З життя
Мій чоловік уявив себе центром всесвіту і вирішив, що може диктувати мені умови.
Мій чоловік Андрій останнім часом так уявив себе центром всесвіту, що вирішив, ніби має право ставити мені умови. І не якісь там, а такі, від яких у мене кров застигає в жилах. Він заявив, що розлучиться зі мною, якщо я не припиню спілкуватися зі своєю донькою Олесею від першого шлюбу. Серйозно? Це моя дитина, моя кров, моє життя. І він думає, що може просто взяти й викреслити її з мого серця своїми погрозами? Я досі не можу повірити, що людина, з якою я ділила роки життя, дійшла до такого.
Все почалося кілька місяців тому. Андрій завжди був людиною з характером, але раніше я вважала це швидше силою, ніж вадою. Він упевнений, рішучий, звик, щоб усе було по-його. Коли ми одружилися, я думала, що знайшла надійного партнера, який підтримуватиме мене й прийматиме мою родину. Олеся тоді була ще маленькою, їй було лише п’ять років. Вона відразу прийняла Андрія, тягнулася до нього, називала його «татом Андрієм». Я була щаслива, бачачи, як вони ладнають. Але з часом щось змінилося.
Андрій почав віддалятися від Олесі. Спочатку це були дрібниці: він перестав цікавитися її справами, не питав, як пройшов день у школі, не хотів возитися з нею, як раніше. Я списувала це на втому — у нього важка робота, часто затримується допізна. Але потім він став дратуватися, коли я говорила про Олесю. «Ти занадто багато часу їй приділяєш», — кинув він якось за вечерею. Я оніміла. Олеся — моя донька, як я можу не приділяти їй часу? Вона живе з моєю мамою, Марією Іванівною, у сусідньому місті, і я бачу її лише по вихідних. Ці зустрічі — моя віддушина, мій спосіб залишатися для неї матір’ю, попри відстань.
А потім почалися ультиматуми. Місяць тому Андрій сів навпроти мене на кухні, схрестив руки й з камінним обличчям заявив: «Я більше не хочу, щоб ти їздила до Олесі кожні вихідні. Це заважає нашій сім’ї». Я подумала, що мені почулося. Якій сім’ї це заважає? Ми з ним удвох, дітей у нас немає, а Олеся — частина мого життя. Я спробувала пояснити, що не можу кинути доньку, що вона й так пережила розлучення батьків, що їй потрібна моя любов. Але Андрій лише відмахнувся: «Вона вже велика, впорається. А якщо ти не припиниш, я подам на розлучення».
Я сиділа, як приголомшена. Розлучення? Через те, що я хочу бути матір’ю своєї доньки? Це було настільки абсурдно, що я навіть не знала, як реагувати. У той момент я зрозуміла, що людина, яку я вважала своєю опорою, бачить у мені не дружину, а когось, хто повинен підкорятися його правилам. Він не просто хотів обмежити моє спілкування з Олесею — він хотів контролювати моє життя.
Я почала згадувати інші моменти. Як Андрій критикував мою маму, Марію Іванівну, за те, що вона «занадто балує» Олесю. Як він кривився, коли я купувала доньці подарунки чи оплачувала її гуртки. Як він одного разу сказав, що «минуле має залишитися в минулому», маючи на увазі мій перший шлюб і мою доньку. Я тоді пропустила це повз вуха, але тепер усе складалося в одну картину. Він не просто не хотів приймати Олесю — він хотів, щоб її взагалі не було в нашому житті.
Я не знаю, що робити. Частина мене хоче зібрати речі й піти відразу. Я не можу жити з людиною, яка ставить мені такі умови. Але інша частина боїться. Ми з Андрієм разом уже сім років, у нас спільний дім, спільні плани. Я вклала в ці стосунки стільки сил, стільки надій. І потім, як я поясню Олесі, що її мама знову сама? Вона й так питає, чому тато Андрій більше не телефонує й не приїжджає. Як я скажу їй, що він хоче, щоб я забула про неї?
Марія Іванівна, моя мама, каже, що я повинна захищати свою доньку, навіть якщо це означає втратити чоловіка. «Ти ніколи не пробачиш собі, якщо вибереш його, а не Олесю», — сказала вона по телефону. І вона права. Олеся — це не просто частина мого минулого, це моє серце, моя відповідальність. Я пам’ятаю, як тримала її на руках, коли вона народилася, як вона вперше посміхнулася, як вчилася ходити. Я не можу зрадити її заради людини, яка бачить у ній проблему.
Але Андрій не відступає. Днями він знову підняв цю тему, і його слова звучали ще жорсткіше: «Або ти обираєш мене, або свою доньку. Я не збираюся жити з жінкою, яка тягається до свого минулого щотижня». Я мовчала, бо знала: будь-яка моя відповідь лише розлютить його ще більше. Але всередині я вже прийняла рішення. Я не припиню спілкуватися з Олесею. Ніколи. Навіть якщо це коштуватиме мені шлюбу.
Тепер я думаю, як рухатися далі. Можливо, варто поговорити з юристом, щоб зрозуміти, що мене чекає у разі розлучення. Можливо, треба знайти кращу роботу, щоб бути фінансово незалежною. Я навіть почала шукати квартири в місті, де живе Олеся, щоб бути ближче до неї. Це лВ цей вечір я зібрала речі, взяла Олесю за руку і пішла, знаючи, що іноді сміливість бути собою — це єдина дорога до справжнього щастя.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight!...