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…
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
Youre robbing my son, he cant even afford a lightbulb. One Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket...
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