З життя
Несподіване відкриття вдома: колись подарований кошеня виріс!
Василь повернувся додому і ахнув…
Півроку тому йому подарували маленьке кошеня, якого назвали Куля. Племінниця, інколи навідувалася до нього в гості з родиною, знайшла малюка на вулиці. І, передаючи з рук в руки, сказала:
— Ти ж живеш самотньо. Пару ніяк не знайдеш. Робота у тебе нервова — водій автобуса. Прийдеш додому, а тут на тебе чекають. Коти — вони створюють затишок і спокій…
Ну, як! Він повірив. Чому б і ні, думає. Можливо, і насправді так. Повертаєшся додому, весь вимотаний пасажирами і водіями, які не бажають поступитися дорогою, а тут поряд — спокійно лежить на дивані. Муркоче й гладитись хоче.
Ну, ви, звісно, розумієте, пані та панове, це він з неопитності так думав. Кіт не виправдав його очікувань і з слухняного й приємного малюка перетворився на підлітка-неслуха. На руках сидіти він не любив, а от пустувати… Скільки хочеш!
З неопитності Василь купив мухобійку, якою ловив мух. Маленьких вертких чи величезних, яких чомусь називають гноєвими. І слідкував Куля за Василем, що бив мух наполегливо, дуже уважно. Запам’ятовував, напевно, інформацію збирав. І одного разу вирішив догодити своєму людині. І догодив…
Ну, так ось, повертаємося до того моменту, з якого почали.
***
Василь зайшов до хати і ахнув. Нічого! Цілком нічого не лежало і не стояло в його квартирі. Розгром був такий, що можна було припустити, що дві банди гангстерів влаштували розбірки прямо у нього дома, і вони працювали… бітами!
Столи були перевернені. Вазони, келихи і загалом усе, що стояло чи лежало на столі, підвіконнях і тумбочках, тепер вкрило підлогу, рівномірно розподіливши осколки скла, глини та пластмаси…
Штори нагадували смужки спідниці якоїсь модниці, а на кухні… Кетчуп перетік в солоні помідори і варення. Там же акуратними гірками були розсипані сіль, цукор і перець. Вилки та ложки валялися купками. Штори на кухні були оборвані разом з карнизом і лежали у всьому цьому розкішному безладі, а на абсолютно порожньому обідньому столі…
Сидів дуже задоволений Куля, і перед ним лежала муха. Величезна, як літак. Куля дивився на Василя очима переможця і задоволено муркотів.
От зараз! Зараз Василь похвалить його. Цілий день, не змикаючи лап і не шкодуючи зусиль, він ганявся по квартирі, ловлячи цю нахабну муху. Зморився надзвичайно, але спіймав! І тепер може виставити її напоказ і отримати заслужену нагороду.
Від таких приємних думок Куля аж лапками затрусив.
Василь підняв стілець і сів на нього. Він не знав, що робити спочатку: прибирати, вечеряти чи лаятися з Кулею, але довго думати не довелося. Бо в двері подзвонили. Він піднявся і, пройшовши в коридор, відкрив. Тепер його здивування зросло.
У коридорі стояли троє поліцейських, а за ними — чоловік десять сусідів. Поліцейські тримали руки на рукоятках пістолетів.
— Нам подзвонили… — почав один із них.
— Багато разів, — додав інший. — І повідомили, що у вас в квартирі відбувається щось дуже погане. Падають меблі і ламаються тарілки. Чується страшний вереск і виття. Чи не могли б ви дозволити нам увійти в квартиру і переконатися, що все гаразд, а ви… про всяк випадок… підніміть руки, будь ласка, схрестіть їх на голові й відійдіть у дальній кут кімнати.
Сусіди дивилися на Василя з острахом і засудженням.
— Ось воно як вийшло, — сказав Василь. І додав: — Проходьте, прошу!
Він відійшов у дальній кут кімнати і схрестив руки на голові. Поліцейські обходили квартиру, спостерігаючи страшний розгром і щось шукаючи, переходячи з кімнати в кімнату.
— Що ви шукаєте? — поцікавився Василь.
— Тіло, — відповів один з поліцейських. — І ваше пояснення того, що сталося.
— Ах, тіло! Тіло я вам зараз покажу, — погодився Василь.
Поліцейські миттєво насторожилися і опустили руки на рукоятки пістолетів. Обережно, по стіні, намагаючись не робити різких рухів, Василь пройшов до кухні. І, розчинивши двері, зробив широкий жест.
— Прошу! — сказав він. — Ось тіло.
Поліцейські відштовхнули його в бік і ввалилися на кухню. Тіло сиділо на столі і нахабно усміхалося. Тілу подобалася увага. А перед ним лежала муха.
Кілька секунд у кімнаті запанувала тиша, поки поліцейські приходили до тями і оглядалися. А потім в їхніх очах почало означатися розуміння. Першим засміявся той, який почав розмову, а слідом за ним розвеселилися й інші.
