З життя
«Я в сльозах, адже мій син викреслив мене зі свого життя»: невістка зруйнувала нашу родину»
Щоденник
Дівчата, мені боляче навіть друкувати ці рядки, але більше не можу тримати це в собі. Мій син — єдина дитина, яку я виносила, виростила, виховала — тепер поводиться так, наче мене немає. А все почалося після того, як у його житті з’явилася вона — його дружина, моя невістка. Я досі не розумію: у чому моя провина? Де я помилилася? Чому рідна людина може так холодно відвернутися від матері?
Я сама виховувала сина. Чоловіки у моєму житті траплялися, але всі не ті: хто користувався моєю добротою, хто просто зникав. Можливо, це мій характер, а можливо, я просто занадто хотіла любові й приймала за неї те, що нею не було. У 90-ті я працювала на трьох роботах, економила на собі, аби в сина було все. Ішла по життю, не зважаючи на втому, не жаліючи рук, не досипаючи ночей.
Потім з’явився чоловік, який став для нас рятівником. Одружений, так. Але допомагав. І головне — влаштував мого сина на роботу в нафтову компанію. Підтримував нас, коли більше нікому було. Завдяки йому син став нафтовиком, закінчив технікум, потім університет, пройшов практику, влаштувався. Я завжди вірила в нього, навіть коли він мріяв про власну справу, а не про заводську зарплатню. Я давала гроші, навіть якщо сама сиділа на хлібі й воді.
Потім він привів додів дівчину. Гарна, але, як мені тоді здалося, пустотлива. Завагітніла швидко. Я раділа — у мене буде онука! Допомогла із весіллям. Мій знайомий дав їм грошей на обручки, і тоді я вперше відчула тривогу. Вона обрала перстень дорожчий за всю суму, ні з ким не порадившись. Я несміливо зауважила, що гроші-то на двох, і, може, варто обрати скромніші, але однакові. Вона подивилася на мене з ненавистю. Відтоді я — її ворог номер один.
Я мовчала. Терпіла. Навіть купила їм авто, щоб син міг підробляти після змін. А потім усе пішло шкереберть. Авто продали, грошей стало менше. Пішли докори від її батьків: «Що за чоловік, якщо не може утримувати родину?» — і незабаром — розлучення. Син запив. Забрали права. Я витягувала його з того дна. Помагала. З’явилася справа. Як тільки гроші знову стали — вона повернулася. І він дозволив. А мене почав уникати.
Справа записана на мене — через борги в приставів. Він платить, але поступово. Став грати в азартні ігри, сподіваючись відігратися: повернути дружину, родину, стабільність. Я знову дала йому грошей — на працівників, на оренду, на розвиток. Він запевняв, що все буде добре. Я вірила. А потім він почав вимагати більшого — щоб я звільнилася, аби бути йому корисною. Я кинула роботу, віддала себе цілком, а тепер просто сиджу й чекаю, коли про мене згадають. Частіше — не згадують. Навіть онуці нічого не можу купити — немає на що. Запрошують мене лише тоді, коли їм щось від мене потрібно.
Він подарував мені авто — гарне, сучасне. Тільки ось ні заправити, ні застрахувати його я не можу: грошей не дає. Іноді забирає його, потім повертає — пошкоджене. Коли треба було їхати — машина не завелася. А я ж ще й кредит за його попереднє авто сплачувала — оформила на себе. Спочатку він платив, потім кинув. І що я? Мовчу. Бо мати.
Я віддала їм частину своєї квартири. На свята мене не запрошують. Ні на Новий рік, ні на дні народження. Одного разу зайшла до нього на роботу — він накричав. Сказав, що я його ганьблю. За що? Я ж не п’ю, я писала у літературні журнали, входила до Спілки письменників, читала книги, працювала все життя. Я не якась асоціальна бабуся з під’їзду.
Іноді я просто благаю пробачення — за все. Навіть не знаю, за що саме. Просто: «Вибач, якщо щось не так». А тепер — мене заблокували. Не додзвонитися. Не написати. Я залишилася у тиші, і мені здається, що збожеволію від цієї пустоти. Сиджу біля вікна, дивлюся, як проходять чужі діти, й думаю: у чому моя провина? За що мій син — моє все — вирішив, що я більше не потрібна?
