З життя
На лавці в коридорі поліклініки сиділа бабуся.
У коридорі жіночої поліклініки на лавці сиділа літня жінка. Поруч з нею сиділа худенька дівчина, років п’ятнадцяти, в короткій спідниці, з-під якої виглядали кістляві коліна. Бабуся привела онуку на аборт.
Бабуся весь час важко зітхала, а онука злякано поглядала навкруги. Поруч з нею стояла сумка. Підійшла молода жінка, років тридцяти, і сіла поруч.
– Ви в цей кабінет?
– Так… А скажіть, це не боляче?
– Неприємно, звісно, але там знеболять. Головне, що швидко, хвилин п’ять, якщо термін невеликий. Так кажуть, я вперше тут. І сама боюся, якщо чесно. І розумію, що дитина ні в чому не винна…
– Господи, яка біда… Розумієте, це моя онука, вона у 9 класі, а хлопець її обманув, кинув… А вона вагітна. Він нічого знати не хоче про дитину. А нам що робити? Їй же школу треба закінчити… Батьків у неї нема, я сама її виростила… Ох, горе…
– Ба, досить вже, не терзай мені душу, і так важко… Он дівчина каже, що не боляче буде, раз, і все…
– Ох, онучко, там же дитина у тебе, жива, а ти раз і все… Дитина ні в чому не винна, правильно дівчина каже. Знаєш що, вставай, пішли, нічого, виростимо. У війну ж народжували, і нічого. Справимося. І Петько твій не потрібен, отець називається… Вставай, бери сумку, пішли додому, нічого нам тут робити.
Дівчина, наче цього й чекала. Схопила сумку і пішла до виходу, бабуся пішла слідом. Дівчина, яка сиділа на лавці, усміхнулася, дивлячись їм вслід, задумуючись про своє…
Двадцять років потому
– Мамо, я люблю його, у нас все серйозно, вже повір! Діма хороший хлопець, у нього велике майбутнє!
– Яке там майбутнє, якщо ви одружитеся… Закінчите університет, а там видно буде!
– Мамо, нам по двадцять років вже, не маленькі. Весілля навчанню не завадить, тим більше, ми не будемо витрачати гроші, розпишемося і все, навіщо нам ці умовності. Повечеряємо в ресторані з батьками Діми та його бабусею і все, з друзями ми самі потім відзначимо. Діма бабусю дуже любить, вона його виростила.
– Ох, Машка, ну що не зробиш заради улюбленої доньки! Треба ж нам познайомитися з батьками Діми, сватами будемо, як-не-як…
– Запроси їх у гості, мам…
– Вітаю, проходьте! Я мама Маші, Юлія. Сідайте за стіл…
Дивлячись на бабусю Діми, Юлі здалося, що вона її десь вже бачила. Мати Діми, Аня, була дуже молодою, виглядала трохи старше сина. У розмові з’ясувалося, що народила вона його в 16 років, від однокласника, який спочатку відмовлявся від дитини, а потім був змушений одружитися з Анею, щоб не сісти в тюрму. На папері лише вони були чоловіком і дружиною, не жили разом, а потім і розлучилися.
– Ви знаєте, Юля, соромно зізнатися, але ми ж спочатку хотіли позбутися Дімочки… Анька ж була ще дитиною, яка з неї мати… Батьків у неї не було, мати померла ще молодою, а батько десь заґратований. Я її одна виростила. І тут принісши… Куди народжувати, кому?
Коли вже прийшли до лікарні, чекали черги на цю процедуру, одна дівчина підійшла. Теж на аборт. Каже, діти ні в чому не винні, і мене наче по лобі вдарили, хіба ж можна дитя вбивати невинне… Це був знак згори, щоб зупинилися, і Діму зберегли.
Дівчину ту сам Бог послав, мабуть. Ми з Анькою пішли з лікарні додому. До останнього вона ходила до школи, закінчила 9 класів, а більше нам і не треба було. Народився Діма, я з ним була, а Аня ходила в училище, вивчилася на кондитера. Петько, батько Діми, ніяк не допомагав, і його батьки теж.
