З життя
Історія про сім’ю, де мати самостійно виховує сина після розлучення.
В українській родині часто можна зустріти схожу ситуацію. Матір Олена виховує свого сина Юрка самостійно, розлучилась із чоловіком, коли синові ще не виповнився і рік. Зараз Юркові вже 14 років, а Олені — 34, працює вона бухгалтером у невеликій установі.
Останній рік був справжнім випробуванням. До п’ятого класу Юрко добре вчився, але потім почали з’являтись трійки. З кожним днем ставало все гірше, і вона лиш сподівалася, що син зможе закінчити дев’ять класів і здобути хоч якусь спеціальність. Часті виклики в школу, де класна керівник не шкодувала слів на її адресу в присутності інших вчителів, викликали у матері лише відчай. Її докори Юрко слухав мовчки і похмуро, але домашнє завдання все одно не виконував, вдома не допомагав.
Сьогодні Олена повернулася додому, а в кімнаті знову безлад. Вранці вона наполегливо наказала: «Прийдеш зі школи, прибери у квартирі!» Увімкнула чайник, і, втомившись, почала прибирати сама. Витерла пил і раптом помітила: зникла кришталева ваза, єдина цінність у будинку, подарована колись подругами на день народження. Застигла на місці. Виніс? Продав? Страшні думки роїлися в голові. Нещодавно вона бачила сина з підозрілими підлітками. На запитання: «Хто це?» Юрко лише щось невнятно відповів, а на обличчі було написано: «Не твоє діло!»
«Наркомани!» — промайнуло в голові. Боже мій! Що робити, ось до чого вони його довели! Але ж сина такого не припускала, можливо, він курить чи щось гірше?.. Вона кинулася униз сходами. Нічого не видно в темряві двору, кілька перехожих квапилися вулицею. Повернулася додому тихо. «Я сама винна! Сама! Вдома нема спокою, навіть буджу його криками вранці! Щовечора кричу на нього! Синку, любий, нещаслива ж тобі матір дісталася!» Вона довго плакала. Потім взялася ретельно прибирати в квартирі, адже сидіти просто так не могла.
Витерши пил за холодильником, натрапила на якусь газету. Торкнула. Почувся дзвін скла, вона витягла загорнуті в газету уламки розбитої вази…
«Розбив… розбив!» — усвідомила вона і знову заплакала, але тепер вже від радості. Значить, вазу розбили і нікуди її не винесли, сховав. І тепер дурненький боїться повернутися додому! І тут вона раптово зупинилася — ні, ніякий він не дурень! Уявила, як би відреагувала на розбиту вазу, уявила собі свою лють… важко зітхнула і стала готувати вечерю. Накрила на стіл, розклала серветки, поставила тарілки.
Син прийшов близько півночі. Зайшов і мовчки зупинився біля дверей. Вона кинулась до нього: «Юрчику! Де ж ти так довго був? Я вже вся втомилася! Замерз?» взяла його холодні руки, зігріла в своїх, поцілувала в щоку — і сказала: «Йди, мий руки. Я приготувала твоє улюблене». Нічого не розуміючи, пішов мити руки. Потім попрямував на кухню, а вона сказала: «Я в кімнаті накрила». Зайшов до кімнати, де було несподівано чисто і гарно, обережно сів за стіл. «Їж, синку!» — почув ласкавий голос матері. Він вже забув, коли мама так до нього зверталася. Сів, схиливши голову, нічого не чіпаючи.
— Що ж ти, синку?
Піднявши голову, сказав тремтячим голосом:
— Я розбив вазу.
— Знаю, синочку, — відповіла вона. — Все колись ламається.
Раптом, схилившись над столом, син заплакав. Вона підійшла, обійняла за плечі та теж тихо заплакала. Коли син заспокоївся, вона сказала:
Пробач мене, синку. Кричу на тебе, сварюся. Важко мені, сину. Думаєш, не бачу, що ти одягнений не так, як твої однокласники? Стомилася я, роботи багато, бачиш, навіть додому її приношу. Пробач мене, більше ніколи не ображу тебе!
Повечеряли мовчки. Тихо прилягли спати. Вранці його не довелося будити, сам встав. А проводжаючи до школи, вперше промовила не «дивись в мене…», а поцілувала в щоку і сказала: «Ну, до вечора!»
Ввечері, повернувшись з роботи, побачила, що підлогу вимито, а син приготував вечерю — смажив картоплю.
З тих пір вона заборонила собі взагалі говорити з ним про школу, про оцінки. Якщо їй важко відвідувати школу, то як йому?
Коли син раптом сказав, що після дев’ятого класу піде в десятий, вона не виявила своїх сумнівів. Одного разу потай зазирнула в його щоденник — там вже не було двійок.
Але найпам’ятнішим днем для неї став той, коли увечері за вечерею, розклавши свої рахунки, він сів поруч і сказав, що допоможе їй рахувати. Після годинної роботи вона відчула, як він поклав голову їй на плече. Застигла. Колись маленький, часто сидів поруч з нею і, втомившись, клав голову їй на руку і часто так засинав. Вона збагнула, що повернула собі сина.
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“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
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