З життя
Останнім часом вона сильно змінилася.
Останнім часом Галина суттєво здала. Ні, вона не була хворою чи надто старою: рідна донька обрубала їй життя. Ось вже рік Галя жила у мене і майже не вставала з ліжка. Якось сусідка попросила мене зателефонувати до Христини, її пасербиці.
— Нехай приїде. Винен хочу визнати.
— Галь, чому ти сама не телефонуєш?
Галя опустила очі.
— Боюся, не приїде, якщо я сама подзвоню. Краще вже ти, — безсило прошепотіла вона і зайнялася слізьми.
Я набрала номер Христини.
— Христиночко? Це сусідка твоєї тітки Галі. Вона просить тебе приїхати.
— Тітка Віра? Що трапилося? — затараторив схвильований голос Христини.
— Приїжджай, доню. На місці розберешся, — відповіла я і поклала слухавку.
— Приїде? — з надією спитала сусідка.
— Приїде! Христиночка у тебе добра, — відповіла я, а про себе подумала: “Шкода Галю. Але на місці Христини я б не поїхала…”
Тієї ночі я провела без сну: все лежала і пригадувала Христину. Багато води утекло з того часу, як ця маленька східна дівчинка з’явилася в нашому селі. Дівчинку привіз з Казахстану її батько, Іван. Він служив у Астані, там і одружився. Народилася Христина. Його дружина померла, коли доньці виповнилося 6 років, і Іван повернувся додому разом із Христиною. Дівчинку одразу охрестили. Батюшка назвав її Настею, але ми всі звали її Христиною. Незабаром Іван одружився на Галині, і у них народилася Світланка. Спочатку все було нормально, тільки Христинка ніяк не могла назвати Галину мамою. Усе тітка Галя та тітка Галя…
— Годую цю басурманку, як рідну дитину її люблю! Невже я не заслужила, щоб вона матір’ю мене назвала? — скаржилася вона.
— Заспокойся, Галь! Дівчинка вже велика була, коли свою маму втратила! Пам’ятає вона її! Потерпи! Дивишся і назве тебе матір’ю! А не назве — Бог з нею! Смирись! Дитина ж!
Але Галина не змирилася. Не змогла! З кожним днем вона люто ненавиділа пасербицю: навантажувала її непосильною працею, намагалася болючіше образити або пнути при кожній нагоді. Іван не помічав нічого, наче сліпий був. Він працював у колгоспі на тракторі і вдома бував рідко. При ньому Галина поводилася цілком пристойно, а сама Христина ніколи не скаржилася батькові.
Вона росла працьовитою, терплячою і не за роками мудрою дівчиною. Такою пасербицею слід було б гордитися, але Галя не змирилася.
Пригадую, малечі було всього сім, а мачуха змушувала її няньчити Світлану, таскати в величезних відрах воду з криниці, полоти город і доїти корову. Нам, сусідам, було дуже шкода дівчинку.
— Що ти витворяєш, Галь? Грішно знущатися над сиротою! — намагалася я врозуміти Галину.
— Нічого цій басурманці не зробиться! Нехай відпрацьовує свій хліб! — злісно пихтіла Галина.
Якось Христина в чомусь провинилася перед мачухою, і та побила її. На щастя, це побачила я і відібрала в неї дитину. Хотіла я тоді все розказати Івану й відкрити очі на його дружину… Але не наважилась лізти в чужу сім’ю. Ох, і журила ж я себе потім за свою боягузтво!
Трапилося одного разу, що Христина не догледіла за Світланкою, і та зникла з двору. Знайшлася вона досить швидко, але Галина була просто ошаліла! Ні, вона не побила Христину: тут інше…
Іван тоді якраз у нічному полі пахав. Вранці приїхав він з поля раніше звичного, а старшої дочки ніде немає! Галина якраз корову в стадо гнала. Іван кинувся шукати Христину, але її ніде не було! І постіль її ще з вечора не розібрана…
Батьківське серце відчуло недобре. Рано вранці прибіг Іван до мене! Разом з ним ми шукали дівчинку: кричали, звали! Іван навіть у криницю заглянув, але, на щастя, дитини там не було. Раптом він побачив замок на коморі й зірвав замок сокирою. На купі старого, погризеного щурами ганчір’я спала його Христина!
Добряче покарав тоді Іван свою жінку! Побоялися ми, що насмерть заб’є, виступили в захист! Хотів розлучитися, але залишився з нею лише заради Світланки! А Галя після того випадку стала терпиміше ставитися до своєї пасербиці.
