З життя
Разбитые мечты: История одной драмы
Разбитые мечты: Драма Анастасии
Анастасия нервно шагала по гостиной своей квартиры в Екатеринбурге, то и дело бросая взгляд на телефон. Муж опять задерживался, и её терпение вот-вот лопнет, как переполненный чайник.
— Где этот негодяй шляется?! — прошипела она, сжимая телефон так, что суставы побелели.
Щёлкнул замок, и в прихожей появился Игорь — уставший, но с виноватой ухмылкой. В руках он держал скромный букет ромашек.
— Это тебе, — протянул он цветы. — Извини, задержался у мамы, помогал.
— Задержался? — голос Анастасии дрогнул от обиды. — Ты хотя бы позвонить мог! Я тут с ума схожу!
— Занёсся, забыл, — Игорь потупил взгляд, теребя манжет рубашки. — Маме помогал, а потом… Слушай, мы с ней кое-что обсудили.
— Что именно? — Анастасия замерла, ощутив холодную волну, пробежавшую по спине.
Игорь глубоко вздохнул и заговорил. Она слушала, и с каждым его словом её лицо становилось каменным.
Анастасия уже не помнила, когда видела мужа дома дольше часа. Он исчезал на рассвете, возвращался затемно, когда она давно спала. Если вообще возвращался. Лето ворвалось в город, и Игорь словно подменился. Зимой он кутался в плед, ворчал на её предложения сходить в кино. Теперь же его будто ветром сдувало — пропадал на дни и ночи.
Мать Игоря, Галина Николаевна, с первого взгляда вызвала у Анастасии неприязнь. При знакомстве свекровь оглядела её с холодным расчётом, будто приценивалась к товару. За столом она говорила только с сыном, игнорируя невестку. Анастасии было жалко её мужа, Виктора Степановича. Тот выглядел измождённым, отвечал жене робко, будто боялся её гнева, и вздрагивал от каждого её резкого слова.
Ещё тогда Анастасия поняла: жить с такой роднёй — чистой воды адреналин. К счастью, у неё была своя квартира, и после свадьбы Игорь переехал к ней. Галина Николаевна не возражала, даже помогла сыну собрать вещи, будто рада была избавиться от него.
На новоселье свекровь заглянула ненадолго: окинула квартиру оценивающим взглядом, выпила чаю и ушла. Прошёл год их брака, и Анастасии было нечем похвастаться. Жили, как все: дом, работа, редкие праздники. Её родители остались в другом городе, звали в гости, но она привыкла к самостоятельности. Здесь у неё была работа, друзья, жильё и муж. Казалось, всё идёт неплохо. Игорь был непритязательным, жили скромно, но хватало.
Иногда помогали свекрови, если та звонила сыну. Раз в месяц могли сходить в кафе, строили планы, мечтали о будущем. Анастасия мечтала о детях, но Игорь отмалчивался. Она понимала: мечтать легко, а растить ребёнка — уже сложнее. Игорь же грезил о машине. Анастасия соглашалась, что машина — полезная штука, но дорогая. В кредит лезть не хотелось, просить у родных — тем более. Пришлось бы урезать расходы, откладывая почти всю зарплату, и то хватило бы только на старую иномарку.
Игорь объяснял свои отлучки просто:
— Маме помогаю. Дачный сезон начался, она там каждый день, а я с ней. Надо же поддержать.
— А мне не помогаешь! — взорвалась Анастасия. — Сколько раз просила починить дверь в ванной? Балконная рама еле держится!
— Настя, ну что ты сравниваешь? Это же мама! — отмахнулся он.
Такие разговоры вспыхивали всё чаще. Анастасия устала быть женой «по выходным», да и то не всегда. Даже в субботу Игорь уезжал к родителям. Она была рада, что её не таскают на дачу, но иногда думала: почему?
Однажды у свекрови она попробовала солёные грузди. Они были так вкусны, что Анастасия незаметно съела полбанки.
— Правда сами солили? — восхитилась она.
— Конечно, — гордо ответила Галина Николаевна. — Весь сезон в лесу пропадаю, чтобы зимой своё было.
— У нас дома так не заготавливали, я даже забыла этот вкус, — сказала Анастасия, надеясь, что свекровь поделится.
Но та пропустила намёк мимо ушей.
— Странно это. Как так — не солить грибы? Я каждый год банки закрываю. Тяжело, зато зимой на столе своё. А у лентяев даже хлеба нет, — она бросила на невестку осуждающий взгляд.
