З життя
Моя свекруха виховала ідеального сина, але не чоловіка.
Вибачте, але за всієї моєї поваги, я не можу називати свою свекруху мамою. Коли я виходила заміж, саме цього і прагнула, була така щаслива, коли Олександр зробив мені пропозицію, але тоді я собі уявляла наше сімейне життя трохи по-іншому. Дуже хотіла вийти заміж, любити і бути коханою. Заздрісно спостерігала за щасливими родинами своїх подруг, слухала їхні історії про те, як добре їм живеться в шлюбі, який сповнений любові і турботи одне про одного.
Мріяла про родину, де чоловік буде моїм лицарем, моєю підтримкою та прихистком, а наші діти зростатимуть у щасливому домі, наповненому любов’ю. Дуже хотіла бути ніжною, коханою дружиною, і дати своєму чоловікові все, що зможу.
Коли вперше побачила його відношення до свекрухи, подумала, що вона виховала його саме таким, якого я мріяла мати поруч. Під час розмови, що відбулася перед нашим шлюбом, мама мого чоловіка сказала слова, які назавжди залишаться в моїй пам’яті: “Моя дорога, в житті мого сина завжди була тільки одна жінка. Пам’ятай, ніколи не буде важливішої за мене.” Тоді повністю не зрозуміла сенс цих слів, але з плином часу, на жаль, усвідомила.
Спочатку нашого шлюбу мене не турбувало, що чоловік дбає про маму, навіть вражала його вихованість і міцний зв’язок з матір’ю. З плином часу стало заважати, що він ніколи їй не відмовляв. Виконував її найхимерніші прохання, виходив з дому о п’ятій ранку, бо мама подзвонила, що їй захотілося свіжих булочок, або бігав по всьому місту в пошуках дешевших ліків, щоб мамусі не довелося витрачати декілька гривень більше. Якщо вона дзвонила, що в неї скриплять двері, вдягався і виходив, не кажучи мені ані слова. В нашому домі двері теж потребували ремонту, але мого чоловіка це не цікавило, важлива була тільки мама, я була для нього невидимою.
Одного разу, коли Олександр приїхав за мною після роботи, вона подзвонила і звинуватила мене в безсердечності та ліні. Я використовую свого чоловіка, замість того, щоб дати йому відпочити. Звичайно, могла б повернутися додому поїздом або автобусом, але не вбачала у своїй поведінці нічого поганого. Адже Олександр мій чоловік і я повинна бути для нього найважливішою жінкою в житті.
Наступного дня хотіла поговорити з чоловіком про ситуацію, але, як завжди, він не бачив жодних проблем. Відразу після нашої розмови подзвонила свекруха і попросила відвезти її на дачу. Мій коханий лише сказав, що це його мати, і він не може їй відмовити.
Олександр чудовий син, але він ніколи не повинен був бути чоловіком жодної жінки, бо ніхто не витерпів би такого ставлення. Мати Олександра не соромилася дзвонити серед ночі, скаржачись на погане самопочуття й безсоння, ця егоїстка не турбувалася, що ми повинні виспатися і вранці йти на роботу. Що в такій ситуації робив мій чоловік? Викликав таксі, бо випив кілька чарок ввечері, і їхав перевірити, чому мама не може заснути. Замість подяки вона його облаяла, щоб не дозволяв собі випивати ввечері, адже мати будь-якої миті може потребувати допомоги.
Звичайно, він може утриматися від всього, не лише від алкоголю, але чи не має чоловік права на нормальне життя, лише тому, що він син такої вимогливої та ревнивої жінки? Моя свекруха руйнує наш шлюб, вважаючи, що її син досі належить лише їй, а я – просто дружина, хоча повинна бути для нього важливішою.
На щастя, у нас немає дітей. Бо вони одразу зрозуміли б, що не можуть розраховувати на батька, бо бабуся має пріоритет. Після років принижень і перебування на другому місці, я впала у депресію, але навіть тоді не могла розраховувати на підтримку і турботу з боку чоловіка. Найбільше підтримала мене моя подруга, розуміючи, яка це підступна хвороба. Я тоді так сильно розраховувала на хоча б кілька слів підтримки, співчуття та розуміння з боку коханого, але замість цього він знову захопився роботою в саду матері.