Полюбила вона її, як свою доньку? Ні, не думаю: Галина просто боялася чоловіка. Життя в їхній родині почало поступово налагоджуватися. Але Христина перестала розмовляти і замкнулася в собі. Даремно Іван показував дочку найзнаменитішим лікарям! Куди тільки він її не возив, навіть до цілителів! Але нічого не допомагало: дівчинка все так само мовчала. Іван сам не свій ходив…
Тоді він вчинив радикально: розлучився з дружиною, забрав Христину і поїхав. Молодшій Світланці Іван регулярно платив аліменти. Минали роки. Світлана виросла, вийшла заміж і поїхала з чоловіком до столиці. З матір’ю у них стався якийсь конфлікт, і Світлана викреслила її з життя.
Для Галини настали справді чорні дні. Можна її зрозуміти: в цім житті сусідка любила лише свою Світланку. Вона була для неї єдиним світлом у віконці! А тут усе життя раптом закінчилося…
Галина почала ходити до церкви, молилася, плакала! Просила Господа, щоб він пом’якшив кам’яне серце її доньки! Всі зусилля — марні! Світлана не писала їй, не телефонувала, не приїжджала! Тоді нещасна мати поїхала до неї сама, але донька її навіть на поріг не пустила!
А що ж Христина? Я бачила її пару років тому на похоронах Івана. Він помер, і Христина вирішила поховати свого тата в рідному селі. Вона виросла, покращала, розцвіла. З маленької пригнобленої дівчинки Христина перетворилася на справжню східну красуню. І мова до неї теж повністю повернулася! Разом з Христиною приїхали її чоловік і двоє маленьких синів. А Світлана навіть на похорон батька не прийшла!
Зате вона прикотила через тиждень і попросила матір переоформити на неї будинок.
– Донечко, але ж я жива ще… – розгубилася Галя.
– Мамусю, живи. Але ж раніше чи пізніше це станеться! Мені доведеться вступати у спадщину, а це ціла купа непотрібної волокити! Легше зробити це заздалегідь.
Галина послухалась і поступилась дочці. Вони переоформили будинок, і Світланка одразу ж поїхала. Повернулася вона вже з покупцями і викинула матір з її ж будинку. А потім забрала гроші і зникла. Це остаточно зламало Галю. Сусідка тяжко захворіла, і я забрала її до себе. Ось така от доля…
Ніч у нас обох пройшла без сну, у важких, непростих думках. Я була впевнена, що Христина не приїде, адже стільки поганого завдала їй її мачуха! Ходила по будинку, робила вигляд, що зайнята домашніми справами, і боялася глянути в очі Галі. Христина приїхала лише вдень. Я залишила їх з Галиною наодинці. Вони довго розмовляли і, нарешті, обидві вийшли з кімнати. Я помітила, що Галя оживилася і навіть помолодшала.
— Тітка Віра, я забираю маму Галю до себе. Допоможете зібрати її речі? — попросила Христина.
— Христиночко, дитинко! Дякую тобі, але я зовсім слабка… Не перенесу дорогу…
— Нічого! У нас ви швидко одужаєте! Онуки не дадуть вам нудьгувати! Та й мені веселіше буде з вами! — усміхнулася Христина.
Я зібрала речі Галини, і вони поїхали. Пізніше Христина зателефонувала і повідомила, що добре доїхали. Вони мені досі дзвонять: то Христина, то Галя…
Галина розповідає мені про своє нове життя. Про свою Світланку вона мовчить. Та я й не питаю: не хочу ворушити її ніколи незаживаючу рану. Зате про Христину, про зятя і онуків Галина розповідає мені з невимовним захопленням і гордістю. Я слухаю її і думаю, яким же великим, щедрим і милосердним виявилося серце у цієї дівчинки! А ж з самого дитинства вона так багато пережила… Не кожен дорослий витримав би таке!
Христина виявилася мудрою і дуже сильною: не зламалася і витримала все. А світла душа її так і залишилася незаймана цією брудом. Вона залишилася такою ж: чистою, красивою і не пам’ятаючою ніякого зла…
To Remain Human: A December Evening at Bristol Coach Station and the Unexpected Power of Simple Kindness
Remaining Human Mid-December in the city of Nottingham is raw and blustery. A sprinkling of slushy snow only half-shields the...
“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.
Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband. These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed...
Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, thoughtful feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and my sincerest gratitude for all donations from me and my five beloved cats. Please, if you enjoyed the story, share it on social media – authors appreciate it more than you’d think!
Marrying Outside the Lines Thank you all for your support, kind comments, and for following my stories. A special heartfelt...
