З життя
«Не дам своїй матері опинитися в будинку престарілих!» — тітка з рішучістю забрала хвору бабусю, а через три місяці виявилось, що вона віддала її до притулку для літніх людей.
«Я не дозволю, щоб моя мама опинилася у будинку для літніх людей!» — тітка із нарочитою рішучістю забрала хвору бабусю до себе, а через три місяці ми дізналися, що вона віддала її в притулок для стареньких.
Я ніколи не забуду той день, коли тітка Світлана, сестра моєї мами, з театральним пафосом забрала нашу хвору бабусю Ніну до себе. Це було справжнє видовище, сповнене гучних слів, звинувачень і гірких сліз. Скільки ж образливих фраз ми тоді вислухали від неї! Вона кричала так, що здавалося, її голос лунав по всьому селищу, наче вона хотіла, щоб кожен сусід в нашому маленькому містечку під Рівним знав, яка вона «праведниця», а які ми «безсердечні».
— Я не дозволю, щоб моя мама гнила у будинку для літніх людей! У мене є совість, не те що у вас! — кидала вона в обличчя моїй мамі з такою люттю, що в мені досі мурахи по шкірі від тих спогадів.
Її слова звучали як цитати з якоїсь книги про сімейні цінності, але за ними ховалася лише злоба та осуд. Вона виставляла себе героїнею, а нас — мало не зрадниками. Але справа була зовсім не в совісті, а в тому, що бабуся дійсно потребувала серйозної допомоги, яку ми вже не могли їй надати.
Все почалося після того, як у бабусі стався інсульт. Її здоров’я зруйнувалося, як картковий будиночок: пам’ять підводила, вона могла загубитися у власній кімнаті, час від часу плакала без причини, а її поведінка ставала загадкою. Іноді з цим можна було справитися, але такі моменти ставали все частішими і небезпечнішими. Одного разу ми повернулися додому і побачили картину, від якої замерзла кров: всі лампи у будинку горіли, з кранів лилася вода, а газова плита була увімкнута. Бабуся сиділа у кутку і щось бурмотіла, не розуміючи, що мало не влаштувала пожежу. Слава богу, ми встигли вчасно, інакше трагедії не уникнути.
Після чергового візиту до лікаря нам сказали страшну правду: стан бабусі лише буде погіршуватися. Ліки могли трохи загальмувати цей кошмар, але надії на диво не було. Ми зрозуміли, що вона більше не може дбати про себе, а ми не здатні бути поруч 24 години на добу. Робота, діти, побут — все це не відпускало нас, і серце розривалося від безсилля.
Після довгих суперечок і сліз ми вирішили шукати хороший будинок для літніх людей, де про бабусю подбають професіонали, де їй буде затишно і безпечно. Ми не збиралися її кидати — ми хотіли дати їй найкраще, що могли знайти в цій ситуації. Але коли про це дізналася тітка Світлана, яка жила у сусідньому Тернополі, вона примчалася до нас мов фурія, готова зруйнувати все на своєму шляху.
— Як ви взагалі можете думати про те, щоб здати рідну матір у притулок? У неї є діти, а ви хочете від неї позбутися, мов від старих меблів! — кричала вона, блискаючи очима.
Її слова різали, як ножі. А потім вона, не слухаючи наших пояснень, просто забрала бабусю до себе, грюкнувши дверима так, що шибки задрижали. Ми залишилися в тиші, оглушені її гнівом і власною розгубленістю.
Минуло три місяці. Три довгих місяці, повних тривоги за бабусю. І раптом до нас дійшла новина, яка перевернула все догори дриґом: тітка Світлана віддала бабусю у будинок спокійної старості. Так, та сама жінка, яка клялася совістю і звинувачувала нас у безсердечності, сама не впоралася. Виявилося, що догляд за хворою старенькою — це не гучні слова, а важка праця, до якої вона була не готова.
Іронія долі обпекла мене, мов розжарене залізо. Хотілося набрати її номер і закричати в слухавку: «Де ж тепер твоя хвалена совість, тітко Свєто? Де твої обіцянки?» Але вона не брала слухавку. Вочевидь, до неї дійшло, що вона перестаралася, що її гординя зіграла з нею лихий жарт. Тільки ось вибачитись чи визнати свою помилку у неї не вистачило духу. Ми залишилися з цим гірким післясмаком лицемірства, а бабуся — у чужих стінах, далеко від нас усіх.
– 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?
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“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.
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