З життя
Неймовірна історія, що побудована на реальних подіях!
Історія ґрунтується на реальних подіях, незважаючи на те, що вона просто неймовірна!
— Я навчалася у 35-й школі, а ти?
— І я, — Антон звів брови, глянувши на дівчину. Доволі дивний збіг, але хіба в житті таке не трапляється?
Дивно, що імена у них теж були однакові. Антон та Антоніна, ніби не було в світі інших імен. Але це точно не завадить закоханим бути разом!
З Тонею вони познайомилися нещодавно в магазині. Історія дурнувата, але, мабуть, доля не знайшла нічого кращого, ніж звести їх у такому місці. Він не міг обрати оливки, а дівчина, проходячи повз, просто підказала потрібну марку. От вони й зав’язали розмову та обмінялися контактами. Хто знає, чим закінчиться кожна зі зустрічей, тому Тоня, коли Антон запросив на побачення, погодилася.
Чоловік вже мав досвід шлюбу, відчув буденність і зраду, а ось Тоня з тієї сторони ще не була, нікуди не поспішала в житті, вірячи, що щастя її точно знайде. І ось у них п’яте побачення.
Антон виглядав на свої 35, встигнувши до цього часу придбати невеликий животик і залисини. Дякуючи генам по батьковій лінії, де чоловіки блищали маківками, починаючи з 30-річного віку. Брюнет у залишках волосся, зростом до 180 см, і, як каже колишня дружина: досить симпатичний, але це не завадило їй завести роман на стороні. Додайте до цього начитаність, почуття гумору та гарні манери — вийде досить непогана партія.
Тоня ж була молодшою на десять років. Вродлива дівчина з густим каштановим волоссям до плечей, стрункою фігурою та виразними карими очима. Усмішка, як вона сама говорила, була її візитівкою, і Антон це відзначав. Вона справді могла розташувати будь-кого. Чоловіку подобалася її наївність, але при цьому Тоня не була дурна. Другою її візитівкою була вишуканість мови, він тонув у цьому голосі, розчинявся і хотів більшого.
— Римму Петрівну пам’ятаєш? — вирішив поринути у спогади Антон.
— Так-так, — усміхнулася Тоня, — у неї ще був такий перука, — вона показала рукою на голові форму, і вони розсміялися.
— Антон Павлович?
— Чехов? — не зрозуміла Тоня.
— Хом’яков.
— Учитель праці, — кивнула дівчина. — Так, був у хлопців.
Вони гуляли парком, тримаючись за руки, обговорюючи плани на майбутнє. Антону подобалося, як Тоня говорила про життя, про мрії та цілі, а ще про свою любов до літератури. Виявилося, що Тоня не лише читає, у неї навіть є свої книги, причому досить непогані, судячи з кількості читачів у мережі.
Це була дивовижна дівчина: світла, ніжна, цілеспрямована. І Антон зрозумів: боязнь другого шлюбу минає, повертаючи впевненість, що не всі жінки однакові.
Одного разу, сидячи в Тоні в гостях, вони вирішили подивитися старі альбоми з фотографіями.
— Яка ти була чарівна, — робив компліменти Антон.
— А зараз? — вирішила вловити його на слові Тоня.
— А зараз просто красуня!
Тоня потупила погляд, від його лестощів стало тепло на серці. Чоловік їй подобався. Різниці між ними вона зовсім не відчувала, бо поруч з Антоном було якось затишно й по-домашньому. Не хотілося прикидатися, щоб здаватися кращою, можна просто бути собою.
— Не може бути! — Антон був настільки вражений, що не вірив власним очам. Перед ним – його фото з Першого вересня, коли він перейшов в 11-й. Точніше майже таке ж, зроблене з іншого ракурсу, але сумнівів немає, на знімку він з незнайомою дівчинкою. Трохи вицвіла картинка навіває спогади з далекого минулого, коли йому було 17 років. Класна керівниця оголосила, що Антону випала честь нести першокласницю. Ще б пак! Серед п’яти класів випускників вибрали лише його: відмінника, який подає надії. Був ще Ромка Горохов, його вічний конкурент, але все-ж вибрали його. Дивлячись на забуте, чоловік мимоволі викликав у пам’яті спогади.
День видався хорошим, теплим. Біла нагладжена сорочка, чорні штани зі стрілками на ремені, сяючі напомажені чорні черевики. До нього підвели якусь дівчинку, звісно, він її взагалі не пам’ятає, вона була маленька, худенька і трохи налякана. Дивилася на нього знизу вгору, а він зовсім не звертав уваги, виглядаючи в натовпі Женю Сергєєву. Однокласниця давно подобалася Антону, і Першого вересня він вирішив взяти бика за роги. Вона засміялася і відкинула, але спробувати варто було, тому він ще добре пам’ятає той день.
І ось перед ним фото, де на лівому плечі сидить дівчинка в білій блузці і таких самих колготах, чорній спідниці, лакованих туфлях, а на голові два величезні банти.
— Це хто? — Антон не може відірватися від знімка, все ще не розуміючи, як він тут опинився.
— Я, — відповідає Тоня, не розуміючи, що саме здивувало чоловіка.
Він вдивляється в обличчя дитини, а потім переводить погляд на дорослу жінку.
— А це я, — його палець зупиняється на сімнадцятирічному хлопцеві, а на обличчі розпливається дивна усмішка.
— Як це? — не розуміє Тоня, підсуваючи до себе альбом.
Вона уважно вивчає підлітка, в рисах якого впізнається Антон.