How to Set Your Husband Straight: A Heartfelt Story of Recovery, Five Feline Friends, and Finding Strength After Illness
Reining In My Husband. A Diary Entry Thank you for your kindness, for every like, comment, and thoughtful response to...
A House Full of Uninvited Guests: Or, How My Husband’s Home Became a Never-Ending Refuge for Distant “Relatives,” Strangers, and the Occasional Professor, Complete With Volleyball Tournaments in December and Auntie Marsha’s Famous Pancakes
A House Overrun with Uninvited Guests – Cant these dear souls go and live somewhere else? asked Alice, raising her...
How My Future Mother-in-Law Ruined Our Holiday: The Story of an English Family Vacation Gone Awkward, Complete with Last-Minute Substitutions, Reluctant Travel Partners, and Lessons Learned Before Saying ‘I Do’
Its just Being alone with my daughter on holiday, its frightening, you know? Margaret swept her hand through the air...
“I Gave Birth to Your Son, But We Don’t Want Anything from You” – The Mistress Called Lera’s husband looked at her like a chastened dog. “That’s right, you didn’t mishear me, Lera. I… I had someone else, half a year ago. Just a few times—nothing serious, just a fling. And now, she’s given birth to my son. Recently…” Lera’s head was spinning. Talk about earth-shattering news! Her steady, loving husband, a child on the side! The meaning of what he said barely penetrated. For a moment, she simply stared. He sat across from her, shoulders hunched, hands squeezed tight between his knees. He seemed smaller than usual—deflated somehow. “A son, then,” repeated Lera. “So, you, a married man, now have a son. And it wasn’t your wife who gave birth. Not me…” “Lera, honestly, I didn’t even know. I swear.” “You didn’t know how babies are made? You’re forty, Nick.” “I didn’t know she’d… well, that she’d choose to keep it. We broke up long ago, she’s with her husband now. I thought that was it.” He fumbled with his words. “Then, yesterday, a call: ‘You’ve got a son. Seven pounds, healthy.’ And then she hung up…” Lera stood, legs unsteady, knees like jelly as if she’d just run a marathon. Outside, autumn raged. Lera found herself distracted by the view—beautiful, even now. “So what now?” she asked, her back to him. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Oh, great answer. A real man’s answer. You don’t know.” She spun around. “Are you going over there? To see him?” Nick, panic in his eyes, managed to mumble, “Lera, she gave me the hospital’s address, said discharge is in two days. She said: ‘Come if you want, don’t if you don’t. We don’t want anything from you.’” “Very noble of her…” Lera echoed. “‘We don’t want anything.’ How naive…” The front door slammed—her two eldest had returned. Instantly, Lera slipped on a smile. Years in business had taught her to keep her head up, even when a deal was falling apart. Their older son poked his head into the kitchen—a tall, broad-shouldered lad, twenty. “Hey, Mum, Dad. You both look glum! Mum, is there any food? We’re starving after training.” “Manty in the fridge, heat it up,” she replied automatically. “Dad, you promised to look at the carburettor on my rust-bucket,” called out her younger son, clapping Nick’s shoulder. The family scene stabbed at Lera’s heart. They called him Dad. Their real father had faded into the background years ago—now just money transfers and the occasional postcard. Nick had raised them: taught them to drive, patched scraped knees, handled school issues. He was their real dad. “I’ll take a look, Alex,” Nick smiled. “Give Mum and me a minute.” They left, clattering plates. Lera turned to him. “They love you,” she whispered. “And yet you…” “Lera, stop it. I love them too. They’re my boys. And I’m not leaving. I’ve told you—it was a mistake, an error in judgment. Nothing serious.” “Nothing serious—just the kind of mistake that leads to changing nappies,” she shot back. Their six-year-old daughter, Maisie, then burst in, and Lera’s composure cracked. Maisie leapt into her dad’s lap. “Daddy! Why are you sad? Did Mum scold you?” Nick pulled her close, burying his face in her pale hair. For her, Lera knew, he would do anything. “No, princess. Just adult stuff. Go pop on cartoons, I’ll be in soon.” With Maisie gone, silence fell again. “Everything’s changed, you know,” Lera said quietly, sitting again. “There’s a son out there, and he needs a dad. That woman says ‘nothing now’, but give it time—when there’s winter coats to buy or doctor’s bills, she’ll ring. And you’ll go. You’re kind-hearted, Nick—you always have been.” He said nothing. “And the money, Nick? Where are you going to get that?” Lera’s words hit their mark. His business collapsed two years ago—their debts paid from her earnings. He scraped by now, but everything important—home, cars, holidays, the kids’ education—came from her. Even his bank card was one attached to her account. “I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Driving