З життя
Я не піду на весілля дочки, яка не запросила свого вітчима.
Моя дочка розбила мені серце. Я думала, що вона вміє бути вдячною, що в свої 25 років вона може бачити правду, розрізняти добро від байдужості. Але її вчинок довів протилежне — гірке, болюче протилежне. Вона не запросила на своє весілля вітчима, мого чоловіка Віктора, який виховував її з дев’яти років, вкладаючи душу в кожен її крок. Зате запросила біологічного батька, який всі ці роки не проявляв до неї інтересу. Після такого у мене немає найменшого бажання бути присутньою на цьому святі зради.
Розлучення з моїм першим чоловіком, Олегом, було неминучим, як гроза після затишшя. Останні чотири роки нашого шлюбу я трималася лише завдяки своїй витримці та на вмовляннях свекрухи, яка просила терпіти її недолугого сина. Але всьому є межа, і мій терпець урвався, коли дочці, Світлані, виповнилося сім. Її батько завжди ставив родину на останнє місце. Він спілкувався з нею лише трохи підвипивши, до того як напивався до нестямності. Міг зникати на дні, а повернувшись, доводив свою правоту кулаками, залишаючи синці не лише на мені, але й на моєму серці.
Коли я дізналася про його коханку, це стало останньою краплею. Думка, що якась інша жінка купилася на цей “скарб”, остаточно отямила мене. Я подала на розлучення без жодних вагань. Олег навіть не намагався врятувати родину — зібрав свої речі, розбив дзеркало в передпокої і пішов із піднятою головою, як герой якоїсь драми. Свекруха, яка раніше ридала над долею свого “бідного хлопчика”, перетворилася на справжню мегеру. Вона звинувачувала мене у всьому, намагалася переконати Світлану, що це я вигнала її “люблячого татуся”, хоча він сам давно викреслив нас зі свого життя.
Світлана завжди тяглася до батька більше, ніж до мене. Я була суворою — виховувала, навчала, змушувала сидіти над уроками. А він з’являвся рідко, у доброму настрої, з дешевими цукерками та порожніми обіцянками. Коли ж приходив злий, я кидалася захищати доньку від його люті, заслоняючи її собою. Тому в її пам’яті він залишився якимось казковим лицарем, а я — вічною наглядачкою. Пояснювати їй правду було марно: свекруха отруїла її розум, а Світлана тужила за “добрим татком”, який насправді не вартував і ломаного гроша. Я стиснула зуби і продовжувала боротися за неї. Через рік свекруха померла, тиск на доньку ослаб, але вона все одно продовжувала ідеалізувати батька і звинувачувати мене в його відсутності.
Коли Світлані було дев’ять, я зустріла Віктора у нашому містечку під Львовом. Він мені одразу сподобався — добрий, надійний, з теплою усмішкою. Я закохалася, і він відповів взаємністю. Але я боялася його втратити, тому чесно попередила: у мене є донька, і вона може його не прийняти, йому доведеться нелегко. Віктор не відступив. Він зробив мені пропозицію, знаючи, що попереду чекають труднощі. І вони почалися одразу: Світлана закатувала істерики, грубила, провокувала його на кожному кроці. Я думала, він здасться — кому охота терпіти образи і скандали? Але він залишився. За шістнадцять років він лише двічі підвищив на неї голос — і то заслужено. Він возив її на змагання, забирав з вечірок, купував одяг, жодного разу не дорікнувши. Навіть її навчання в університеті оплатив він, а не її хвалений біологічний батько.
В останніх класах Світлана почала ставитися до нього спокійніше. Не нападала, але й вдячності не виявляла. Я сподівалася, що з часом вона зрозуміє, якою рідкісною людиною є Віктор — не кожний вітчим так турбується про чужу дитину. Я знала, що вона іноді бачиться з Олегом. Не втручалася у їхні справи, але кожен її день народження розривав мені серце: вона чекала його дзвінка до опівночі, а він так і не дзвонив. І все одно чекала — рік за роком, ніби сліпа.
