З життя
Шлях додому з посмішкою: несподівана нагорода та мрійливий відпочинок!
Віка поверталася додому з піднесеним настроєм та посміхалася перехожим. Сьогодні вона отримала чудову премію, а ще й додаткову тижневу оплачувану відпустку. І все це за досить складний проєкт, над яким дівчина працювала останні кілька тижнів.
Відпустка, звісно, не дуже велика, але, якщо правильно розпланувати час, можна гарно відпочити, почитати та побалувати чоловіка смачненьким. Як же він зрадіє, що нарешті Віка цілий тиждень зможе присвятити їм із дітьми!
Дівчина прийшла додому, трохи прибрала в квартирі та вирушила на кухню з думкою:
─ Зварю-но я Павлу його улюблений борщ. Він нещодавно згадував про нього.
І Віка, наспівуючи, почала готувати.
Грюкнули двері. Дівчина вибігла назустріч чоловікові, чмокнула його в щоку і відійшла назад. Її очі сяяли від щастя.
─ Ого, яке в тебе гарне настрої! ─ вигукнув Павло. ─ І ще й наготовила? ─ запитав він, принюшуючись до ароматів з кухні.
Зазвичай вони разом поверталися з роботи. А тут вона прийшла раніше, і борщ вже готовий.
─ Встигла, ─ кивнула Віка.
Їй не терпілося розповісти чоловікові про щедрість свого начальника, але не встигла.
─ Тебе що, раніше відпустили? Якісь проблеми? Або знову у відрядження?
Павло ставив запитання таким тоном, що це більше нагадувало допит. Віка подумала, що чоловік просто втомився, тому йому нема настрою. Щоб трохи його підбадьорити, вирішила пожартувати:
─ Ні, любий, все добре. Просто я звільнилася. Ти ж давно мріяв, щоб я не працювала, а займалася домом. Ось тепер я зовсім вільна!
Павло раптом зблід, але потім взяв себе в руки і промовив:
─ Звільнилася? Ну і добре. Хоч не будеш так втомлюватися. А грошей нам вистачить. Ладно, я в душ, поїм потім.
Віка розгублено кивнула. Поведінка Павла здалася їй дивною.
─ Чому його так це напружило. Адже завжди казав, що жінка повинна сидіти вдома, створювати затишок, виховувати дітей, а забезпечувати її обов’язок чоловіка.
Коли Павло та Віка одружилися, дівчина вже працювала у відомій компанії. Незабаром її підвищили на посаді. Зарплата, й так не маленька, зросла вдвічі. Павло просив дружину звільнитися, але Віка не уявляла себе домогосподаркою.
─ І що ти думаєш робити далі? ─ запитав чоловік після вечері.
Віка уважно подивилася на нього. Брехати не хотілося, але зрозуміти, чому він так реагує на її звільнення, теж було потрібно: чого насправді хоче Павло, і наскільки щиро він пропонував їй кинути роботу.
─ Ну, а що мені робити? ─ усміхнулася дівчина. ─ Ти хотів, щоб я затишком займалася, ось і буду ним займатися.
Павло кивнув і пішов у спальню. Лежачи на ліжку, він замислився. Дійсно, він пропонував дружині залишити роботу, особливо коли вона скаржилася, що обсяг роботи сильно зріс, а зарплату не підвищують. Він просто хотів її якось утішити, заспокоїти, але був упевнений, що вона цього ніколи не зробить.
А що тепер? Правда, у них своя квартира, кредит на машину нещодавно погасили. Зарплата дружини була значно вищою. Виходить, дохід сім’ї помітно зменшиться. А він хотів купити останню модель айфона, придбати ігрову приставку, та й годинник вже пора міняти.
─ Ні, вона не зможе сидіти вдома, ─ промайнуло в голові. ─ Через кілька днів побіжить шукати нову роботу.
Павло заспокоївся і заснув.
Однак минуло три дні, а Віка й не думала шукати роботу.
Дівчина насолоджувалася відпусткою. Вона вирішила нічого не говорити чоловікові та подивитися, чим усе це закінчиться.
В один із днів Павло повернувся додому з усмішкою на обличчі:
─ Дорога, я знайшов тобі роботу. А чого ти така заспана? Ось, дві вакансії. Надсилай резюме.
Віка здивовано подивилася на чоловіка.
─ Ну чого ти сидиш? Підіймайся з дивана й відкривай ноутбук, ─ підганяв її Павло.
