З життя
Моя мама: тендітна, весела жінка, яку всі обожнювали.
Моя мати була тендітна жінка з дуже лагідним та веселим характером. Її всі любили. А вона любила мене, для мене жила й працювала. Рано овдовівши, більше не вийшла заміж. Я добре пам’ятаю, як вона вперше повела мене до школи. Ми обоє дуже хвилювалися. На шкільному подвір’ї було багато дорослих, і всі вони трималися за своїх дітей. Коли дітям наказали стати в шеренгу, батьки стали поруч. Усміхнений вчитель, ледь кудрявий, сказав: «Дорослі, відійдіть, школярі підуть до класів без вас». Мати, відпустивши мою руку, сказала: «Не плач, тримайся, ти ж хлопець» — і підштовхнула мене. Але я швидко освоївся у новій обстановці і повідомив, що буду сам ходити до школи, і мати по телефону сказала подрузі: «Він став зовсім дорослим, до школи ходить сам і навіть кішку до біса послав».
Пам’ятаю, у четвертому класі одна дівчинка подарувала мені живу черепаху. Ніхто ніколи не дарував мені черепахи, і я дуже полюбив цю дівчинку. Я зробив їй з кори чорнильницю у подарунок, але вона віддала її іншій дівчинці, сказавши, що це не чорнильниця, а “сміття”. Вдома я, не витримавши, заплакав і розказав усе матері. «Знаєш,— сказала вона,— зі мною таке теж було. Це дуже боляче, я теж плакала, але я жінка, мені простимо, а ти хлопець, тримайся». Мені стало легше, і я одразу розлюбив ту капризну дівчинку.
Свого батька я не пам’ятаю, мати одна виховувала мене. Я не замислювався, чи їй важко. Ми жили дружно і весело. Вона працювала, я навчався, у вільний час ми ходили на лижах, відвідували театр, а вечорами мріяли про майбутнє. Вона мріяла, що у мене буде міцний характер, і що я стану письменником, а я про те, як матиму постійний абонемент в кіно. Так було до дев’ятого класу. Тут, як казала мати, мене підмінили. Можливо, це сталося через нових друзів, яким я хотів наслідувати, але я думаю, що звинувачувати їх у всьому не варто. Мені було 16 років, і багато чого я вже розумів. Я став вести самостійне життя. Це проявилося в тому, що я пізно повертався додому, погано вчився, навчився палити й перестав дивитися матері у вічі. Одного разу я, повертаючись о третій годині ночі, помітив біля воріт маленьку постать матері. Від сорому, що вона не спить через мене, що зараз вона побачить, що я п’яний, я пройшов повз, ніби не впізнав її.
Після закінчення школи я в інститут не вступив, бо, ведучи самостійний спосіб життя, фактично не вчився. Я пішов працювати. У мене з’явилися власні гроші, але я віддав матері лише першу зарплату. Якось я помітив у неї на столику валідол, але ніколи не чув, щоб вона скаржилася на серце. Сусіди вважали, що вона останнім часом сильно змінилася, але я, бачачи її кожен день, цього не помічав, точніше, не хотів помічати.
Так минув рік, наступила весна, і мати почала вмовляти мене готуватися до іспитів. Я розумів, що вона права, але мені бракувало волі. Наступив травень. Я зустрів його добре. Два дні святкування з компанією зібралися в мене. Мати, все приготувавши, пішла до подруги. На третій день я поїхав з хлопцями за місто. Виїжджаючи, забув залишити матері записку, що не прийду ночувати.
Прийшов додому четвертого після роботи, але її вже не було: вона померла третього ввечері, коли вдома нікого не було.