Вони реготали і не могли зупинитися, а Куля дивився на них і на Василя переможним поглядом, наче кажучи: «Ну от. Бачиш? Всі задоволені. А отже, я старався не дарма!».
Потім поліцейські ще півгодини робили фотографії з мухою і Кулею на руках на фоні влаштованого ним розгрому. Всі сміялися і були дуже задоволені. Найбільше був задоволений кіт. Ще би! Усі оцінили його старання належним чином.
***
Коли поліція та сусіди пішли, Василь знову сів на стілець.
— Я вам допоможу, — почув він голос і обернувся. Поруч стояла жінка з першого поверху.
— У мене сьогодні вихідний, — сказала вона і усміхнулася. — Ви самі провозитесь до ночі, а разом ми швиденько впораємося.
— Мені так незручно вас турбувати, — зніяковів Василь.
— Що ви! — усміхнулася йому у відповідь жінка. — Все нормально. Мені все одно нічого робити. Я одна. Нікого у мене немає. Тільки мама. У неї квартира поблизу. А ви будете якось карати цього шибеника, ну, чи хоч трохи сварити? — спитала вона з кивком на Кулю.
Той сидів на столі на кухні й ганяв правою лапою величезну муху.
— Що ж, сварити… — Зітхнув Василь. — Зараз посварю…
Він піднявся і, підійшовши до Кулі, взяв його на руки:
— Ти ж якийсь шибеник! Хіба так можна? Ні. Не можна.
Куля перебирал лапами — тато сварив його. Причому так красиво й ласкаво, що втриматися було неможливо, і він, потягнувшись угору, лизнув свого чоловіка прямо в ліву щоку, а Василь… Поцілував його в ніс.
— Ну й добре. Ось і молодець, — сказав він Кулі. — Значить, все правильно зрозумів. Щоб більше такого не робив.
І опустив кота на підлогу. Куля задер хвіст і пішов тертися об ноги жінки. Та сміялась.
— Ох як гарно ви його посварили, — посміхнулася вона. — А чому я вас раніше не помічала?
— Не знаю, — відповів Василь. — Може, тому що я раніше нещасний був, а тепер, як у мене з’явився Куля, щастя додалося.
І він рукою показав на розгром, влаштований котом.
Жінка набрала телефон знайомого майстра, і на наступний день Василю поставили міцну сітку на всі вікна. І Куля тепер міг спокійно лежати на підвіконні і дивитися на пташок і великих жирних мух.
А жінка і Василь прибрали весь безлад, винесли і викинули всі розбиті тарілки, помили підлогу, зняли порвані штори. І поїхали по магазинах вибирати нові.
Повернулися вони ввечері, Василь накупив різних закусок і дуже смачний тортик. І пляшку шампанського. Ну, ви розумієте, пані та панове. Щоб відсвяткувати новосілля. У стару квартиру. Разом з жінкою.
Вони сиділи за столом на кухні, їли, пили і розмовляли. І їм було добре, а особливо добре було Кулі. Він лежав на колінах у жінки і замислив… нову допомогу татові.
***
Загалом, все закінчилося відмінно. І Куля, звичайно, відчайдушно допомагає двом. Татові і новій мамі. Яка прийшла в їхню квартиру єдино тому, що знайшла його, Кулю. І визнала в ньому свого рідненького кота.
І тепер тато з мамою разом усувають наслідки його допомоги.
А що ж ви собі думаєте?
А як інакше?
А інакше ніяк…
After Telling My Wife That Her Daughter Isn’t My Responsibility, the Truth About Our Family Was Finally Revealed
After I told my wife that her daughter wasnt my responsibility, the truth about our family finally came to light....
“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?
I had to bring in my own fridge just so Mum wouldnt keep taking my groceries. I had no choice...
You Simply Don’t Know What Happiness Is – A Story of Half a Million Pounds, a Mother-in-Law’s Interference, and Escaping a Controlling Marriage for a Second Chance at Love in London
You Just Dont Realise Your Own Luck Half a million? I read the notification on my phone three times before...
Husband Refuses to Give Apartment Inherited from His Aunt to Our Daughter, Sparking a Family Dispute Over Fairness to Our Sons and the Future of Our Children
My husband inherited a small flat in the heart of London from his aunt years ago. The flat isnt spacious,...
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.
You are the elder brother, so you must help your younger sister. You own two flats, give one to your...
My Thrifty Friends Invited Me to a Birthday Party—But I Went Home Hungry
My frugal friends invited me to a birthday party. I came home hungry. I have a particular group of friends...
You Simply Don’t Know What Happiness Is – A Story of Half a Million Pounds, a Mother-in-Law’s Interference, and Escaping a Controlling Marriage for a Second Chance at Love in London
You Just Dont Realise Your Own Luck Half a million? I read the notification on my phone three times before...
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.
Completely letting go was impossible Every evening, Peter heads home from his job in London by Tube, then hops on...