Дівчина слухняно встала.
─ Ну що ж, ─ думала вона, ─ подивимося, що буде далі, до чого він дійде у своєму прагненні відправити мене на роботу.
Через десять хвилин Павло запитав:
─ Відправила?
─ Відправила, ─ відповіла Віка.
Наступного дня чоловік телефонував кілька разів, щоб дізнатися, чи не запросили Віку на співбесіду. Він так хвилювався, наче вирішувалося питання життя чи смерті. А після обіду зателефонував і велів збиратися. Мол знайшов для Віки «класне місце» і треба терміново туди під’їхати.
Дівчина вирішила грати до кінця. Вона поїхала з чоловіком на фірму, тільки заходити в офіс не стала: посиділа в коридорі, а Павлу сказала, що її не взяли.
─ Та що за біда, чому тебе ніде не беруть, ─ обурився Павло.
Чоловік відвіз Віку додому і поїхав на роботу. Вона ж відкрила його ноутбук, щоб подивитися, чим цікавиться чоловік і чому він так різко змінився. Раніше вона ніколи цього не робила, але зараз шукала відповіді на свої питання.
Перший пошуковий запит вразив дівчину: «Як змусити дружину піти на роботу». Вона посміхнулася й стала дивитися далі. Зависань у соцмережах і переписок із жінками не знайшла. Зате виявила множину сайтів, які переглядав чоловік. Він шукав нову машину бізнес-класу, новий айфон, наручні годинники з шаленою ціною, ігрову приставку.
Віка задумалася, почала співставляти факти і раптом чітко побачила те, на що раніше не звертала уваги. Дівчина ніколи не дозволяла собі зайвого, всю зарплату витрачала на сім’ю. Платила кредит за машину, яка була на неї оформлена. Правда їздив на ній Павло, а Віці давав машину дуже неохоче.
Грошей у чоловіка не питала. Коли ходили у супермаркет за продуктами, завжди розраховувалася сама. Куди він витрачає свої гроші не цікавилася. І, схоже, дарма. Згадала про комп’ютерне крісло Павла, яке коштувало дорожче пральної машини, його швейцарські годинники, постійно міняються айфони.
Дівчина спробувала пригадати, як давно Павло дарував їй квіти, але не змогла. А подарунки? Він завжди пропонував вибрати їх самій. А потім вона оплачувала подарунок зі своєї картки. Віка нервово засміялась, але потім заспокоїлася, вирішила влаштувати маленьку перевірку.
Наступного дня вона звернулася до чоловіка:
─ Любий, мама просить позичити трохи грошей. Ти ж їй не відмовиш? Тим паче у тебе позавчора зарплата була. Позичимо?
Павло так подивився на Віку, що вона злякалася.
─ Я тебе забезпечую, ще й матір твою утримувати? ─ у його голосі звучала неприхована злість.
─ Забезпечуєш? ─ промовила дівчина, ─ у нас холодильник порожній, це так ти мене забезпечуєш?
─ Треба було сказати, що купити. І взагалі, немає у мене грошей… вже. Я собі приставку замовив.
─ Оце так? ─ Віка піджала губи. ─ Ще щось?
─ Нічого! Немає грошей кажу. Я замовлення оплатив. Після обіду забирати поїду.
─ А жити ми на що будемо? ─ Віка ледве стримувалася.
─ Ну там залишилося трохи. До авансу дотягнемо. Худнути треба, а то он у тебе вже животик з’являється.
Віка не могла повірити своїм вухам. І це говорить її чоловік, який вів себе зовсім інакше зовсім недавно.
─ До речі, що там із твоєю квартирою, квартиранти заселилися? ─ запитав Павло.
─ Поки ні, ─ відповіла дівчина.
─ Ну так оголошення дай, щоб охочі швидше знайшлися. У тебе ж повно часу. Ти ж тепер вдома сидиш, ─ розпорядився чоловік.
─ Я не сидітиму більше вдома, Павло. Я зараз зберу речі та до себе поїду, ─ видихнула Віка.
Вона пішла в кімнату і почала збиратися. Чоловік і не думав зупиняти її. Можливо, навіть зрадів, що позбудеться нахлібниці.
Коли дівчина підійшла до дверей із сумкою в руках, Павло вийшов із кухні.
─ А на що ти жити збираєшся? ─ засміявся він, ─ якщо тебе нікуди не беруть.