Після школи вона поїхала навчатися до іншого міста. Повернувшись, оселилася з хлопцем, з яким зустрічалася з третього курсу. А потім оголосила про весілля. Я була впевнена, що Віктор буде там, поряд з нами. Але вона викреслила його зі списку гостей. Він намагався приховати біль, але я бачила, як його очі потьмяніли. Світлана кинула мені в обличчя:
— На весіллі буде мій батько. Як ти уявляєш його і Віктора разом? Хочеш влаштувати цирк?
Я задихнулася від обурення:
— Ти запросила батька, який плюнув на твоє життя, і викреслила людину, яка тебе виховувала? Ти невдячна! Я не піду на твоє весілля. Звертайся тепер за всім до свого “батька”.
Вона намагалася щось сказати, але я вже грюкнула дверима.
Вдома Віктор вмовляв мене передумати: мовляв, вона єдина донька, це її день. Але я не можу. Вона чітко показала, що для неї важливо. Ми з Віктором стільки років боролися за неї, а вона досі обожнює того, хто її покинув. Хай так. Я умиваю руки — досить з мене цього болю і розчарувань.
A Husband Worth More Than Bitter Grudges: My Turbulent Journey from Heartbreak and Hardship to Risking It All for a Second Chance at Love
MY HUSBAND MATTERS MORE THAN BITTER GRIEVANCES James, thats the last straw! Im done, were getting a divorce! Dont bother...
For two years, Maria was only the carer for his mother. Maria managed to marry a highly respected English gentleman—envied by all her friends. Her husband owned a successful business, a luxurious home in the suburbs, several cars, and a cottage in the countryside—all by the age of thirty-two. Maria, meanwhile, had just finished her university degree and worked for a year as a teacher. That summer, they married. After the wedding, her husband insisted there was no need for his wife to work for pennies. He wanted her to stay home and prepare for children. Maria didn’t object. The first year of marriage was like a fairy tale: travelling together, making memories, buying expensive clothes. Yet Maria rarely had a chance to wear her new outfits. Her friends were busy with work and family, and her husband was always attending events—never taking Maria with him. She grew bored. Unable to have children, Maria’s feelings for her husband began to fade. Each day, after housework, she wandered room to room, thinking about her future. Another year passed. Her husband was rarely home, always returning late, exhausted and irritable, complaining that business wasn’t going well. First, he told Maria to spend less. Then he demanded an account of every purchase and expense, insisting they could live well for half the cost. Maria was worried. She wanted to go back to work, but couldn’t find a job in her field. She enrolled on a course, but then her mother-in-law fell ill. Maria had to care for her for two years when her husband moved his mother into their home. Maria did everything—she was the nurse and companion. Her husband came home even less. After his mother passed, Maria’s husband grew increasingly distant, barely spoke, avoided her gaze, and spent most of his time at work. Maria couldn’t understand what was happening until she visited her old mother-in-law’s flat—where she hadn’t been in ages. Behind a closed door, she heard a child crying, even though she thought the flat was empty. She rang the bell. A young woman answered. Maria learned that her husband had started a second family before his mother’s illness and moved them into his mother’s flat. It was a shock. Maria knew she couldn’t save her marriage. She left for another city to stay with her aunt, practically empty-handed, with only a small handbag. She didn’t want a single item to remind her of her marriage—and how tragically it had turned out…
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“We’ll Stay at Your Place for a While Since We Can’t Afford to Rent a Flat!” – My Friend Announced At 65, I’m a lively woman, never letting age stop me from exploring new places or meeting fascinating people. I look back at my youth with both joy and a touch of sadness. Back then, you could holiday anywhere you fancied! From seaside trips to camping adventures with friends, even sailing down any river you chose—all for just a little money. Sadly, those days are behind me now. I always loved meeting new people—on the beach, at the theatre, anywhere really. Many of those acquaintances became lifelong friends. One summer, I met Sara while staying at the same B&B. We parted as friends, keeping in touch with the occasional letter over the years. Then one day, I received an unsigned telegram: “The train arrives at 3 a.m. Please meet me!” Puzzled about who had sent it, my husband and I stayed put. But at four in the morning, our doorbell rang. To my shock, there stood Sara with two teenage girls, a grandmother, and a man, all surrounded by heaps of luggage. My husband and I were baffled but let these unexpected guests in. Sara exclaimed: – “Why didn’t you meet us? I sent you a telegram! Besides, that’s not cheap! – Sorry, we didn’t know who sent it! – Well, you gave me your address. So here we are. – I thought we’d stick to letters, nothing more!” Sara explained that one of the girls had just left school and decided to go to university, so the whole family came to support her. – “We’ll be living with you! We can’t afford to rent a flat or stay in a hotel!” I was stunned. We weren’t even related—why should we let them stay? We had to feed them three times a day; although they brought a bit of food, they cooked nothing and ate ours. I was left to serve everyone. After three exhausting days, I asked Sara and her family to leave—I didn’t care where to. That sparked a row. Sara smashed crockery and screamed hysterically. I was appalled. As they packed, they even managed to steal my dressing gown, a few towels, and somehow my large cooking pot vanished too—no idea how! That was the end of our friendship—and thank heavens! I’ve never heard from her since. How could anyone be so cheeky?! Now, I’m much more wary when I meet new people.
