З життя
Эхо предательства: история о любви и прощении
Когда предательство отзывается эхом — история одной любви и прощения
Лена копошилась в огороде, пропалывая грядки, когда к ней подошла соседка Глаша. Та, делая вид, что просто так зашла, бросила небрежно:
— Лен, а ты своего Степана не кормишь, что ли? Он, между прочим, у Марьи Петровны ужинает…
Лена застыла. Руки словно ватные.
— Глаша, ты что несёшь?!
— А то самое и несу, сама видела, — ехидно прищурилась соседка. — Вчера к ней заходила, сына своего обсудить. Гляжу в окно — а там твой Степан за столом сидит, словно родной. Я постучала — он под стол как юла юркнул.
— Врёшь. Выдумала всё, — Лена хотела отмахнуться, но дрожь уже пробежала по спине.
— Да на что мне врать? Не веришь — и ладно. Только потом не удивляйся.
Лена будто и не поверила, но осадок остался. Тем более, Степан в последнее время что-то есть не хочет. Третий день подряд приходит с работы и бубнит: «Устал, даже кусок в горло не лезет». Ни супчика, ни котлет — ничего.
В тот вечер, когда муж рано лёг спать, Лена ворочалась без сна. Смотрела на его лицо в лунном свете и гнала прочь дурные мысли. «Не может быть. Не может…»
На следующий день Степана снова не было. Ужин остыл. Лена, не выдержав, накинула платок и рванула к дому Марьи Петровны.
Подойдя к калитке, замерла. Тишина. Только в прихожей светится лампа. Но вот что за куртка висит в коридоре? Знакомая. Очень похожа на Степанову. И тут её осенило. Дочка Катька недавно научилась вышивать — и, гордясь, разукрасила отцовскую подкладку цветочками. Лена подошла и, затаив дыхание, вывернула куртку. Крошечные ромашки блеснули перед глазами, как обвинение. Сердце заколотилось, будто молотком. Ноги подкосились. Она села прямо на пол. Слёзы хлынули рекой.
Через минуту в коридор вышел Степан. Взъерошенный, виноватый.
— Лен… ты всё не так поняла…
— А ты что, географию здесь изучаешь? Или у вас уроки до полуночи? — Лена встала, и в её голосе было больше боли, чем гнева. — Я-то, дура, верила, что ты устаёшь… А ты — с ней, за одним столом. И под стол прячешься, как заяц!
Степан бросился за ней, но она уже бежала через двор.
— Лена! Ну прости! Люди же видят!
— А пусть видят! Я не по чужим постелям скачу. Мне стыдиться нечего! Это вам с ней должно быть стыдно!
Марья Петровна была в деревне на особом положении — городская, с манерами. Местные для неё — пустое место. Она ютилась в коммуналке и считала дни до отъезда обратно. Пока не сломалась ступенька на крыльце. Тогда она разрыдалась прямо на пороге. В этот момент мимо шёл Степан. Помог, починил. А потом… остался на чай.
С этого всё и началось.
Сначала — печенье из магазина. Потом — котлеты. Потом — долгие вечера на кухне. Марья не питала к Степану чувств, но одиночество давило. А он… Он гордился. Учительница! С ним за одним столом!
Но теперь всё открылось.
Лена рыдала, уткнувшись в подушку. Дети — девятилетняя Катя и шестилетняя Настёна — притихли рядом, не понимая, в чём дело, но тоже захныкали. Просто потому что мама плачет.
Развод? А куда идти? Родни нет. В деревне одни пересуды. Работы — копейки.
Степан чувствовал вину. Несколько дней ходил, как призрак. Сам себе варил, стирал, жил на отшибе. Пытался поговорить, извинялся, клялся — но Лена стояла на своём.
— Возвращайся к своей учительнице. Я тебе не ровня.
— Лена… ради детей…
— Не прикрывайся детьми! Не тебе теперь ими махать!
Прошло два месяца. Школа закончилась. Марья уехала. Собрала вещи и исчезла. А в доме Лены и Степана царила ледяная тишина.
Август. Последние деньки лета. Дети резвились во дворе.
— Кать! Насть! — позвала Лена из окна.
Девочки влетели в дом. Мать протянула свёрток:
— Отнесите папе в поле поесть.
Катя с Настей помчались, как ветер. Трактор Степана стоял посреди пашни. Девочки замахали руками.
— Пап! Мама передала!
Степан вылез из кабины, будто очнулся.
— Мама?! Передала?! — переспросил он.
— Вот! — Катя сунула свёрток. — Там котлеты и хлеб.
Степан присел, развернул узелок, вдохнул аромат свежего хлеба. Глаза затуманились.
— Пап, ты что, плачешь?
— Не-е… это просто пыль…
Вернувшись домой с полевыми цветами, Степан подошёл к Лене.
— Прости меня, Лен. И спасибо.
— Да ладно. Не простила бы — не кормила бы, — Лена впервые за долгое время улыбнулась.
Прошло девять месяцев. В семье родился Алёшка. Крепкий, румяный, с отцовскими глазами.
