З життя
“- Як ви смієте виганяти мою доньку? Їй більше нікуди йти”, – кричить свекруха
Літнє сонце пекло нещадно, коли Олена поверталася з роботи додому. Втомлена, вона зітхнула, відкриваючи двері свого просторого будинку на березі моря — того самого, про який вона мріяла роками. Дім став уособленням її наполегливої праці та амбіцій, символом успіху, якого вона досягла разом зі своєю найкращою подругою та бізнес-партнеркою, Наталею.
Вони пройшли довгий шлях від продажу одягу на місцевому ринку до власної мережі успішних магазинів у всьому місті. Олена добре пам’ятала ті складні початки: морозні зимові ранки на ринку, коли тремтячими руками вони встановлювали свої ятки, нескінченні переговори з постачальниками та безсонні ночі, проведені за розрахунками бюджету та створенням планів. Їхні зусилля зрештою дали плоди: спочатку один магазин, потім другий, а згодом ціла мережа, відома в усьому місті.
Ледь переступивши поріг, Олена почула знайомий голос:
— Олено, що у нас на вечерю?
Придушуючи роздратування, Олена обернулася до своєї зовиці, Катерини. Катерина, її чоловік Андрій та їхній син Максим приїхали місяць тому на короткий візит. Але вони швидко облаштувалися в домі, не доклавши жодних зусиль, щоб допомогти. Олена оглянула кухню: гора брудного посуду, недоїдені сніданки на столі, іграшки Максима, розкидані по підлозі. Вона згадала, як разом із чоловіком, Іваном, купували цей будинок. Вони тижнями обирали меблі, обговорювали кольори стін і ретельно планували кожну деталь. Тепер їхній дім мрії перетворився на хаотичний гуртожиток.
Намагаючись стримати роздратування, Олена різко відповіла:
— Що приготуєш, те й з’їсте. Я зайнята. І, будь ласка, не турбуйте мене, якщо це не терміново.
Не чекаючи відповіді, Олена схопила свою сумку та вийшла до таксі, що чекало. Вона назвала водію адресу найближчої кав’ярні, де в неї було призначене важливе зустріч із Наталею. Поки таксі їхало вулицями міста, Олена роздумувала про своє життя. Її бізнес процвітав, вона досягла так багато. Наталя нещодавно купила розкішну квартиру в центрі, а Олена нарешті побудувала цей чудовий будинок біля моря. Але замість того, щоб насолоджуватися своїми досягненнями, її дім став джерелом постійного стресу через непроханих гостей.
Коли таксі під’їхало до кав’ярні, телефон Олени завібрував. На екрані висвітилися ім’я Наталі. Олена відчула легке занепокоєння — вони рідко дзвонили одна одній перед зустрічами, хіба що траплялося щось термінове.
— Я вже майже на місці, — відповіла вона, піднявши слухавку.
— Дуже шкода, але доведеться перенести зустріч, — сказала Наталя із ноткою вибачення в голосі. Він звучав незвично тихо.
Олена одразу відчула, що щось не так. Наталя була найнадійнішою людиною, яку вона знала, і зміни в останню хвилину були для неї нетиповими.
— Що трапилося? У тебе все гаразд?
— Так, так, усе добре, — запевнила Наталя. — Просто… не смійся. Я купила їжу на вулиці, і… скажімо так, мій шлунок цього не витримав.
Олена не змогла втриматися від усмішки. Це був не перший раз, коли Наталя постраждала через сумнівну вуличну їжу. Вона згадала їхню поїздку до Львова минулого року, коли Наталя цілий день пролежала в ліжку після схожого випадку.
— Скільки разів ми це вже проходили? — пожартувала Олена.
— Знаю, знаю. Але так смачно пахло!
— Тобі щось потрібно? Ліки, може?
— Ні, я впораюсь. Просто потрібен відпочинок.
— Добре. Бережи себе і дзвони, якщо щось знадобиться.
