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…
Michael Froze: From Behind the Tree, a Dog He’d Recognise Anywhere Watched Him with Sad, Knowing Eyes
I frozepeering from behind an old oak tree, a dog watched me with a sadness Id have recognised anywhere. Dust...
DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
DO I REMEMBER? I COULD NEVER FORGET! Polly, darling, theres something I must tell you Well, do you recall my...
Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden with soft snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a massive German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. Watching from his window, Andrew felt a pang of worry—Duke had never behaved like this before. Each morning, as he stepped outside, Andrew noticed Duke watching him tensely. Whenever he approached the kennel, Duke positioned himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling softly and looking at him pleadingly, as if to say: “Please, don’t go in there.” This odd behaviour was so out of character for their years of friendship, it made Andrew uneasy—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to get to the bottom of it, Andrew came up with a plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting piece of steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked desperately at the window, Andrew crept towards the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that froze him on the spot… …There, curled up in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, freezing, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its frail body shivered with cold. Duke had found it somewhere, and instead of chasing it away or leaving it to its fate, he had sheltered it. He had slept outside to avoid scaring it and guarded the entrance as if there was treasure inside. Andrew held his breath. He reached out, gently lifted the tiny creature and pressed it to his chest. In that moment, Duke raced over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but gently, eager to help. “You’re a good dog, Duke…” Andrew whispered, clutching the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the lovingly built kennel found its purpose again—as a little home for souls in need of saving.
Winter had blanketed Davids garden in a soft layer of snow, but his loyal dog Byron, a huge English Mastiff,...
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