З життя
Останнім часом вона сильно змінилася.
В останнім часом Зінаїда сильно здала. Ні, вона не була хворою чи занадто старою: рідна дочка зруйнувала її життя. Ось уже рік Зіна жила в мене і майже не вставала. Якось сусідка попросила мене подзвонити Уляні, її прийомній доньці.
— Нехай приїде. Повинитися хочу.
— Зіно, чому сама не подзвониш?
Зіна опустила очі.
— Боюсь, не приїде, якщо зателефоную сама. Краще вже ти, — безсило прошипіла вона і заплакала.
Я набрала номер Уляни.
— Уляночка? Це сусідка твоєї тітки Зіни. Вона просить тебе приїхати.
— Тітко Віро? Що сталося? — занепокоєно заговорив голос Уляни.
— Приїжджай, доню. На місці розберешся, — відповіла я і поклала трубку.
— Приїде? — з надією запитала сусідка.
— Приїде! Уляна в тебе добра, — відповіла я, а про себе подумала: “Шкода Зіну. Але на місці Уляни я б не приїхала…”
Ту ніч я провела без сну: все лежала і згадувала Уляну. Багато води утекло з тих пір, коли ця маленька дівчинка з’явилася в нашому селі. Дівчинку привіз її батько, Іван, з Донецька. Він служив в армії, там і одружився. Народилася Уляна. Його дружина померла, коли доньці виповнилося 6 років, і Іван повернувся додому разом з Уляною.
Дівчинку одразу охрестили. Батюшка назвав її Ніною, але ми всі звали Уляною. Незабаром Іван одружився на Зіні, і у них народилася Світлана. Спочатку все було добре, тільки Уляна ніяк не могла назвати Зінаїду мамою. Все “Тітка Зіна” та “Тітка Зіна”…
— Годую цю басурманку чорнолику, пою… Як рідну доньку її плекаю! Невже я не заслужила, щоб вона називала мене матір’ю? — скаржилася вона.
— Заспокойся, Зіно! Дівчинка вже велика була, коли рідну маму втратила! Пам’ятає вона її! Потерпи! Глядиш і назве тебе матір’ю! А не назве — Бог з нею! Смирись! Дитина ж!”
Але Зінаїда не змирилася. Не змогла! З кожним днем все більше ненавиділа падчерку: навантажувала її непосильною роботою, старалася болісніше образити її чи штовхнути при кожній нагоді. Іван нічого не помічав, наче був сліпий. Він працював у колгоспі на тракторі і вдома бував рідко. У його присутності Зінаїда вела себе цілком пристойно, а сама Уляна батькові ніколи не скаржилася. Вона росла працьовитою, терплячою і не по рокам мудрою дівчинкою. Такою падчеркою пишатися б треба, але Зіна ніяк не вгамувалася.
Пам’ятаю, дівчинці було всього сім, а мачуха примушувала її няньчити Світлану, носити в величезних відрах воду з колодязя, полоти город і доїти корову. Нам, сусідам, було дуже шкода дівчинку.
— Що ти виробляєш, Зіно? Гріх знущатися над сиротою! — намагалася я урезонити Зінаїду.
— Нічого цій чорноликій відьмі не зробиться! Басурманка проклята! Нехай відпрацьовує свій хліб! — злобно говорила Зінаїда.
Якось Уляна в чомусь провинилася перед мачухою і та побила її. На щастя, це побачила я і відняла у неї дитину. Хотіла я тоді все розповісти Іванові і відкрити йому очі на його дружину… Але не наважилася втручатися в чужу родину. Ой, і карала ж я себе потім за свою боягузтв! Сталося так, що одного разу Уляна недогледіла за Світланкою і та зникла з двору.
Знайшлася вона доволі швидко, але Зінаїда була просто не в собі! Ні, вона не побила Уляну: справа в іншому… Іван тоді якраз працював вночі в полі. Вранці приїхав він з поля раніше звичайного, а старшої дочки ніде немає! Зіна якраз гнала корову в стадо. Іван кинувся шукати Уляну, але її ніде не було! І ліжко її ще з вечора не розібране… Батьківське серце відчувало недобре. Ще до світанку прибіг Іван до мене! Разом з ним ми шукали дівчинку: кричали, звали! Іван навіть у колодязь заглянув, але, на щастя, дитини там не було.
Раптом він побачив амбарний замок на коморі і зламав його сокирою. На купі старого, об’їденого щурами ганчір’я спала його Уляна! Добре покарав тоді Іван свою дружину! Побоялися ми, що заб’є до смерті, втрутилися! Хотів розлучитися, але залишився з нею тільки заради Світланки!