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He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together, Fifteen Mornings Waking Up Side by Side—But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Drive Him Mad, Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” What Seemed a Simple Phrase, Her Slim Arms, Her Sleepy Face, Now Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Walk Past the Window, Gaze Out for a While, Then Slip off Her Nightdress and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Marriage, He’d Adored Her Body, Its Natural Confidence That Seemed Almost Indecent—But Now, Though She Was Still Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Considered Pushing Her to Hurry Her Morning Routine but Only Managed a Gruff: “Get a Move On—I’ve Had Enough!” She Refused to Rush or Let His Affectionless Hostility Change Her Pace—She Knew About His Affair, Even Recognized the Young Woman He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Dulles the Sharp Sting of Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sense of Uselessness. She Forgave Him—the Aggression, the Neglect, His Need to Relive His Youth—But She Wouldn’t Let Him Rob Her of Living Mindfully, Cherishing Each Moment. She’d Made Up Her Mind When She Learned She Was Ill. The Disease Was Slowly Consuming Her; It Would Win Soon. Her First Urge Was to Confess to Everyone—To Lessen the Brutal Truth by Sharing the Burden with Loved Ones. Yet She Endured the Hardest Day Alone, Accepting Her Fate, and Then Resolved to Remain Silent. Life Slipped Away, Yet Each Day She Gained the Wisdom of a True Observer. She Found Solace in a Quiet English Countryside Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Each Way. Every Day, She’d Hide in the Narrow Aisles Marked “Life & Death’s Secrets” by the Elderly Librarian and Lose Herself in Books She Hoped Contained Every Answer. He’d Go to His Lover’s Flat, Where Everything Felt Warm, Bright, Familiar. Their Love Affair Had Grown Wild—Three Years of Passion, Jealousy, Heartache, and Asphyxiating Desire. Today He Came With a Decision: Divorce. Why Torment All Three of Them? He Didn’t Love His Wife—No, He Hated Her—and Here, He Could Start Fresh, Find Happiness. He Tried to Recall His Feelings for His Wife, but There Was Nothing—He Couldn’t Even Remember Caring for Her on That First Day. He Pulled Out a Photo of Her from His Wallet, Tore It Into Pieces—Determined to End It. They Arranged to Meet at the Restaurant Where, Six Months Earlier, They’d Celebrated Fifteen Years as Husband and Wife. She Arrived First. He Stopped Home to Find the Divorce Papers, Ransacking Drawers in a Panic Until He Spotted a Dark Blue Folder He’d Never Seen Before. He Ripped Off the Seal, Expecting Dirty Secrets—But Found Only Medical Reports, Official Documents. His Wife’s Name on Every Page. Realisation Struck Like Lightning; She Was Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis: “6–18 Months Life Expectancy.” Six Months Had Already Passed. He Remembered Little of What Happened Next—Only the Words “6–18 Months” Looping Relentlessly in His Mind. She Waited for Forty Minutes. No Answer from His Phone. She Paid the Bill and Went Outside. The Autumn Weather Was Glorious—The Sun Gentle, Comforting. “Life Is Beautiful, the World So Wonderful, So Warm.” For the First Time Since Her Diagnosis, She Felt Sorry for Herself. She’d Found the Strength to Hide Her Secret from Everyone, Sparing Them the Pain at the Cost of Her Own Crumbling Life. After This Year, She Would Be Nothing but a Memory. She Wandered Down the Street, Watching Bright Faces Filled With Hope Of Winters and Springs Yet to Come—As If the Future Were Theirs To Shape. She Would Never Know That Feeling Again. Bitterness Swelled and Burst Forth as Tears She Couldn’t Stop… He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt The Swift Passage of Life as a Physical Ache. He Remembered His Wife Young, Full of Hope When They First Met—He’d Loved Her Then. In That Moment, Fifteen Years Vanished: Happiness, Youth, and Life Still Ahead. In Her Final Weeks, He Became Devoted, At Her Side Every Hour, Overcome by a Joy He’d Never Known. He