Плачу від болю, який не можу ні виговорити, ні пережити. Плачу від того, що той, хто мав бути моєю опорою, став найдальшою людиною на світі. І все, що мені залишилося — спогади й надія. Надія, що одного дня він згадає, як я тримала його за руку, коли йому було страшно. Як я стояла поруч, коли увесь світ був проти. І зрозуміє, що мати не зраджує. Мати — просто любить…
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You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister—You’ve Got Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister! Not long ago, we celebrated my sister-in-law’s birthday. Alina has never had any friendly feelings towards me, and I’ve always felt the same about her. The celebration brought together all our relatives: grandparents, nephews, and of course the birthday girl. Each relative felt obliged to congratulate my husband on his sister’s birthday, while also admiring his generosity. My husband and I graciously accepted the congratulations, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. In my hand was an envelope containing £100 as a present. I thought it was a decent gift for the occasion, though hardly a display of extraordinary generosity. Everything became clear when my mother-in-law began her birthday speech for Alina. “Mark,” she said, “it’s your sister’s birthday today. She’s still single and without a partner, so as her older brother you should look after her and guarantee her security. Now that you own two flats, you’ll give one to Alina.” The room burst into applause while I nearly fell off my chair at the cheekiness of it all. But it didn’t end there. “Brother, make sure you give me the one in the new build! So, when can I move in?” Alina pressed, and I decided it was time for some clarification. My husband and I actually have two flats. One I inherited from my grandmother; we did a bit of redecorating and now rent it out. The money from that pays the mortgage for our flat in the new building—where we actually live. My husband has no rights to the flat I inherited; I’ve always planned to pass it on to our child—my sister-in-law isn’t even in the picture. “Forget it, the rented flat is mine and the one you’re dreaming about is our home.” “Child, you’re quite mistaken. You’re my son’s wife, so all your assets are jointly owned and should be managed by your husband,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “I have no issue with you helping, but not with my assets!” I said. “Mark, do you have anything to add?” “Darling, you and I will earn more money and buy another flat. Let’s just give this one to Alina; it’s her birthday today.” “Are you serious?” I asked, astonished. “If it ever comes to that, you can give her half of our flat after we file for divorce!” “Aren’t you ashamed to speak to your husband like that? If you want a divorce, you’ll get one! Son, pack your things and come home. And you—you’re vile and greedy!” my mother-in-law snapped. After that, I left that crazy house. I wasn’t going to stick around with people who think they have the right to dispose of my property.
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Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
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Dandelion Jam A gentle and snowy winter has passed, and with spring’s arrival in our small English town, Taissa finds herself yearning for green leaves and colourful blooms. From her third-floor window, she gazes out at the awakening city where lorries rumble, the market buzzes, and people shed their winter wear for brighter coats. Birds sing before alarms; spring brings new energy, and soon, summer will be even better. Taissa, long settled in her five-storey block, now lives with her granddaughter, Vera, a lively Year Four pupil whose parents—both doctors—left for a work contract in Africa, entrusting their daughter to her grandmother. “Gran, we’re giving you Vera to look after, just for a while,” her daughter had said. “She’ll be happier with you than traipsing across the world.” Taissa, now retired, was delighted for the companionship. Each day is filled with routine: shopping, chatting with her neighbours on the chilly bench outside—the ever-watchful Mrs Simmons from downstairs, always mysterious about her age, and the cheerful, well-read Mrs Valentine. Together, they swap news, share stories, and complain about health, their bench a hub of local gossip. Life continues: Taissa spoils Vera with treats for her good grades, welcomes her home from school, listens to her tales, and beams with pride at Vera’s dedication to dance lessons. One bright afternoon, as Taissa awaits Vera’s return, she’s joined by Mr Edward, a widower from next door, who talks about the daffodils and coltsfoot carpeting the lawns like tiny suns. Spring’s beauty is in full bloom, and with Vera’s lively mischief, their days are warm and busy. Edward and Taissa begin to meet regularly—reading the papers, walking in the park, discussing recipes, and sharing snippets of their lives. Edward’s own story is bittersweet: he raised his daughter, Anne, alone after losing his wife, and despite his efforts, Anne’s grown distant, raising a son on her own in another city. Unexpectedly, Anne arrives with austere intentions: she insists her father sell his beloved flat and move in with her for “company’s sake”. Edward resists, unwilling to leave his home and his quiet, independent life. Anne, noting his friendship with Taissa, confronts Taissa with suspicion, accusing her of ulterior motives regarding Edward’s property. The harsh words sting, but Anne soon leaves in anger, severing ties with her father. Taissa, embarrassed by the scene, grows distant from Edward—until one day, he waits for her outside, dandelions in hand, apologising for his daughter’s behaviour. He gifts her a wreath of dandelions and offers a jar of his homemade dandelion jam, extolling its health benefits and inviting her to try it in a salad. Together, they share tea with dandelion jam and laughter, and in the quiet evening, stroll to the park with a fresh issue of their favourite magazine. Sitting beneath their old lime tree, their conversation flows, and all worries melt away. For Taissa and Edward, the springtime brings sweet new beginnings—and the simple joys of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting my stories. Wishing you happiness in life!
Dandelion Jam The snow finally melted away; this year, the frost hadnt been harshjust a gentle, snowy winter. Yet, as...