З життя
Мама і тітка зійшлися в битві на просторах інтернету через кулінарний рецепт.
Моя мама познайомилася з тіткою Оксаною в мережі кілька років тому, приблизно три чи чотири роки тому. Вони посперечалися під одним постом із кулінарним рецептом.
Мама наполягала, що цибулю та моркву для борщу потрібно смажити разом, а тітка Оксана стверджувала, що спочатку на пательню слід класти моркву, а через п’ять хвилин додавати цибулю. Це була перша мамина сварка в Інтернеті.
Не знаю, як їм вдалося помиритися з різними способами смаження, але їхня переписка почалася. І вона тривала досить довго.
Тітка Оксана стала фактично онлайн-членом нашої родини: вона завжди була в курсі наших справ, давала поради.
Вона навіть надсилала мамі подарунки на свята: теплий плед, варення з брусниці, набір викруток (мама тоді пожалілася, що в неї навіть викрутки вдома немає). У відповідь мама теж відправляла подарунки: вовняні шкарпетки, пояс із собачої шерсті, баночки з маринованими грибами.
На початку грудня тітка Оксана святкувала своє шістдесятиріччя. Мама отримала запрошення та гроші на квиток.
— Не поїду! Що мені, розвалині, їхати і соромитися? — мама ходила по квартирі, розриваючись між бажанням поїхати і залишитися вдома.
Я вирішила взяти все в свої руки: ми купили нове зимове пальто, а моя університетська подруга, яка змінила шлях хірурга на перукарні будні, привела в порядок мамину зачіску. Ще ми купили подарунок: сережки з великим камінням.
Щоб у мами не виникло бажання передумати, я особисто відвезла її на вокзал і посадила на поїзд. Дочекавшись, коли поїзд рушить, я з полегшенням зітхнула: нехай відпочине і розвіяється. Останні десять років, відколи не стало тата, мама поступово згасала. А коли я вийшла заміж і переїхала до чоловіка, вона ще більше замкнулася.
Телефонний дзвінок від мами після прибуття прозвучав:
— Чоловік зустрів, напевно, чоловік Оксани. Дивно, вона не казала, що заміжня. Ну гаразд, розберуся. Не сумуйте, скоро повернуся!
Мама не повернулася: тітка Оксана виявилася 60-річним Олексієм. З його прізвищем важко було зрозуміти стать. Дядько Олексій зацікавився маминим фото і побоявся зізнатися в тому, що він чоловік. Так і спілкувався: писав, завжди цікавився маминим життям, дарував ті самі подарунки.
Вони приїхали до нашого міста в січні вирішити питання з орендою маминої квартири. У маминих вухах сяяли ті самі сережки, які ми купили як подарунок “тітці Оксані”.
— Навесілля приїдете? — засоромлено запитала мама.
— Приїдемо, — пообіцяла я, не вірячи своїм очам: мама постійно усміхалася, ніби позбулася п’ятнадцяти років.
Дядько Олексій сподобався мені й чоловіку. А наша дочка була в захваті від новоспеченого дідуся. Але головне, що мама біля нього розквітла.
Вони одружилися. Скромно. Своєї родини у дядька Олексія немає: він овдовів ще в 2006 році, і дітей у них не було. Так і жив сам.
Безмежно рада, що ці два самотності зустрілися. Нехай вони будуть щасливі. Вони це заслужили!
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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