З життя
«Как мне не хватает терпения!» — хотелось крикнуть я сестре супруга. Но промолчала. А она снова с чемоданом на выходные…
«Как же ты мне надоела!» — едва не сорвалось у меня на языке, когда я увидела сестру мужа на пороге. Но промолчала. А она, как ни в чем не бывало, снова притащила чемодан — на этот раз «всего на пару дней»…
Меня зовут Аграфена, мне сорок. За Степаном я замужем уже тринадцать лет. Вроде бы жизнь налажена: крепкий дом, сын подрастает, всё как у людей. Но есть одна беда, которая годами отравляет моё существование. Это его родная сестра — Полина.
Полина старше Степана на десять лет. Замуж так и не вышла, детей нет. Живёт через дорогу в своей хрущёвке, но… по факту обитает у нас. Без преувеличений. Она является в нашу квартиру, как тень — бесшумно, настойчиво и ежедневно. Порой мне кажется, у Полины ключи от нашего подъезда растут прямо из старенькой авоськи.
Сперва я старалась быть любезной, даже радушной. Ну что поделать, своя кровь, родня. Думала — зайдёт, чайку попьёт, перебьёт пару новостей и отправится восвояси. Но она не уходила. Ни вечером. Ни в субботу. Ни в мой выходной. Даже когда гости приходили — она тут как тут. Если я температурила — Полина тут же появлялась с бульоном и советами.
У Полины — ни стыда, ни совести. Всё у неё под комментарий: и борщ мой слабоват, и сына балую, и сарафан новый — «вызывающий». То я чересчур угрюма, то хохочу, как торговка на базаре, то пироги пересушены, то ковёр не выбит как следует. Но главное — она не спрашивает, а распоряжается. А я молчу. Потому что терпеть не могу скандалов. Потому что Степан твердит: «Груня, потерпи, ей же некуда больше податься, кроме как к нам».
Терпела. Но всему есть предел.
Работает Полина экономистом в конторе. Заканчивает раньше меня и… марш-маршем к нам. Возвращаюсь с работы — а она уже на диване, телевизор орет, кот забился под шкаф. Сын уткнулся в телефон. А она — будто хозяйка. Суп стынет. А чаще — мне ждать, пока она отмоется в ванной. Ужинает с нами, потом часами травит байки про проверки в налоговой, которые никому не интересны. Потом уходит. А то и остаётся — потому что «в её доме сквозняки» или «по телевизору обещали грозу».
Когда собирались куда-то выбраться — Полина тут как тут. Хоть я мечтала о выходных с мужем. Хоть он клялся свозить меня на юг в день рождения. Полина ехала вместе. В нашем же номере. Спала за ширмой. И всё за Степанов счёт. Хотя зарплата у неё приличная, деньги копит, как говорит, «на старость». Видно, считает, что её старость — это я.
А свекровь моя вообще полагает, что я неблагодарная. Мол, Полина же родная, просто одинокая душа. И я понимаю — ни семьи, ни детей у неё нет. Но почему за это должен расплачиваться мой покой?
Однажды я напрямки сказала Степану:
— Хватит. У нас нет личного пространства. Она везде. Это невозможно!
Он лишь развёл руками:
— Да что я могу? Она же сестра…
Апофеоз настал недавно. Уговорила мужа сходить в театр — вдвоём. Умолила подругу посидеть с сыном. Только устроились в зале — звонок. Полина.
— Где вы?! Почему меня забыли?! Я теперь для вас чужая?! — визжала она в трубку.
А через три дня — снова на пороге. С узлом. С ночнушкой. С дисками своего любимого сериала. Объявила: «У меня выходные, решила пожить у вас».
Я стояла у печи, вцепясь в скатерть. Чуть не закричала. Но сдержалась. А внутри что-то надломилось.
Не знаю, как объяснить Степану, что больше не вынесу. Что мне нужен дом без вечной попутчицы. Без непрошеных советов. Без истерик. Без Полины.
И страшно, что если ничего не изменится — мне придётся уйти. Чтобы снова дышать свободно. Потому что даже самая крепкая любовь не выдержит, когда между тобой и мужем — вечно маячит другая жизнь. Слишком шумная. Слишком навязчивая. Слишком чужая…
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