— Не може бути! — тепер вже вигукує вона, ошелешено дивлячись на чоловіка. — Значить…
— Це доля, — знизує він плечима, все ще не вірячи в те, що відбувається.
І треба ж було так статися, що Антон запам’ятав те Перше вересня як важливий день у своєму житті. І нехай Женя Сергєєва відмовила, а долі довелося помучити його стільки років, тільки зараз він зрозумів, що того дня він ніс на плечі свою майбутню дружину. А Тоня дзвеніла дзвіночком, розносячи по окрузі його голос.
Вони одружилися. Це було досить просте весілля, але таке щасливе. І як годиться, наречена плакала, а чоловік обіймав і відчував: ну ось же вона, та, яку дала доля. Вдруге за життя Антон тримав наречену на руках, тільки з однією різницею: тепер вони знали одне одного.
Зараз у Тоні та Антона двоє хлопців, погодки 14 і 13 років. Жінка залишилася в літературі, даруючи читачам нові романтичні світи, адже те, що сталося з нею, навмисно не придумаєш.
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“I Had to Get a Separate Fridge So Mum Would Stop Taking My Shopping” — says Anna. “It’s a ridiculous situation, but there’s no other way. I’m not against selling the flat and sharing the money, but she refuses”. Anna recently turned 24. She’s earned her university degree and found work, but hasn’t settled down yet. Living in her own home isn’t easy. Anna owns half of the flat. It used to belong to her father. She and her mother inherited equal shares when Anna was 14. Ten years ago, things were tough for the family—they lost their breadwinner. Anna’s mum quit her job when Anna was small, deciding against maternity leave because her husband earned well and they were comfortable. She focused on being a homemaker. After Anna’s father died, her mother sobbed, “Who’s going to hire a forty-year-old like me now? What, as a cleaner?” Anna continues: “I was getting a family pension, but Mum couldn’t resist trips to the salon and shopping, even though we were barely scraping by. Her brother helped at first, but then he’d had enough. My uncle told Ali (my mum) she’d have to find work. He has his own kids — he can’t support everyone. After about a year, Ali brought a new man home. His name was Derek. She announced he’d be living with us. Mum tried to solve the money problem by getting married again. Derek did earn good money, but he didn’t get along with me at all. Derek would say: ‘All you do is eat. You’d be better off with a load of laundry or cleaning. Why do you have to do homework? University? Forget it—you should work instead. Or do you think I’ll just keep feeding you?’ I couldn’t say anything. Yes, I was getting a pension, but Mum had control of the money. She never defended me from my stepdad. She was afraid of losing her breadwinner. ‘How will we cope without him?’ she asked me. ‘Don’t argue so much, just do what he says. He provides for the family.’ I made it to university and found a job. Even so, Derek thought of me as another mouth to feed and was always counting what he spent on me. “Six months after I started work, I could afford my own fridge,” Anna says. “I put it in my bedroom because Derek locked the kitchen fridge.” ‘You’ve got a job now? Feed yourself,’ Derek said. Ali fell silent again. Even when Derek showed me the utility bills and demanded I pay for everything he’d ever spent on me. Eventually, Derek lost his job. He and Mum began raiding my fridge. The bills all landed on me. At first, I paid. But Derek sat around unemployed for nearly a year. I’d had enough, so I put a padlock on my fridge. Of course, Mum objected, claiming Derek had kept us fed all this time. I said, ‘Help me out, if you want. I’m not the first one sharing everything in this house. Go get a job.’ Derek recently moved out. Mum’s had enough of a man who brings in no money. But I’m still not taking the padlock off my fridge. I believe Mum should work too. What do you think—is she right?
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You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister—You’ve Got Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister! Not long ago, we celebrated my sister-in-law’s birthday. Alina has never had any friendly feelings towards me, and I’ve always felt the same about her. The celebration brought together all our relatives: grandparents, nephews, and of course the birthday girl. Each relative felt obliged to congratulate my husband on his sister’s birthday, while also admiring his generosity. My husband and I graciously accepted the congratulations, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. In my hand was an envelope containing £100 as a present. I thought it was a decent gift for the occasion, though hardly a display of extraordinary generosity. Everything became clear when my mother-in-law began her birthday speech for Alina. “Mark,” she said, “it’s your sister’s birthday today. She’s still single and without a partner, so as her older brother you should look after her and guarantee her security. Now that you own two flats, you’ll give one to Alina.” The room burst into applause while I nearly fell off my chair at the cheekiness of it all. But it didn’t end there. “Brother, make sure you give me the one in the new build! So, when can I move in?” Alina pressed, and I decided it was time for some clarification. My husband and I actually have two flats. One I inherited from my grandmother; we did a bit of redecorating and now rent it out. The money from that pays the mortgage for our flat in the new building—where we actually live. My husband has no rights to the flat I inherited; I’ve always planned to pass it on to our child—my sister-in-law isn’t even in the picture. “Forget it, the rented flat is mine and the one you’re dreaming about is our home.” “Child, you’re quite mistaken. You’re my son’s wife, so all your assets are jointly owned and should be managed by your husband,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “I have no issue with you helping, but not with my assets!” I said. “Mark, do you have anything to add?” “Darling, you and I will earn more money and buy another flat. Let’s just give this one to Alina; it’s her birthday today.” “Are you serious?” I asked, astonished. “If it ever comes to that, you can give her half of our flat after we file for divorce!” “Aren’t you ashamed to speak to your husband like that? If you want a divorce, you’ll get one! Son, pack your things and come home. And you—you’re vile and greedy!” my mother-in-law snapped. After that, I left that crazy house. I wasn’t going to stick around with people who think they have the right to dispose of my property.
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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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