А Зіна після того випадку стала терпимішою до своєї падчерки. Полюбила її, як свою дочку? Ні, не думаю: Зіна просто боялася чоловіка. Життя в їхній родині поступово налагоджувалося. Ось тільки Уляна перестала розмовляти і замкнулася в собі. Марно Іван показував дочку найіменитішим лікарям! Куди тільки він її не возив, навіть до знахарів! Але нічого не допомагало: дівчина все так само мовчала. Іван просто сам не свій ходив… Тоді він вдействував радикально: розлучився з дружиною, забрав Уляну і поїхав. Молодшій, Світланці, Іван справно 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 зі свого життя.
Для Зіни настали по-справжньому чорні дні. Зрозуміти її можна: в цьому житті сусідка любила тільки свою Світланку. Вона була для неї єдиним світлом у віконці! А тут все життя одночасно закінчилося… Зіна почала ходити до церкви, молилася, плакала! Просила Господа, щоб він пом’якшив кам’яне серце її дочки! Все марно!
Світлана не писала їй, не дзвонила і не приїжджала! Тоді нещасна мати поїхала до неї сама, але дочка її навіть на поріг не пустила! А що ж Уляна? Я бачила її пару років тому, на похороні Івана. Він помер, і Уляна вирішила поховати свого тата в рідному селі. Вона виросла, покращала, розцвіла. З маленької запуганої худюки Уляна перетворилася на справжню красуню. І мова до неї повернулася повністю!
Разом з Уляною приїхали її чоловік і двоє маленьких синів. А Світлана навіть на похорон батькові не з’явилася! Зате вона приїхала через тиждень і попросила матір переоформити на неї дім.
— Донечко, так я ж ще жива… — розгубилася Зіна.
— Матусю, живи собі! Але ж рано чи пізно це трапиться! Мені доведеться вступати в спадщину, а це ціла купа непотрібної волокити! Простіш виготовити це заздалегідь.”
Зіна послухалася і поступилася доньці. Вони переоформили дім, і Світланка одразу поїхала. Повернулася вона вже з покупцями і викинула матір з її ж дому. А потім забрала гроші й була така…
Це остаточно зламало Зіну. Сусідка тяжко захворіла, і я забрала її до себе. Ось така от життя…
Ніч у нас обох минула без сну, у важких, непростих думках. Я була впевнена, що Уляна не поїде, адже стільки зла завдала їй її мачуха! Ходила по дому, робила вигляд, що зайнята господарством і боялася подивитися в очі Зіні.
Уляна приїхала тільки в полудень. Я залишила їх із Зіною на самоті. Вони довго розмовляли і, нарешті, обидві вийшли з кімнати. Я помітила, що Зіна пожвавилася і навіть помолоділа.
— Тітко Віро, я забираю маму Зіну до себе. Допоможете мені зібрати її речі? — попросила Уляна.
— Уляночко, дітонько! Дякую тобі, але слабка я зовсім… Не перенесу дорогу…
— Нічого! У нас ви швидко одужаєте! Онуки не дадуть хворіти! Та й мені веселіше буде з вами! — усміхнулася Уляна.
Я зібрала речі Зінаїди, і вони поїхали. Пізніше Уляна зателефонувала і сказала, що доїхали добре. Вони мені досі телефонують: то Уляночка, то Зіна… Зіна розповідає мені про своє нове життя. Про свою Світланку вона мовчить. Та я й не питаю: не хочу чіпати її ще не загоєну рану. Зате про Уляну, про зятя та внуків Зіна розповідає мені з невимовною радістю й гордістю. Я слухаю її і думаю, яким великим, щедрим і милосердним виявилося серце у цієї дівчинки! А адже з самого дитинства їй стільки довелося пережити всього… Не кожен дорослий витримав би таке!
Уляна виявилася мудрою і дуже сильною: не зламалася і витримала все. І чиста її душа так і не забруднилася в цій грязі. Вона залишилася такою ж: чистою, красивою і не пам’ятною за злом.
Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. 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DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
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Just after one oclock in the morning, a seven-year-old boy, covered in bruises, pushed his way into the A&E at...
My Son Skipped My 70th Birthday, Claiming He Had to Work—That Evening I Saw Him on Social Media Celebrating His Mother-In-Law’s Birthday at a Fancy Restaurant
The phone rang precisely at noon, shattering the careful anticipation that hung in the air. Margaret Palmer hurried to pick...