─ А тебе це правда хвилює?
─ Ми одружені взагалі-то…
─ Ти правий, одружені, ─ кивнула Віка, ─ тільки ти якось пізно про це згадав. Ладно, ключі від машини давай. Вона ж на мене оформлена, і кредит я сама виплатила. Це дуже легко довести.
─ Сама сіла мені на шию, і мене ж у чомусь обвинувачуєш? Якщо тобі потрібен був гаманець, треба було за «папіка» заміж виходити, ─ вже кричав Павло.
Віка засміялася. Вона ніяк не очікувала, що її невинний жарт призведе до таких наслідків.
─ Я не сідала тобі на шию. Це просто була невелика відпустка. У понеділок я виходжу на роботу. Але це вже не важливо. І тебе більше не стосується.
Дівчина вийшла і зачинила за собою двері.
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
MOTHER-IN-LAW Margaret Brown sat in her kitchen, watching as the milk quietly simmered on the hob. She’d forgotten to stir...
Foolish Anna: For 15 Years Everyone Called Her Simple – Her Husband Cheated Openly Since Their Wedding Day, While She Endured With a Smile. Little Did He Know, the Quiet Toy Factory Accountant Had a Master Plan That Would Turn His World Upside Down on Their Son’s Tenth Birthday
Everyone always said Emma was a simpleton. Shed been married to Tom for fifteen years and they had two kidsEmily...
The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
The Recipe for Happiness… The entire block watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat, arms loaded with...
“My Grandchildren Only Get Fruit Once a Month, While I Buy Gourmet Food for My Cats”—My Daughter-in-Law Fumes and Accuses Me of Heartlessness… My daughter-in-law tried to shame me because her children only get fruit once a month, while I treat my cats to quality food. What she overlooks is that children have a mum and dad to care for their nutrition, but my cats only have me. When I once suggested that my son and his wife slow down on having children, they told me to mind my own business. So I did. Now I feed my cats and listen to my ever-indignant, child-devoted daughter-in-law.
My grandchildren only see fruit once a month, yet she buys those cats of hers the most expensive food! my...
I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—Now I Regret It More Than Ever…
Managed to get my son divorcedthen rather wished I hadnt My daughter-in-law dropped my granddaughter off for the weekend again,...
Vitaly Settles Down at His Desk with a Laptop and a Cup of Coffee to Finish Some Work—Suddenly, an Unknown Number Calls: “Are You Vitaly Dmitrievich? This Is the Maternity Hospital. Do You Know Anna Izotova?”—A Shocking Death, a Daughter He Never Knew About, and a Life-Changing Decision at the Savelovsky Maternity Ward
Friday, 18th May I settled into my study laptop at the ready, a mug of Yorkshire tea by my side...
“How Can You Refuse to Look After My Son’s Child?”: An English Mother-in-Law’s Outburst – Family Tensions Flare as Rita Stands Her Ground on Parenting, Work–Life Balance, and Respect in a Modern Blended Family
How can you say you wont take care of my sons child? My future mother-in-law had blurted out, unable to...