Анастасия больше не заводила эту тему. По дороге домой купила баночку груздей, нажарила картошки и съела всё в одиночестве.
В тот вечер Игорь опять задержался. Анастасия, кипя от злости, металась по комнате, сжимая телефон. Ей надоело ужинать одной, надоело ждать мужа, как преданный пёс. Дверь открылась, и она напряглась, готовая высказать всё. Игорь вошёл с ромашками, виновато улыбаясь.
— Прости, — сказал он, протягивая цветы.
Анастасия молча поставила их в вазу, надеясь, что вечер будет романтичным. Но Игорь уселся в кресло, хитро глянул на неё и начал:
— Мы с мамой посовещались и решили: зачем нам эта квартира? Давай продадим её и возьмём что-нибудь попроще.
Анастасия оцепенела. Игорь, не замечая её реакции, продолжал:
— Ты же вечно злишься, что я мало дома. Если продадим эту, купим маленькую на окраине, а на сдачу — машину. И до маминой дачи ближе будет, возить её удобнее, чем на электричке тащиться, а потом ещё три километра пешком.
Анастасия смотрела на мужа, и внутри закипала буря. Какой он муж? Приложение к родителям! Хотелось кричать, но она сдержалась, сквозь зубы процедив:
— Дорогой, ты голоден?
— Нет, у мамы поел. У неё сегодня такая утка с яблоками была, пальчики оближешь, — Игорь блаженно закатил глаза.
Анастасия почувствовала, как что-то внутри оборвалось. Этот человек никогда не станет ни мужем, ни отцом её детей.
— Знаешь, — начала она ледяным тоном, — лучше продайте дачу и купите машину. Тогда и возить маму не придётся, и дома будешь чаще.
— Ты чего?! — ахнул Игорь. — Мама никогда не согласится! И куда мы летом ездить буд— Тогда вот мое последнее предложение, — Анастасия выпрямилась, сжимая кулаки, — собирай вещи и возвращайся к маме навсегда.
“Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not good? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” I’m Still Amazed My Niece Found a Husband—Perhaps Just Because of Her Mum When Alina was a child, my sister refused to send her to nursery school; as a teenager, she wasn’t allowed out, she spent all her time at home—she became a bit of a recluse. When Alina was at university in our town, her mother made sure she always came home before 6pm. At 20, her mum would phone at half seven, shouting if she wasn’t home yet. It was absurd, just nonsense. Alina met her future husband in her second year at university; they studied together in the library, he was two years older, shared his notes with her, helped her out—a friendship that blossomed into love and eventually into dating. That’s when my niece began defiantly breaking her mother’s rules. The niece eventually married and her mother finally allowed her to start a new life of her own. Now let me tell you a recent story. I was at my sister’s house when Alina called, her voice breaking between tears and giggles so much we could barely understand her: “Mum, he wants me to do this for him… He says all good wives can do it… Does that mean I’m not a good wife? Please teach me… If everyone else can, surely I should be able to as well…” At that moment, my sister’s expression changed instantly; she told her daughter to calm down and asked what exactly all good wives are supposed to be able to do. “Make soup, Mum,” she said, and we burst out laughing. “Don’t laugh at me! You never taught me how, I’ve looked up recipes online but they never taste right!” So, my sister and I quickly taught her, step by step, how to make soup, giggling at each other all the while. That evening, my niece called to thank us—her husband had complimented her, saying it was delicious. And, best of all, according to her, she’s now a proper wife!
Honestly, Im still a bit staggered that my niece actually found herself a bloke, especially considering the way her mum...
People Adopt Children from Orphanages, So I Chose to Bring My Grandmother Home from Her Care Facility—Despite All My Friends and Neighbours Disagreeing and Saying Times Are Tough, I Knew in My Heart It Was the Right Thing to Do
There was a time, not so long ago yet distant enough for it to feel like another life, when people...
Recently, I Visited My Daughter-in-Law and Was Shocked to Find a Cleaner Hired for the House—Despite Always Telling My Son His Wife’s Finances Didn’t Matter, I Can’t Understand How They Afford a Housekeeper with Their Modest Means, Especially Since My Husband and I Bought and Renovated Their Home and Still Help Them Out—When I Found Out My Daughter-in-Law Became a ‘Blogger’ During Maternity Leave and Hired Help, I Felt Betrayed and Insisted If Anyone Should Be Paid to Clean, It Should Be Me—But My Son Sees Nothing Wrong—Am I in the Wrong for Feeling Upset?
The other day, I popped round to visit my daughter-in-law, only to find a complete stranger bustling about doing the...
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...