З життя
Эхо предательства: история любви и прощения
В той деревне, где эхом разносились сплетни, жила когда-то Зоя с мужем Иваном.
Однажды, когда Зоя пропалывала грядки, подошла соседка Аграфена и, будто невзначай, бросила:
— Зоя, а твой-то Иван у Марфы Петровны ужинает… Говорят, чуть ли не каждый вечер.
Зоя застыла, руки опустились.
— Графа, что за вздор несешь?
— Да вот же, своими глазами видела! — фыркнула соседка. — Вчера шла мимо её дома — твой Иваныч за столом сидит, будто хозяин. Я в окно постучала — он так и нырнул под стол.
— Вранье! — отмахнулась Зоя, но дрожь пробежала по спине.
— Ну как знаешь, — пожала плечами Аграфена. — Только потом не говори, что не предупреждала.
Зоя будто и не поверила, но сомнения закрались. В последнее время Иван стал отказываться от ужина: «Устал, есть не хочу». И так три дня подряд.
В тот вечер, когда муж рано уснул, Зоя не могла сомкнуть глаз. Лежала, смотрела на его лицо в лунном свете и шептала: «Не может быть…»
На следующий день Иван снова задержался. Ужин остыл. Не выдержав, Зоя накинула платок и побежала к дому Марфы Петровны.
Подойдя к калитке, она замерла. В доме тихо, только в прихожей горел свет. Но вот что это за пальто висит? Знакомое… Очень знакомое. И тут она вспомнила: дочь Нюра недавно вышила на подкладке отцовского пальто незабудки. Дрожащими руками Зоя вывернула подкладку — и тут же узнала крошечные синие цветочки. Сердце заколотилось, ноги подкосились. Она опустилась на землю, слёзы хлынули ручьем.
Через мгновение в коридор вышел Иван — взъерошенный, растерянный.
— Зоя… Это не то, что ты думаешь…
— А что же, географию тут изучаете? Или историю до полуночи? — Голос её дрожал, но злости в нём не было — только боль. — Я-то, дура, верила, что ты устаешь… А ты — с ней, за одним столом! Да еще и под стол прячешься, как воришка!
Иван бросился за ней, но она уже бежала по улице.
— Зоя! Остановись! Люди же видят!
— А пусть! Не мне стыдно — тебе и ей должно быть стыдно!
Марфа Петровна была в деревне чужой, городской. Считала дни до отъезда, ни с кем не общалась. Пока однажды не сломалась ступенька на крыльце. Она заплакала, а в это время мимо шёл Иван. Починил. Остался на чай.
Потом были магазинные пряники, потом домашние пирожки, потом долгие разговоры за столом. Марфа не любила Ивана — просто не хотела быть одна. А он… он был польщён: городская учительница!
Теперь же всё раскрылось.
Зоя рыдала в подушку. Дети — Нюра и Катя — подползли к ней и тоже заплакали, не понимая, в чём дело.
Развестись? Да куда ей идти? Родных нет, работы — копейки.
Иван жил, как чужой. Варил себе сам, стирал, молчал. Несколько раз пробовал заговорить:
— Зоя, прости… ради детей…
— Не прикрывайся детьми! — отвечала она.
Прошло два месяца. Лето кончилось, Марфа Петровна уехала. В доме царила ледяная тишина.
В августе, перед самым началом осени, Зоя позвала дочек:
— Нюра! Катя! Отнесите отцу в поле обед.
Девочки побежали. Трактор Ивана стоял посреди пашни. Они замахали руками, крича:
— Папа! Мама передала!
Иван вышел, будто очнулся.
— Мама?.. — переспросил он.
— Да! — Нюра протянула узелок. — Тут пирожки и молоко.
Он сел на землю, развернул узелок. Пахло свежим хлебом. Глаза вдруг защекотало.
— Пап, ты плачешь?
— Не-е… Это пыль…
Вечером он вернулся домой с полевыми цветами и подошёл к Зое.
— Прости меня. И спасибо.
— Уж простила бы — не кормила бы, — она улыбнулась впервые за много месяцев.
Через год у них родился Ваня — русоголовый, с отцовскими глазами.
А Иван? Иван больше никогда не заходил к чужим женщинам — даже за спичками.
Он теперь точно знал: его дом — самое дорогое, что у него есть.
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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