
— Ну моя. А что?
— Звук отсюда… Можно посмотреть?
— Да ты что, дочка, как они туда могли попасть? — захихикал он.
Люда не выдержала — расстегнула молнию и достала ключи. Наши. С брелоком.
— Вася! Нашлись! Быстрее, в машину!
Они выбежали. Я повернулся к брату:
— Как ключи оказались у тебя в сумке?
— Да ты чего, Лёх, я не в курсе… Наверное, Тамарка перепутала, решила, что мои, — и он посмотрел на жену.
— Ну да! Лежат себе, я думала, потерялись, вот и убрала. Разве это повод для истерики?
После их отъезда мы сидели с Наташей на веранде.
— Ты видел, как они уехали? Даже нормально не попрощались…
— Лёша… Ну он же всегда таким был. Помнишь, как в детстве тебя от отцовского ремня прикрывал?
Я вздохнул. Помнил. Но сейчас он был взрослым мужиком, который уплетал чужую колбасу, спал в чужой кровати и прятал ключи от чужой машины.
Утром он проснулся рано, как всегда.
— Мы с Тамаркой уже позавтракали! Доели ту ветчинку и сыр, что в холодильнике лежали. Ой, как у вас тут хорошо, прямо как в доме отдыха! Жалко уезжать…
Когда калитка закрылась за их машиной, Наташа села на крыльцо и сказала:
— Гостям, Лёш, радуются дважды. В первый раз — когда приезжают. А во второй — когда уезжают.
Я кивнул. И впервые за эти два дня — улыбнулся.
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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.
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