Ubers at night? Or dipping into my purse to support your lovechild? I bankroll us, and now you’ll bankroll them—with my money?” “She’s not my mistress!” Nick barked. “It was over six months ago!” “Children have a way of binding people closer than any marriage certificate. Will you go to the hospital when they discharge her?” The question hung in the air. Nick covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know, Lera. Human decency says I should—after all, it’s not the child’s fault.” “And what about human decency toward me? Toward Maisie and the boys? You’ll hold that child, and you’ll get attached. Soon it’ll be weekly visits… then weekends away. You’ll start lying—to me, to the kids.” Nick grimaced. “She’s eight years younger than me, Nick. Thirty-two. She gave you a son—your own, flesh and blood. My sons aren’t yours by blood, as much as you raised them. That boy out there—he is.” Nick protested: “Nonsense. The boys are mine. I raised them.” “Men always want a legacy. Their very own.” “We have Maisie!” “She’s a girl, Nick…” Nick stood abruptly. “Enough! Stop pushing me out the door. I said I’m staying. I can’t just ignore the fact that somewhere there’s my own son. If you want me gone, I’ll leave—right now, pack my things and be gone. But don’t try to blackmail me, Lera!” Lera froze. If she said “leave” now, he would go—foolish, prideful, and broke. But he’d go straight to them. There, he’d be a hero, a savior, father—albeit a penniless one, but theirs. And then she’d lose him for good. Despite the pain, she didn’t want that. The children loved him. She did, too. “SIT,” she whispered. “No one’s throwing you out.” He hesitated, breathing heavily, then sat. “Lera, I’m sorry. I’m such a fool…” “A fool,” she agreed. “But MY fool…” That evening, Lera helped Maisie with homework, checked work emails… but her thoughts kept drifting. She pictured the other woman, young and beautiful, probably feeling victorious. “We don’t want anything!”—the most damning move of all. No demands, no drama, just presenting the facts. That pricks a man’s pride—makes him want to be the hero. Nick tossed and turned at night; Lera lay awake, staring into the dark. She was forty-five: gorgeous, stylish, successful—but aware that youth was not forever. The future belonged to that other woman. * The next morning was harder still. The boys ate quickly and left. Maisie cornered her father: “Daddy, braid my hair? Mum doesn’t do it right!” Nick obliged, his large hands strangely gentle. Lera sipped her coffee and watched: here was her husband—warm, familiar, hers. And out there was another child, who had the same claim. How was this fair? “Nick,” she said, as Maisie rushed off to dress. “We need to decide—now.” He set the brush aside. “I thought about it all night.” “And?” “I’m not going to the hospital.” Lera felt something tighten in her chest, but hid it. “Why?” “Because if I go, I’ll give hope—to her, to myself, to that child. I can’t be a part-time dad, split between two homes. I don’t want to lie to you, Lera. I don’t want to steal time from Maisie or the boys.” He looked at her, exhausted. “I chose you eleven years ago. You’re my wife. This—this is my family.” “And the boy?” Even she was surprised to hear herself ask it. “I’ll pay support. Through the courts or with a bank account—whatever’s needed. But visits? No. Better he grows up never knowing me, than waiting for a father who’s just watching the clock, desperate to get home to his real family. That’s fairer.” Lera was silent, rolling her wedding ring around her finger. “You’re sure you won’t regret this?” “I probably will,” Nick admitted. “I’ll worry, I’m sure. But if I go, I lose you—and you won’t stand for that. You’re strong, but not made of stone. You’ll start to hate me, and I can’t let that happen.” He crossed the kitchen, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want another life. I want you—and the kids. The rest is the price for my mistake. I’ll pay in money, and only in money. No time. No attention. That’s all I’ve got to give.” She placed her hand over his. “Your own money?” she smirked. “I’ll earn it. I’ll find a way. I’ll never ask for your help with this.” And with that, she was at peace. Her husband may not have behaved honourably toward her, but these were exactly the words she had needed. No sharing. The other woman could deal with her choices. Nick never went to the hospital. The mistress soon flooded his phone with angry voicemails. He told her bluntly: she could expect financial support, nothing more. She hung up, and for half a year—there wasn’t another word from her. Lera was more than satisfied with that.
I’ve had a son by you, but we want nothing from you, rang the voice down the phone his mistress....
Gathered My Things and Set Off in Peace, My Wife Declared
Emily packed her suitcase, scrawled off in peace on a napkin, and drifted out the door like a sigh. Yesterday....