З життя
Коли на весіллі брата покійного чоловіка лунає: «Я проти вашого щастя!»
В 65 років я знайшла кохання — але на весіллі брат покійного чоловіка підвівся і закричав: «Я проти!»
Коли мій чоловік відійшов у вічність, я була впевнена, що з ним пішло все моє життя. Ми прожили разом сорок років, виховали дітей, збудували дім, пережили труднощі, хвороби, сварки та радість. Я вірила, що це назавжди. А потім він просто пішов — раптово, в один день. Інсульт. Жодного прощання, жодного останнього слова. Все розвалилося. Відчуття було таке, ніби половина душі вирвана, і я залишилася стояти посеред розбитого світу.
Довго не могла оговтатися. Плакала ночами, розмовляла з його фотографією, зберігала його сорочки в шафі, аби не вивітрювався запах. Діти поїхали, онуки приїжджали зрідка. Тиша… ця гнітюча, важка тиша старого будинку з порожніми стільцями за столом.
Пройшло п’ять років. Я почала вчитися жити сама. Але якось випадково зайшла в маленьку кав’ярню у Львові — ту саму, куди колись нас водив чоловік. І там я побачила Його. Марко. Старий друг сім’ї. Колись приходив до нас у гості, працював з моїм чоловіком на одному заводі. Ми давно втратили контакт, а тут — ніби доля звела.
Він одразу мене впізнав. Ми розговорилися. Згадували, пили каву, сміялися. І раптом стало легко. Не було болю, не було каяття. Тільки тепло. Наступного дня він зателефонував. А потім ми стали гуляти в парку, готувати вечері, читати одне одному книги. Він дбав про мене, як про принцесу. Мені було шістдесят п’ять, а я знову почувалася жінкою. Живою. Потрібною.
Коли Марко запропонував мені вийти за нього заміж, я розгубилася. Усе тремтіло всередині. Думки — про дітей, про людей, про чутки. Але моя дочка, найстарша, сказала:
— Мамо, ти маєш право бути щасливою. Навіть якщо хтось цього не розуміє.
Ми вирішили зробити спокійне свято. Просто сімейна вечеря, нічого пишного. За столом були тільки найдорожчі: діти, онуки, пара сусідів. Я одягнула світло-сіру сукню, Марко — костюм, який носив ще на весіллі дочки. Всі посміхалися, піднімали келихи. Мені здавалося, що я знову живу.
І тут…
— Я проти!
Голос пролунав у залі, як удар грому. Я здригнулася. Усі обернулися. Це був Віталій — молодший брат мого покійного чоловіка.
Він підвівся, побілівши від гніву, і поглянув на мене:
— Ти не маєш права! Як ти можеш? Ти забула мого брата? Ти була його дружиною!
Слова різали, як ніж. Я завмерла, серце застигло. Я знала, що Віталій завжди був поруч із нами, особливо після смерті чоловіка. Він відвідував, допомагав, приносив продукти. А потім віддалився… Я не розуміла чому. Але тепер все стало ясно.
— Я не забула, Віталію, — сказала я тихо. — Але я не можу усе життя лишатися вдовою.
— Значить, тобі байдуже? — викрикнув він. — Ти просто викреслила його?
Марко стиснув мою руку під столом — міцно, надійно.
— Віталію, — спокійно сказав він. — Хіба хочеш, щоб вона залишилася сама до кінця життя?
— Це неправильно! — майже закричав той.
Я зробила глибокий вдих. У мене щось урвалося — страх, сором, нерішучість. Я підвелася з-за столу, подивилася на нього:
— А знаєш, що дійсно неправильно? Те, що ти весь цей час любив мене і мовчав. Що ти чекав, що я стану твоєю, коли він помре. І тепер не можеш змиритися з тим, що я обрала не тебе.
У залі запала гробова тиша.
Віталій поблід, опустив очі. Потім розвернувся і мовчки вийшов.
Я стояла, тремтіла, але більше не від страху. Я більше не відчувала вини.
Марко підвівся, підійшов до мене, обійняв.
— Все добре, — прошепотів він.
Я заплакала — не від болю, а від полегшення. Від відчуття, що тепер я можу по-справжньому жити. Що я нікому нічого не винна. Що кохання — воно приходить, навіть якщо ти думаєш, що для нього вже пізно.