Нічого, справилися. Анька потім за хорошого чоловіка заміж вийшла, дочку ще народила. Пече тепер торти на замовлення і непогано заробляє. Ви не переживайте, якщо Діма з Машею одружаться, їм є де жити, квартиру їм свою віддам, а сама до Ані переберуся. Ось така історія у нас.
Юлія не вірила своїм вухам. Це ж були ті самі бабуся з онукою, котрі пішли з лікарні. Адже завдяки їм, вона вирішила залишити дитину, свою улюблену Машку…
Після розмови з бабусею тоді, їй раптом стало спокійно, вона зрозуміла, що треба народжувати, все буде добре. Дитина була від одруженого чоловіка, який був її першою любов’ю. Життя розвело їх у різні сторони, і коли вони знову зустрілися, то він був уже одружений. Лише один раз у них була зустріч, після якої вона зрозуміла, що вагітна.
Сім’ю йому вона розбивати не хотіла, про дитину нічого не сказала, вирішивши, що не має права народжувати, псувати життя і собі, і дитині.
Зважившись на аборт, Юлія переконала себе, що так буде краще. Але бабуся з онукою за 5 хвилин змінили її бачення цієї теми. Якщо вже вони справляться, то вона тим більше. Вона вирішила, що це знак згори.
Юлія пішла з лікарні слідом за ними. Вагітність і пологи пройшли добре, народилася її єдина донечка, найулюбленіша людина на Землі.
І ось їх знову звела доля. Тільки тепер з радісного приводу. Діти, яких могло не стати, збираються одружитися. Хіба це не знак долі?
Часто люди отримують знаки згори. Хтось прислухається, хтось ні. Іноді достатньо 5 хвилин, щоб змінити своє життя. Наприклад, рішення залишити дитину, яку не хотіли, не чекали. А потім життя не уявляють без цієї дитини і з жахом думають, що її могло і не бути…
Всяке в житті буває, але якщо ви відчуваєте, що робите помилку, не поспішайте, адже іноді 5 хвилин багато що вирішують…
The Letter That Never Arrived
Diary entry I sat by the window for a long while last night, although there wasnt really much to see....
My Darling Girl: A Story of Family, Secrets, and the Search for a Lost Mother Marina always believed she grew up with her real parents, but after their deaths, she discovers she was adopted after being found alone in the woods as a baby. Torn by the late confession, Marina keeps the truth hidden from her own family. Years later, a stranger arrives with a plea from an elderly, dying woman—Marina’s birth mother, who has searched for her daughter all her life. With a DNA test confirming their bond, Marina must face both the joy and sorrow of her newfound origins, ultimately choosing to protect the love and memory of the only parents she has ever known.
My Dearest One. A Reminiscence Margaret learned, almost by accident, that she had grown up with adoptive parents. Even now,...
My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Beloved Lawn at Our Country Cottage to Plant Vegetable Beds—So I Made Her Restore Everything Just as It Was
William, are you sure we havent forgotten the charcoal? Last time we ended up at the village shop, and all...
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?...
The Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace: When Family Means Control, Not Love, and One Sister’s Choice Sets Everyone Free
His wife had packed her belongings and vanished into thin air. Stop pretending youre some martyr. Shell calm down. Women...
My Relatives Took Offense When I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My Brand New Flat: How I Defended My Personal Space from Pushy Family – and Why ‘My Home Is My Castle’ Matters More Than Keeping Everyone Happy
Saturday, 27th March I can still hear Auntie Graces voice ringing in my ears from this mornings calllouder than the...
My Husband’s Relatives Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage – But I Refused to Give Them the Keys
My mum and I were chatting, and we reckon theres no point letting your cottage just sit empty over the...
Nobody’s Home
No Ones Home Robert awoke before his alarm, as he always did, at half six. The flat was hushed; the...