Так, визнаю, що програла, не змогла стати для нього тим, ким була мама, хоча дуже старалася. Шкода, що всі мої зусилля залишилися непоміченими Олександром. Він дійсно закоханий в одну жінку – в свою матір. Ті слова любові, що він говорячи мені, були просто формальністю, угодою між нареченою та нареченим.
Я ніколи не прагнула ідеалу, бо вони не існують, я хотіла щирого почуття. Хороший чоловік не мусить, як Олександр, укладати одяг в шафах за лінійкою, у відповідному поєднанні кольорів. Він може вийти з друзями на пиво і повернутися додому після півночі, але не мій чоловік, він був вихований як ідеальний син.
Дуже рада, що зрештою зрозуміла, що мій чоловік ніколи не буде таким, яким я його уявляла. У нас немає дітей, бо він боявся, що обов’язки вдома поглинуть його і він не матиме достатньо часу для мами.
Олександр дбав про маму, як про нікого іншого в світі, я прийняла той факт, що ніколи не виграю. Вирішила, що знайду чоловіка, якого покохаю всім серцем, і для якого я також буду найважливіша. Я завагітніла і чекаю на свого маленького принца, для якого буду всім світом, який буде мене любити та потребувати.
Я пообіцяла собі виховати сина справжнім, відповідальним чоловіком, який колись створить власну сім’ю і зробить свою жінку щасливою.
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Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
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Dandelion Jam A gentle and snowy winter has passed, and with spring’s arrival in our small English town, Taissa finds herself yearning for green leaves and colourful blooms. From her third-floor window, she gazes out at the awakening city where lorries rumble, the market buzzes, and people shed their winter wear for brighter coats. Birds sing before alarms; spring brings new energy, and soon, summer will be even better. Taissa, long settled in her five-storey block, now lives with her granddaughter, Vera, a lively Year Four pupil whose parents—both doctors—left for a work contract in Africa, entrusting their daughter to her grandmother. “Gran, we’re giving you Vera to look after, just for a while,” her daughter had said. “She’ll be happier with you than traipsing across the world.” Taissa, now retired, was delighted for the companionship. Each day is filled with routine: shopping, chatting with her neighbours on the chilly bench outside—the ever-watchful Mrs Simmons from downstairs, always mysterious about her age, and the cheerful, well-read Mrs Valentine. Together, they swap news, share stories, and complain about health, their bench a hub of local gossip. Life continues: Taissa spoils Vera with treats for her good grades, welcomes her home from school, listens to her tales, and beams with pride at Vera’s dedication to dance lessons. One bright afternoon, as Taissa awaits Vera’s return, she’s joined by Mr Edward, a widower from next door, who talks about the daffodils and coltsfoot carpeting the lawns like tiny suns. Spring’s beauty is in full bloom, and with Vera’s lively mischief, their days are warm and busy. Edward and Taissa begin to meet regularly—reading the papers, walking in the park, discussing recipes, and sharing snippets of their lives. Edward’s own story is bittersweet: he raised his daughter, Anne, alone after losing his wife, and despite his efforts, Anne’s grown distant, raising a son on her own in another city. Unexpectedly, Anne arrives with austere intentions: she insists her father sell his beloved flat and move in with her for “company’s sake”. Edward resists, unwilling to leave his home and his quiet, independent life. Anne, noting his friendship with Taissa, confronts Taissa with suspicion, accusing her of ulterior motives regarding Edward’s property. The harsh words sting, but Anne soon leaves in anger, severing ties with her father. Taissa, embarrassed by the scene, grows distant from Edward—until one day, he waits for her outside, dandelions in hand, apologising for his daughter’s behaviour. He gifts her a wreath of dandelions and offers a jar of his homemade dandelion jam, extolling its health benefits and inviting her to try it in a salad. Together, they share tea with dandelion jam and laughter, and in the quiet evening, stroll to the park with a fresh issue of their favourite magazine. Sitting beneath their old lime tree, their conversation flows, and all worries melt away. For Taissa and Edward, the springtime brings sweet new beginnings—and the simple joys of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting my stories. Wishing you happiness in life!
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