А Степан? Степан больше ни разу не заходил к чужим женщинам даже за спичками.
Теперь он точно знал: дом — это самое дорогое, что у него есть.
I Will Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You Can Believe Grandma Valerie couldn’t wait for evening to come. Her neighbour Natalie, a single woman approaching fifty, had just confided something so astonishing that Valerie’s head was spinning. To prove her point, Natalie had even invited her round later to show her something remarkable. The story began quite simply. That morning, Natalie had dropped by as she was on her way to the shop: “Is there anything you need, Valerie? I’m popping to the corner shop to pick up bits for a pie and a few other things.” Valerie smiled. “You’ve always been so good and caring, Natalie. I remember you as a little girl. It’s a shame things haven’t worked out for you—but you never seem sad or complain, not like some.” Natalie laughed. “What’s there to complain about? I do have a man I love, it’s just we can’t be together for now. Would you like to hear the reason? I’ve never told anyone else, but I want to tell you. Well, partly because you probably wouldn’t be believed if you repeated it!” She grinned. “Just let me know if you need anything from the shop. I’ll pop in on my way back, and over a cup of tea, I’ll tell you all about my life. Maybe then you’ll be happy for me and stop worrying.” Valerie didn’t really need anything, but asked Natalie to fetch a loaf of bread and some sweets for tea, her curiosity well and truly piqued. Later, as they sat together over tea and cake, Natalie began: “Valerie, you remember that thing that happened to me twenty years ago? I was nearly thirty. Met a bloke—nice enough, so I thought I’d marry him even if I didn’t love him. At least I’d have a family. He moved in and I got pregnant. When the baby came, a little girl, she lived just two days and passed away. I thought I’d go mad with grief. My husband and I split up soon after. A couple of months later, once I’d stopped crying, something happened. It’s hard to explain, Valerie. I’d got everything ready for my daughter—the cot, bedding, toys, the lot. They say it’s bad luck to buy these things early, but I didn’t believe that. Then one night I was woken by the sound of a baby crying. I thought I was imagining it, but the crying came again. I went to the cot—and there she was. My little girl. I picked her up, my heart nearly bursting with happiness. She looked up at me and then drifted peacefully to sleep. And from then on, almost every night, she would come to me. I even bought formula and a bottle, but she hardly ever fed—just smiled, closed her eyes and slept in my arms. Is that even possible?” Valerie leaned forward, utterly enthralled. “I know it sounds mad, but it’s true,” Natalie insisted. “It just went on—we got used to those nightly visits. I knew my little girl was living in another world, with her own mum and dad, but she never forgot me. She would visit, and one night she said to me: ‘I will always be with you, Mum. We are bound by an invisible thread, and nothing can ever break it.’ Sometimes I wonder if it’s a dream, but she even brings me gifts from her world. They don’t last long here though—they fade away like snow in spring.” That evening, Valerie finally visited Natalie’s flat. No one else was home—just the two of them. Suddenly, a gentle light shimmered in the air and a sweet young woman appeared: “Hello, Mummy! I’ve had such a good day, I want to share it with you. And here’s a present for you.” She placed a small bouquet on the table. Turning to see Valerie, she smiled again. “Oh, hello! Mum said you wanted to meet me. I’m Marianne.” After chatting a while, Marianne faded away like morning mist. Valerie sat silent, absolutely stunned. “Well, I never… that really happens!” she whispered. “Your daughter’s a beauty, Natalie, just like you. I’m so happy for you. You really are a lucky woman—maybe luckier than anyone I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Thank you for opening my eyes. The world is so much bigger than I thought; life goes on everywhere. I’m not afraid anymore.” The flowers on the table became paler and then vanished altogether. But Natalie smiled, full of hope. Tomorrow would be a wonderful new day. She was going to meet Arkady, the man she loved and who loved her back—she just knew it. And someday soon, she’d introduce him to the two people she loved most in the world: Marianne and Arkady.
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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. Come on, let’s have tea. Nina, you look younger somehow—come on, tell me!” “I don’t know—my fifth youth!” Nina laughed as she sliced the tart. “Yesterday I rang Simon Mallory by accident… remember your crush in Year Eleven? We got to reminiscing—I’d forgotten half of it. What’s up, Irene? Not another asthma attack?” Irene sat pale and silent, then whispered: “Nina, you didn’t know? Simon passed away a year ago. He lived in another part of town—he moved from that old place ages ago.” “You must be joking! How? Who was I talking to? He remembered everything about our school days. My mood was terrible before talking to him. But after we spoke, I felt life was carrying on—that I still had strength, and joy for living… How could it be?” Nina couldn’t believe Simon was gone. “But I heard his voice. He said such beautiful things: ‘The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, sceptical of her friend’s story. Then she surprised Nina by saying: “Nina, I don’t know how, but it really does sound like it was him. His words, his style. Simon loved you. I think he wanted to support you… from the other side. And it looks like he did. I haven’t seen you so happy and full of energy for ages. One day, someone will piece your tattered heart back together. And you’ll finally remember—what it feels like to be… simply happy.”
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