Я щаслива. Я знайшла чоловіка, який прийняв мене з усіма спогадами, з усім минулим, з морщинами, з тінню втрат. Він не просив мене забути. Він просто став поруч. І це — найважливіше.
І якщо хтось думає, що в шістдесят п’ять життя закінчується, я скажу інакше. Іноді вона лише починається.
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The Troublesome Next-Door Neighbour “Don’t touch my spectacles!” bellowed the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, aren’t you?” Tamara Borisovna replied in surprise. “Is that who you’ve got your sights set on! I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-rolling machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself!” shot back Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond any machine’s help now? Don’t think I don’t notice!” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and wandered over to her home icon corner to recite her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself especially religious: she knew, out there, something must be in charge—someone had to be running the show! But who? That was anyone’s guess. That higher power went by many names: the cosmos, the prime mover, and, of course, the good Lord! Yes, that kindly white-bearded gent with a halo, sitting on his cloud and pondering everyone on earth. After all, Tamara had long since left her prime and was edging up to seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if he doesn’t exist, a believer has lost nothing; but if he does, a nonbeliever has lost everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Mrs Tamara added a few personal words—naturally! The ritual done, her soul lighter, she could face the new day. In Tamara Borisovna’s life, there were two main problems. And no, not the classic British ones of fools and potholes—those were old hat! Hers were her neighbour Lynda and, of course, her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were simple: today’s lot never wanted to do anything. Still, at least they had their parents to handle them! But as for Lynda—the woman was a nightmare, forever needling Tamara in the classic style! On the big screen, feuding national treasures like Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are charming and funny. But in real life? Not so much—especially when someone starts picking at you for no reason. And, to top it off, Tamara had a friend known as Pete the Moped. His full, grand name was Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove—that’s just his surname! His nickname was easy to work out: as a lad, Pete—what a name!—loved tearing around the village on his moped. Or, as his cheeky younger self called it, his “mopette.” So, the nickname stuck: Pete the Mopette—or “the Moped” for short. His decrepit moped had long been gathering dust in a garden shed, but the name clung on: that’s village life! Once, they’d all been family friends: Moped Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her own late husband. Now, their other halves rested peacefully in the churchyard. Tamara carried on her friendship with “the Moped” out of habit: they’d known each other since school, and Pete made a good mate. Back then, they were a friendly trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—and pure friendship it was, with no hint of flirtation from the young gent. They’d go everywhere shoulder to shoulder: Pete the dashing suitor in the middle, with the two girls symmetrically hanging off his arms. Like a teacup with two sturdy handles! Well, you never know… Over time, that friendship soured. First into coldness from Lynda, then open hostility. Like in those cartoons: sometimes you notice someone’s been replaced… It was as if Lynda had become someone else—starting after her husband passed away. Before that, things had been bearable. Of course, people change over the years: the thrifty become stingy, the chatty become gossipers, and the envious get torn apart by spite. Maybe that’s what happened to Lynda. Old ladies can be like that—and the men are no better. Not that she didn’t have something to be jealous of. First of all, Tamara, despite her advanced years, still had a trim figure. Lynda, on the other hand, had grown as round as a pudding—where to find her waistline was anyone’s guess. Against her neighbour, she came up short. Second, their shared old friend had been paying Tamara much more attention lately. They’d often sit and giggle over private jokes, almost bumping their grey heads together. Lynda only got short, clipped phrases. And Pete popped round to see Tamara much more often—they rarely needed to beckon him over at Lynda’s. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as that insufferable Tamara. And her sense of humour was lacking—while Pete was always one for a laugh. There’s a fine old British word—“natter”—that sums up Lynda’s recent behaviour. She’d grumble at Tamara for the slightest thing. It began with the loo: Lynda griped that Tamara’s was in the wrong place and stank! “That bog of yours reeks!” blasted Lynda. “Really, now? It’s been there forever, and you notice only now?” retorted Tamara, not missing a beat. “Oh, and you had your cataracts done on the NHS for free! Nothing good comes for nothing!” “Don’t you talk about my bloody cataracts!” screamed her former friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “Oh, so you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara replied. “I’ll get you a lip-rolling gadget for Christmas—you’ll need it!” “You want to keep it yourself?” Lynda shot back. “Or are your lips a lost cause now? Think I can’t tell?” Oh, she could tell all right. This wasn’t the first row, not by a long shot. Pete advised Tamara to fill in the old outdoor lav and set up a nice modern inside one. Her children clubbed together for a new indoor bathroom, while trusty Pete did the hard graft and filled the old pit. There—time for you to rest, Lynda, and sniff somewhere else! Oh, hardly! The next gripe: Tamara’s grandkids had supposedly scrumped Lynda’s pears, since the branches hung over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought the tree was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, even though she could swear no one touched the pears—they were all still hanging. “Your hens are always digging up my vegetable patch and I don’t complain!” “Hens are stupid birds!” Lynda sniffed. “Just a broiler or a layer! And your grandchildren need discipline, Grandma—not giggling with strange men morning to night!” Wash, rinse, repeat: it all swung back round to Pete. The grandkids got an earful, pear season ended—“Rest easy, Lynda!” …but no, suddenly, the overhanging branches were “damaged”! “Show me where!” Tamara demanded—there was nothing, swear to God. “There! And there!” insisted Lynda, jabbing gnarled fingers sideways—while Tamara’s hands, with their long, even fingers, still looked elegant. A woman’s hands are her signature! Even in the country—a little style never hurt. So, “The Moped” suggested they just prune the branches: “They’re on your land—your rules!” “She’ll just start screaming!” fretted Tamara. “Bet you she won’t! And I’ll back you up,” promised Pete. And, true enough: Lynda witnessed Pete sawing away but never uttered a word! The pear tree matter closed. But soon it was Tamara’s turn to raise a fuss—Lynda’s chickens were constantly foraging in her veg patch. This year, Lynda’d bought a new breed—worse than before. And a chicken, well, it’ll scratch up anything and everything. As a result, every seedling ended up dug out. Kindly requests to pen in the hens only earned a nasty smirk from Lynda: “Go on, tell someone—what will you do?” One option: nab a couple of hens and roast them, just to make a point! But Tamara was too kind-hearted for such risky experiments. So, her clever, fun-loving friend suggested a technique straight from the internet: sneak some eggs out onto the veg patch at night. Then, in the morning, ostentatiously collect them—“Oh look, as if the chickens laid here!” He was tech-savvy: their village had had internet for years. And, you know, it worked: thank you, World Wide Web—at last, you’re good for something! Lynda froze, eyes wide, as she watched Tamara gathering eggs by the handful and strolling back indoors. Needless to say, the chickens stayed away from then on. “So, how about making peace now? Lynda, what do you say? Nothing left to argue about!” Yeah, right! The next complaint: smoke and cooking smells from Tamara’s summer kitchen, where she cooked until autumn. “As if! It never bothered you before—and maybe I hate the smell of roast meat! Maybe I’m vegetarian now! And besides, Parliament’s brought in new barbecue laws!” “Where do you see a barbecue?” Tamara argued. “Maybe try cleaning your glasses, dear!” Tamara Borisovna was patient and polite, but by now, even her patience had run out: Lynda was simply impossible—what a word! In short, there was no pleasing her… “Maybe someone should experiment on her for science,” Tamara sighed to Pete as they sipped tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” Tamara really had become thin and drawn—the daily drama took its toll. “She’d choke! And I won’t let her,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!” A couple of days later, one fine morning, Tamara heard singing: “Tamara, Tamara—come out and see!” At the door stood Pete, beaming: he’d fixed up his battered old moped—Pete and his Mopette! “Why was I always so glum before?” began Peter Geoffrey with a grin. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a spin, gorgeous? Let’s relive our youth!” And Tamara leapt right on! After all, Parliament had declared old age officially cancelled: now, everyone over sixty-five was an ‘active pensioner’! Off they rode, in every sense, into a new life. And soon, Tamara became truly Mrs Cosgrove: Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove proposed! Everything fit together, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda stayed behind: lonely, bitter, and cross. Tell me, isn’t that yet another reason for envy? With no one left to quarrel with, all her spite just built up inside. And that’s not good—you’ve got to let it out somewhere… So, hang in there, Tamara, and lock your door! Who knows what’s next—oy vey! Village life is a song, after all. What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Dont touch me spectacles! shrieked the former friend. Mind your own eyes! You think I cant see who youre ogling?...
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