З життя
Щасливий фінал: Вагітна дружина на городі, поки чоловік відпочиває.
Юрій вирішив, що втомився на роботі і йому необхідний відпочинок на морі. Про свою вагітну дружину він навіть не подумав, збирав речі тільки для себе.
— Марічко, не починай. Ти прекрасно знаєш, що я втомився і хочу відпочити.
— По-твоєму, мені це не потрібно? Я ж на шостому місяці, а ти кажеш мені їхати до твоєї мами копати город!
— І що тут такого? Мама тобі допоможе, а свіже повітря буде на користь.
Марічка промовчала і нічого не відповіла, бо знала, сперечатися з чоловіком марно. У селі свекруха зустріла її не зовсім привітно.
— Загнала мого сина так, що він від тебе на море втік! Так тобі і треба.
— Він не втік, я його сама відпустила. Вам це не знати, тітко Ганно?
Марічка копала той город цілий день. Сонце було пекучим, спина дуже боліла, а від запаху землі постійно нудило. Ноги в дівчини весь час набрякали, вона не могла швидко рухатися. Коли ставало зовсім важко, вона просто сідала і нічого не робила, окрім як пестила свій живіт. Ввечері вона чула, як свекруха обговорювала її зі своїми сусідками.
— Лінива, аж до жаху! Ноги в неї набрякли! Раніше наші жінки в полях народжували, вставали і далі копали! Не невістка у мене, а цариця!
Пару тижнів потому Юрій повернувся відпочилий, задоволений і засмаглий.
— Марічко, привіт! Ти навіть не уявляєш, які там креветки я їв! А пляж який! Обов’язково поїду туди наступного року, тільки з тобою.
— Юрію, нікуди ми не поїдемо. Я йду.
— Куди? У тебе справи?
— Ти не зрозумів. Я йду від тебе.
— Це такий жарт? Ти ж пропадеш без мене, кому ти потрібна?
— Ось зараз і перевірю.
Вперше за роки життя з чоловіком Марічка зрозуміла, що таке свобода. Так, вона не знала, куди їй іти, що робити далі, але в одному була впевнена, без Юрія їй буде краще. У кишені в неї було небагато грошей, а от за дитячим чемоданом вона вирішила не повертатися до квартири. Прийняла до себе вагітну Марічку найкраща подруга Оксана.
— Марічко, у мене є вільна кімната, можеш жити стільки, скільки потрібно! І навіть не думай про погане, все вийде!
Юрій ніяк не міг повірити, що дружина його залишила. Він дзвонив їй по тисячі разів на день, приходив на поріг квартири Оксани з квітами, але подруга його не впустила, так Марічка сказала.
— Юрію, йди і забудь дорогу до нас. Марічка – не служниця. Ти сам винен.
Хлопець писав листи, які Марічка іноді читала. У них він просив пробачення, говорив, що був дурнем, сумує і любить. Заради майбутньої дитини просив пробачити його і повернутися в сім’ю.
Пологи у Марічки були важкими, але коли вона взяла на руки сина, то про все забула. Поступово життя у неї налагоджувалося, було важко, але друзі допомагали. Юрія вона не пробачила, але бачитися з сином дозволяє.
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“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. 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