З компанією, яка не подобалася моїй матері, я відразу розірвав відносини. Справжніх друзів серед них не було, це зробив без жалю. Не кидаючи роботи, я став готуватися до іспитів і восени, склавши всі на п’ятірки, раптово зрозумів, що радість, якою ні з ким поділитися, втрачає свою привабливість. На другому курсі я сильно подружився з одним студентом. Олег був серйозним і добродушним хлопцем. Дивлячись на нього, я думав, що він сподобався б моїй мамі. Вихованець дитячого будинку, він зберіг лише туманні спогади про своїх батьків, яких втратив у ранньому дитинстві.
Я відчував величезну потребу розповісти йому все про свою матір, про наше чудове життя до останніх двох років, про те, як я мучив її і втратив. Слухаючи мене, Олег ставав усе суворішим, одного разу він крізь зуби прохопився: «Негідник!» А я, розповідаючи, раптом чітко зрозумів, що для того, щоб убити людину, зовсім не потрібно хотіти її вбити,— це можна робити щодня, байдужо, не розуміючи, до чого це може призвести. Я зрозумів це занадто пізно.
Зазвичай, коли ми сиділи з Олегом у мене, я потім проводжав його до метро. Того вечора він сухо сказав: «Не проводжай». Я відчував, що можу втратити друга. Більше всього тієї ночі мені хотілося почути слова: «Не плач, тримайся, ти ж хлопець». Через тиждень Олег підійшов до мене. «У мене до тебе прохання,— сказав він,— напиши все, що ти мені розказав. Так, як розповів, так і напиши. Твоя мама хотіла, щоб ти писав, спробуй для неї…»
Тій, кому я присвятив цю розповідь, ніколи її не прочитати і не дізнатися, що я все життя буду намагатися стати таким, як вона хотіла,— я взяв себе в руки, адже я — хлопець.
“We Sold You the House—But We Have the Right to Stay for a Week,” the Owners Claimed. In 1975, We Moved from the Countryside to the Edge of Town, Bought a House, and Got Quite a Shock… Back in the village, neighbours always lent a helping hand—my parents were no different. So, when the previous owners of our new home asked if they could stay a couple more weeks while sorting out paperwork, my parents agreed. But these folks owned an enormous, vicious dog—one they didn’t want to take with them, as he never listened to us. To this day, I remember that dog. A week went by, then two, then three—yet the former owners still lived in OUR house! They slept through to dinnertime, rarely left, and showed no intention of moving. Worst of all was their attitude—they acted as though they still owned the place, especially the mother. Time and again, my parents reminded them of the deal, but their “move-out” date kept shifting. Meanwhile, they let their dog roam, never minding where he did his business—right in our garden. We were afraid to go outside; the dog attacked everyone. Over and over, my parents pleaded: keep the dog on a lead! But as soon as my father left for work and my brother and sister went to school, the dog was immediately back in the garden. In the end, it was the dog who helped my father get rid of these cheeky squatters. One day, my sister came home from school, opening the garden gate unthinkingly. The big black brute knocked her down—miraculously, she wasn’t badly hurt, just her coat ripped. They chained up the dog, then blamed my little sister for coming home too early. And that evening, all hell broke loose! Dad came back from work, and—without even taking off his coat—dragged the old lady right out into the street, still in her house dress, with her daughter and husband running behind. Every belonging of these bold squatters flew over the fence into the mud and puddles. They tried to set their dog on my dad, but the dog, seeing the chaos, tucked his tail and hid in his kennel. He wasn’t about to leave. An hour later, every last thing they owned was on the pavement, the gate was locked, and their dog sat outside with them, shut out for good.
Weve sold you the house. Were entitled to stay for a week, declared the former owners. It was 1975, and...