Was Terrified She’d Leave—He Would Have Given His Own Life to Save Hers. Had Someone Reminded Him Of His Hatred Just a Month Ago, He’d Have Sworn: “That Wasn’t Me.” He Witnessed Her Battle to Say Goodbye, Weeping Secretly at Night When She Thought He Slept—He Understood No Punishment Was Worse Than Knowing Your Days Are Numbered. He Saw Her Fight for Every Moment, Grasping Even the Smallest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Path from Home to Cemetery in Flowers. He Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered—He Felt Centuries Older. At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found a New Year’s Wish She Had Written: “To Be Happy With Him Until My Last Day.” They Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True—Perhaps They Do, For That Year He Wrote: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, It Seemed, They Had Wished For…
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She Got My Mother-in-Law Back on Her Feet—Yet I’m Furious Because I Didn’t Weed the Vegetable Beds — “What are you doing here?” Standing in the middle of the swan-shaped flower beds, my mother-in-law shouted, “There’s never been such disgrace here before! I had seven children—never a single weed!” Her shriek drew the neighbours, who clung to the fence like crows and immediately dissected everything they heard. Seeing her audience, my mother-in-law took great pleasure in performing. I stood, speechless, as she went on. At last, worn out from shouting, she drew a breath and said loudly enough for all the neighbours to hear: I didn’t say a word. I walked calmly past my mother-in-law, holding my child even closer. Once inside, I divided up, in a special box, everything my mother-in-law was to take that evening and the next morning. Without folding anything, I tossed my son’s things and mine into a bag. I left without saying a word. Three days later, my mother-in-law called: “What did you do with all those things the professor gave her? I asked the neighbour to buy a few, but she said one jar is very expensive. The ones with foreign labels, well, we don’t use those or exchange them. So what am I to do? You left, offended for some reason, and here I am, about to meet my maker!” I didn’t reply. I turned off my phone and took out the SIM card. That’s it. I can’t go on—I have no physical or emotional strength left. A year ago, just before my son was born, my husband lost control of his car on an icy road. I vaguely remember saying goodbye for the last time, the ambulance taking him away, and waking up the next morning as a new mother… I didn’t care about anything. The world felt empty and pointless without my beloved husband. I nursed and rocked my son like clockwork, because that’s what I was told to do. A phone call snapped me out of my stupor. “Your mother-in-law is in bad shape. Apparently, she won’t last much longer.” I made my decision at once: after settling things, I sold my flat in London. I invested some of the money into building a home, so my son will have something of his own when he grows up. And I went to save my mother-in-law. This past year, I haven’t really lived—I’ve just existed. I had no time for sleep, caring for both my mother-in-law and my baby son. The baby was restless, and my mother-in-law required round-the-clock care. At least I had the money. I called in the best specialists from all over the UK; I bought every medication prescribed. Eventually, my mother-in-law returned to normal life. At first, I wheeled her through the house, then around the garden. By the end, she was strong enough to walk—on her own—as if nothing had happened… I don’t want to know her now, or hear from her ever again. Let her work out everything she needs for her recovery herself. At least I was wise enough not to spend all the money on her recovery. My son and I moved to our new flat. I never imagined it would end like this. I wanted to be close with my husband’s family, since I am an orphan myself. But now it’s just me. I need to teach my son: not everyone deserves kindness. Some people care more about a tidy vegetable patch.
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