— Дякую, ти найкраща, — Наталя сказала із вдячністю, перш ніж завершити розмову.
Олена зітхнула та звернулася до водія:
— Зміна планів. Відвезіть мене назад додому.
Коли таксі прямувало назад, Олена дивилася у вікно, спостерігаючи за міськими краєвидами. Повернувшись додому, вона помітила, що ворота знову залишилися відчиненими. Вона вже не раз просила Катерину та Андрія тримати їх закритими задля безпеки, але її прохання постійно ігнорували.
Тихо підійшовши до будинку, Олена почула голоси з тераси. Катерина та Андрій жваво обговорювали щось.
— Тут можна було б поставити альтанку, — мрійливо сказала Катерина. — І ще гойдалку для Максима. Він був би у захваті.
— Гарна ідея, — погодився Андрій. — Треба ще кухню окрему зробити для нас. Тоді не доведеться постійно бачити Олену. І тоді це буде вже точно наш дім.
Олена застигла на місці, а її гнів стрімко набирав обертів. Коли це її гості вирішили, що мають право облаштовувати її дім?
Далі, вже в вітальні, вона рішуче звернулася до Івана:
— Іване, поясни, що тут відбувається.
— Іване, поясни, що тут відбувається, — твердо сказала Олена.
— Що ти маєш на увазі, кохана? — запитав Іван, розгублено дивлячись на неї.
— Твоя сестра і її сім’я. Коли вони збираються поїхати? Мені це набридло. Я хочу, щоб вони залишили наш дім. Це літо я хочу провести зі своєю сім’єю, а не бути господинею для твоєї, — наполягла Олена.
Гомін із тераси раптово припинився. Іван зам’явся, явно не знаючи, як відповісти.
— Олено, давай не будемо сваритися…
— Ні, — перебила вона. — Вони залишають цей будинок до кінця тижня. Якщо ні, я особисто попрошу їх піти.
Перш ніж Іван встиг щось сказати, до кімнати влетіла Катерина з телефоном у руках.
— Мамо! Вона нас виганяє! Нам нікуди йти! Квартиру ми продали, у нас дитина! Скажи їй щось!
Катерина увімкнула гучний зв’язок, і з іншого боку трубки почувся різкий голос матері Івана:
— Олено, як ти можеш таке казати? Катерині нікуди йти!
Олена глибоко вдихнула, намагаючись заспокоїтися.
— Це не моя проблема. Вони приїхали сюди без запрошення і вже занадто довго тут залишаються.
Розуміючи, що переконати Олену марно, мати Івана перейшла на нову тактику, звернувшись до сина:
— Іване, скажи щось! Не дозволяй їй виганяти твою сестру з дому!
Іван зупинився, вагаючись і не наважуючись протистояти матері.
Терпіння Олени лопнуло.
— Досить, — сказала вона холодно. — У вас є тридцять хвилин, щоб зібрати речі і залишити мій будинок. Якщо після цього часу ви ще будете тут, я викличу поліцію.
Катерина застигла від шоку, Андрій зблід, а з телефону долинали обурені крики. Іван простягнув руку до Олени, намагаючись її заспокоїти.
— Олено, давай поговоримо про це…
— Ні, — твердо відповіла вона, відходячи назад. — Тридцять хвилин. І це стосується й тебе, Іване, якщо ти не здатен підтримати мене.
Рівно через пів години Катерина, Андрій, Максим та сам Іван стояли біля дверей зі своїми валізами. Іван зробив останню спробу помиритися, але Олена мовчки відчинила двері, ясно показуючи, що розмова закінчена.
У наступні місяці Олена оформила розлучення з Іваном. Це був важкий процес, але вона знала, що прийняла правильне рішення. Вона поринула у роботу з Наталею, розширила їхній бізнес і зосередилася на відновленні свого життя. Біль поступово вщухав, поступаючись місцем відчуттю свободи і захопленням новими можливостями.
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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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