I Shouted From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting: “I’m Doing This For You Lot, You Lazybones.” — And The Next Day My Mum Was Gone… Even Now, I Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Path, My Heart Clenches As If Someone’s Gripping It. It Was On The Second Of January I Took That Photo… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed The Footprints In The Snow — And Stopped. Snapped A Picture, Not Really Knowing Why. Now, That Photo Is All I’ve Got Left From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s As Always, All Together As A Family. Mum Was Up Early On The 31st, As Usual. The Smell Of Frying Burgers And Her Voice In The Kitchen Woke Me Up: “Love, Get Up! Help Me Finish The Salads, Or Your Dad Will Scoff Half The Ingredients Again!” I Came Down In My Pyjamas, Hair All Over The Place. She Was By The Cooker In Her Favourite Apron With Peaches — The One I Gave Her In School. Her Cheeks Were Rosy From The Oven And She Was Smiling. “Mum, Let Me At Least Have Coffee First,” I Moaned. “Coffee Later! First, The Salad!” She Laughed, Tossing Me A Bowl Of Roast Veg. “Chop It Fine Like I Like — Not Fist-Sized Chunks Like Last Time.” We Chopped And Chatted About Everything Under The Sun. She Told Me About New Year’s In Her Childhood — No Fancy Salads, Only A Herring Under Its Coat And The Tangerines Her Dad Brought Home Especially. Soon Dad Brought In The Christmas Tree — Huge, Nearly To The Ceiling. “Ladies, Come Admire The Tree!” He Announced Proudly. “Dad, Did You Chop Down The Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Walked In, Threw Her Hands Up: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Time Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Us Decorate. My Sister Lera And I Hung Up The Lights, Mum Dug Out The Old Decorations From My Childhood. I Remember Her Picking Out The Little Glass Angel. She Whispered, “I Bought This For Your First New Year, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Didn’t, Not Really, But I Nodded. She Glowed Because I Remembered That Angel… My Brother Arrived Later, As Usual — Laden With Bags, Gifts, And Bottles. “Mum, Got Proper Champagne This Year! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Time.” “Oh, Love, Just Don’t Let Everyone Get Plastered,” Mum Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Outside. Dad And My Brother Set Off Fireworks, Lera Squealed With Joy — And Mum Stood Beside Me, Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What A Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best One, Mum.” We Drank Champagne Round The Bottle, Laughed When A Firework Whizzed Towards The Neighbour’s Shed. Mum, A Little Tipsy, Danced In Her Woolly Boots To “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree,” And Dad Swept Her Off Her Feet. We Laughed Ourselves To Tears. On The First Of January, We Lounged All Day. Mum Cooked Again — This Time Dumplings And Jellied Meat. “Mum, Stop Already! We’re Going To Burst!” I Moaned. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It — New Year Celebrations Last A Week,” She Brushed Me Off. On The Second, She Was Up Early Again. I Heard The Door, Peeked Out — There She Was In The Garden With Her Shovel. Clearing The Path. Old Puffy Jacket, Scarf Tied, Working Carefully: From The Gate Right Up To The Steps — Narrow, Straight. Piling Snow Beside The Wall Like She Always Did. I Called Out The Window: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Freeze Out There!” She Turned Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Otherwise You Lazy Lot Will Walk Through Snowdrifts All Spring! Go On, Put The Kettle On.” I Smiled, Went To The Kitchen. She Came In Half An Hour Later, Cheeks Rosy, Eyes Bright. “All Done, Nice And Tidy,” She Said, Sitting With Her Coffee. “Came Out Well, Didn’t It?” “Yes, Mum. Thank You.” That Was The Last Time I Heard Her Sound So Full Of Life. On January Third, She Woke And Whispered, “Girls, My Chest Feels Odd. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried At Once. “Mum, Shall We Call An Ambulance?” “Oh, Don’t Fret, Love. I’m Just Worn Out. Cooked And Dashed About So Much. I’ll Rest, It’ll Pass.” She Lay Down, Lera And I At Her Side. Dad Went To The Chemist For Some Pills. She Even Joked, “Don’t Look So Gloomy, I’ll Outlive The Lot Of You.” Then She Turned Pale. Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I feel awful… Too Awful…” We Called An Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispered, “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Fine…” She Looked At Me, Barely Audible, “Love… I adore you all… I hate to say goodbye.” The Paramedics Came Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened In Minutes. I Sat On The Hall Floor And Howled. I Couldn’t Believe It. Just Yesterday She Danced Beneath The Fireworks, Full Of Life — Now… Barely Steady, I Went Out To The Garden. The Snow Hardly Falling Anymore. And I Saw Her Footprints. Those Same Small, Neat, Straight Prints From The Gate To The Steps And Back Again. Exactly Like She Always Left. I Stood And Stared At Them For Ages. I Asked God, “How Can It Be That Yesterday A Person Walked Here — And Today, They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, But She Doesn’t.” Maybe I Was Dreaming, But It Seemed Like On The Second Of January She Went Out For The Last Time — To Leave Us A Clear Path. So We Could Cross It Without Her. I Didn’t Let Anyone Shovel Those Prints Away, Asked Them All To Leave Them. Let Them Stay Until The Snow Covers Them For Good. That’s The Last Thing She Did For Us. Her Everyday Care Shone Through Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Covered The Path. I Keep That Photo Of Mum’s Last Footprints. Every Year, On The Third Of January, I Look At It — And Then Out At The Empty Path By The House. And It Hurts To Know That Somewhere Under All That Snow, She Left Her Last Steps. The Ones I’m Still Following…
I remember that chilly January morning I leaned out the window and called, Mum, what are you doing up so...