For about a year, my son had been living with Kate, but we’d never met her parents – it struck me as odd, so I decided to investigate I’ve always tried to raise my son to respect women first and foremost – his grandmother, his mother, his wife, his daughter. In my opinion, that’s the greatest quality a man can have: respect for women. My husband and I gave our son a wonderful upbringing and education and made sure he had everything he needed to get through life with ease. We didn’t want to help him with anything else, but we still bought him a two-bedroom flat. He did work to support himself, but he couldn’t quite afford a place of his own. We didn’t give him the flat right away, in fact, we didn’t even tell him we’d bought it. And why? Because our son was living with his girlfriend – that’s why. For about a year, he’d been living with Kate, but we’d never met her parents and I always found that strange. Later, I discovered that Kate’s mum used to be a neighbour of one of my friends. She told me something that really unsettled me. It turned out, Kate’s mother threw her husband out when he started earning less, but the real madness started after… She began seeing a married – but wealthy – man. Kate’s grandmother, just like her daughter, also had a relationship with a married man. She would even force both her daughter and granddaughter to trek out to his country house to help on his farm. Because of this, my son already found himself tangled up in his future mother-in-law’s affairs. But what concerns me most is that Kate’s mother and grandmother are turning her against her father. It’s clear the girl cares for her dad, but these two women have put her relationship with him in jeopardy. And to top it all off, Kate has decided to drop out of university. She believes it’s a man’s job to look after the family. I agree to some extent, and I raised my son for that, but heaven forbid they face any real life problems. What sort of safety net will there be if something goes wrong? How would she support her husband if that happened? By the way, I’ve put the flat back in my own name, because I know I’ve raised a bit of a soft touch, as we say. Yes, property bought before marriage isn’t divided after a divorce, but Kate is such a clever woman, she could very well send my “gentleman” packing with nothing but his socks.
So, listen, for about a year now my sons been living with this girl, Emily, but wed never met her...
– Needless to Say, This Is All My Fault! – My Boyfriend’s Sister Sobs. – I Never Imagined Something Like This Could Happen! And Now I Have No Idea What to Do Next. I Don’t Even Know How to Handle This Without Losing Face. My Boyfriend’s Sister Got Married a Few Years Ago. After the Wedding, It Was Decided the Newlyweds Would Live with the Husband’s Mother. His Parents Have a Spacious Three-Bedroom Flat and Only One Son. – I’ll Keep One Room, and the Rest Is Yours! – Promised the Mother-in-Law. – We’re All Well-Mannered People, So I’m Sure We’ll Get Along Just Fine. – We Can Always Move Out! – The Husband Assured His Wife. – I Don’t See Anything Wrong in Trying to Live with My Mum. If It Doesn’t Work, We Can Always Get Our Own Place…. That’s Exactly What Happened. As It Turned Out, Living Together Was Quite the Challenge. Both Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Tried, but Things Got Worse Each Day. Resentments Built Up and Arguments Became More Frequent. – You Said If We Couldn’t Get Along, We’d Move Out! – Cried the Wife. – Well, Haven’t We Managed So Far? – His Mother Smiled Condescendingly. – These Are Little Things, and It’s Not Worth Packing Up and Leaving Over Them. Exactly a Year After the Wedding, His Wife Became Pregnant and Gave Birth to a Healthy Son. The Arrival of the Grandchild Coincided with the Mother-in-Law Quitting Her Old Job and Struggling to Find New Work, as Employers Hesitated to Hire Someone Approaching Retirement. The Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Had to Spend All Day Together, Neither Having Anywhere Else to Go, and Tensions at Home Only Grew. Her Husband Simply Shrugged and Listened to Their Complaints, as He Was the Sole Breadwinner. – We Can’t Just Leave Mum Right Now—She Has No Income. I Can’t Leave Her on Her Own, and I Can’t Afford to Support Her and Rent a Flat for Us. Once She Finds Something, We’ll Move Out! But the Young Woman’s Patience Wore Thin. She Packed Up Her Things, and Her Son’s, and Moved Back in with Her Own Mum. She Told Her Husband She’d Never Set Foot in His Mother’s House Again, and If He Cared About Family, He’d Have to Sort Something Out. She Was Sure Her Beloved Would Try Everything to Bring Them Back Together. But She’d Judged Wrong. It’s Been Over Three Months Since She Moved Out, and Her Husband Hasn’t Tried to Win Her Back. He Still Lives with His Mum, Talks to His Wife and Child on Video after Work, and Visits Them on Weekends at His Mother-in-Law’s House. He Gets the Care and Attention of Two Women at Once; the Parent Gets Sympathy for Her Son, Left with an Angry Wife, and Doesn’t Have to Deal with the Child at All. The Husband Has It Made! And the Mother-in-Law Hasn’t Really Lost Anything, Either! The Young Woman Is Far from Happy with This Situation. She Loves Her Husband Very Much, Though She Knows He’s Not Doing the Right Thing. – What Did You Expect When You Left? – He Asks. – You Can Always Come Back If You Want. It’s Unlikely the Wife Plans to Leave Her Own Mum or Rent a Flat. The Woman, Now on Maternity Leave, Just Can’t Afford It. Is This Really the End of the Family? Do You Think She Still Has Any Chance of Going Back to Her Mother-in-Law’s House Without Losing Her Dignity?
Needless to say, this is all my fault! my mates sister sobbed. I could never have imagined things would turn...
“Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not good? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” I’m Still Amazed My Niece Found a Husband—Perhaps Just Because of Her Mum When Alina was a child, my sister refused to send her to nursery school; as a teenager, she wasn’t allowed out, she spent all her time at home—she became a bit of a recluse. When Alina was at university in our town, her mother made sure she always came home before 6pm. At 20, her mum would phone at half seven, shouting if she wasn’t home yet. It was absurd, just nonsense. Alina met her future husband in her second year at university; they studied together in the library, he was two years older, shared his notes with her, helped her out—a friendship that blossomed into love and eventually into dating. That’s when my niece began defiantly breaking her mother’s rules. The niece eventually married and her mother finally allowed her to start a new life of her own. Now let me tell you a recent story. I was at my sister’s house when Alina called, her voice breaking between tears and giggles so much we could barely understand her: “Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not a good wife? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” At that moment, my sister’s expression changed instantly; she told her daughter to calm down and asked what exactly all good wives are supposed to be able to do. “Make soup, Mum,” she said, and we burst out laughing. “Don’t laugh at me! You never taught me how, I’ve looked up recipes online but they never taste right!” So, my sister and I quickly taught her, step by step, how to make soup, giggling at each other all the while. That evening, my niece called to thank us—her husband had complimented her, saying it was delicious. And, best of all, according to her, she’s now a proper wife!
Honestly, Im still a bit staggered that my niece actually found herself a bloke, especially considering the way her mum...
People Adopt Children from Orphanages, So I Chose to Bring My Grandmother Home from Her Care Facility—Despite All My Friends and Neighbours Disagreeing and Saying Times Are Tough, I Knew in My Heart It Was the Right Thing to Do
There was a time, not so long ago yet distant enough for it to feel like another life, when people...
Recently, I Visited My Daughter-in-Law and Was Shocked to Find a Cleaner Hired for the House—Despite Always Telling My Son His Wife’s Finances Didn’t Matter, I Can’t Understand How They Afford a Housekeeper with Their Modest Means, Especially Since My Husband and I Bought and Renovated Their Home and Still Help Them Out—When I Found Out My Daughter-in-Law Became a ‘Blogger’ During Maternity Leave and Hired Help, I Felt Betrayed and Insisted If Anyone Should Be Paid to Clean, It Should Be Me—But My Son Sees Nothing Wrong—Am I in the Wrong for Feeling Upset?
The other day, I popped round to visit my daughter-in-law, only to find a complete stranger bustling about doing the...
To Remain Human: A December Evening at Bristol Coach Station and the Unexpected Power of Simple Kindness
Remaining Human Mid-December in the city of Nottingham is raw and blustery. A sprinkling of slushy snow only half-shields the...
“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband. These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed...