З життя
Свекруха критично оцінила торт моєї дочки, але я змусила її пошкодувати про свої слова
Моя свекруха сказала моїй дочці, що торт, який вона спекла на свій день народження, ні красивий, ні смачний. Це глибоко мене вразило, і я змусила її пожалкувати про свої слова.
Мене звуть Катерина Ковальчук, і я живу в Тернополі, де осінь приносить прохоли і шепіт падаючого листя. Той вечір був холодним — вітер завивав за вікном, зриваючи жовті клаптики з дерев. Я стояла біля кухонного вікна, тримаючи в руках чашку гарячого чаю, а в голові крутилися слова моєї свекрухи, Ольги, сказані кілька годин тому за святковим столом моєї дочки, Оксани. «Цей торт виглядає неапетитно, і на смак, боюся, не краще», — кинула вона, як камінь у воду. Оксані тільки виповнилося дванадцять, і вона, сяючи від гордості, сама спекла торт на свій день народження, прикрасила його кремовими квітами ніжно-рожевого відтінку. Але ці слова розбили їй серце — я бачила, як вона стримувала сльози, як її усмішка зів’яла під поглядом бабусі.
З того дня, як Ольга стала моєю свекрухою, між нами відчувався холодок. Вона — витончена, строга, з вічним прагненням до досконалості, а я — проста, відкрита, живу серцем. Але ніколи її колючості не вражали мене так глибоко, як в той момент, коли вона зачепила мою дівчинку. Стоячи в темній кухні, я відчувала, як гнів і біль змішуються з запахом ванілі, що досі стояв у повітрі. Я вирішила: це так не залишиться. Я дізнаюся, чому вона так вчинила, і, якщо треба, змушу її ковтнути свої слова разом із соромом.
Наступного дня погода не пожалувала — вітер вив, небо тиснуло свинцевою вагою. Оксана прокинулася зі згаслим поглядом, мовчки зібралася до школи, навіть не доторкнувшись до сніданку. Її біль відгукувався у мені, як луна, і я зрозуміла: час діяти. Зібравшись з духом, я зателефонувала чоловікові, Павлу, на роботу. «Павле, — почала я тихо, але голос тремтів, — треба поговорити про вчора». «Про маму?» — одразу здогадався він. «Знаю, вона різка, але…» «Різка? — перебила я, зриваючись на гіркоту. — Оксана всю ніч плакала! Як вона могла так з нею?» Павло важко зітхнув, немов тягар світу ліг на його плечі. «Вибач, я поговорю з нею. Але ти ж знаєш маму — вона нікого не слухає». Його слова не заспокоїли — я не могла просто чекати, поки він розбереться. Якщо розмова не допоможе, я знайду інший шлях — тонкий, але дієвий.
Я задумалася: що стоїть за цим? Можливо, Ольга злилася не на торт, а на мене? Або її турбувало щось інше? У домі все ще пахло кремом, але солодкість змішувалася зі смаком образи. Поки Оксана була в школі, я зателефонувала подрузі, Ніні, щоб виговоритися. «Катю, а раптом справа не в торті? — припустила вона. — Може, вона злилася на тебе чи Павла?» «Не знаю, — відповіла я, тереблячи край скатертини. — Але її погляд був таким… холодним, засуджуючим, наче ми її підвели». Ввечері Павло повернувся і сказав, що говорив з матір’ю. Вона лише відмахнулася: «Всі ви з мухи слона робите». Оксана сиділа в своїй кімнаті, втупившись у підручники, але я бачила — її думки далеко.
Тоді я зважилася на крок, який змусить Ольгу переосмислити свої слова. Не помста, ні — я хотіла, щоб вона відчула, як це, коли твої зусилля топчуть. Я запросила її на вечерю у вихідні, зазначивши, що Оксана приготує десерт. «Добре», — сухо відповіла вона, і я зрозуміла: вона не в захваті. У день вечері за вікном згущалися сутінки, а дім наповнився ароматом випічки та апельсинів. Я хвилювалася: раптом щось піде не так? Але в глибині душі знала — Оксана врахувала помилки і створить шедевр. І вона не підвела. Торт вийшов чарівним: повітряні коржі, ніжний крем, тонкий натяк лимону. Я таємно підказала їй кілька секретів, але все зробила вона сама.
Ми сіли за стіл. Ольга примружилася: «Знову торт?» — в її голосі прозирала насмішка. Оксана несміливо простягла їй шматочок. Свекруха попробувала — і я помітила, як її обличчя здригнулося: від презирства до здивування, а потім до чогось більшого. Але вона мовчала, вперто жуючи. Мій момент настав. Я встала, дістала з шафи коробку з тортом — точною копією її «фірмового» рецепта, який вона колись гордо називала найкращим. Подруга з пекарні допомогла мені упакувати його як «подарунок від сусідів». «Ольго, це сюрприз для тебе, — сказала я з усмішкою. — Ми з Оксаною вирішили згадати твій улюблений смак».
Її обличчя побіліло, коли вона впізнала свій рецепт. Вона відкусила шматочок, потім спробувала Оксанин торт — і завмерла. Різниця була невелика, але наша версія виявилася ніжнішою, витонченішою. Усі подивилися на неї. Павло чекав реакції, я бачила, як її гордість тріщить по швах. «Я… — почала вона, запинаючись. — Тоді він здався мені сирим, але… мабуть, я помилилася». Тиша нависла в кімнаті, лише ложки тихо дзвеніли. Потім вона поглянула на Оксану і тихо сказала: «Пробач, люба. Не варто було мені так говорити. Я була не в дусі… Ви з мамою так швидко ростете, все робите самі, а я, видно, злякалася, що стану зайвою».
Оксана дивилася на бабусю — в її очах змішалися образа і надія. Потім вона усміхнулася — несміливо, але тепло. Напруження, що висіло над нами, розтануло, поступившись місцем затишку старого дому. «Все нормально, бабусю, — прошепотіла Оксана. — Я просто хотіла, щоб тобі сподобалося». Ольга опустила погляд, а потім м’яко торкнулася її плеча. «Мені дуже сподобалося», — сказала вона ледве чутно.
Моя маленька витівка з двома тортами спрацювала. Ольга зрозуміла, що її слова — не просто вітер, а зброя, що ранить тих, хто тільки вчиться жити. Вітер за вікном увірвався в дім, принісши свіжість, і ми всі зітхнули вільніше. Її різкість могла нас роз’єднати, але завдяки таланту Оксани і моєму плану ми знайшли шлях до миру. У той вечір, куштуючи торт дочки, я відчула не тільки його смак, але й солодкість примирення, що об’єднало нас як родину. Ольга більше не дивилася згори — в її очах промигнувала вдячність, а я зрозуміла: іноді навіть гіркі слова можна звернути в добро, якщо діяти з любов’ю.
I Will Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You Can Believe Grandma Valerie couldn’t wait for evening to come. Her neighbour Natalie, a single woman approaching fifty, had just confided something so astonishing that Valerie’s head was spinning. To prove her point, Natalie had even invited her round later to show her something remarkable. The story began quite simply. That morning, Natalie had dropped by as she was on her way to the shop: “Is there anything you need, Valerie? I’m popping to the corner shop to pick up bits for a pie and a few other things.” Valerie smiled. “You’ve always been so good and caring, Natalie. I remember you as a little girl. It’s a shame things haven’t worked out for you—but you never seem sad or complain, not like some.” Natalie laughed. “What’s there to complain about? I do have a man I love, it’s just we can’t be together for now. Would you like to hear the reason? I’ve never told anyone else, but I want to tell you. Well, partly because you probably wouldn’t be believed if you repeated it!” She grinned. “Just let me know if you need anything from the shop. I’ll pop in on my way back, and over a cup of tea, I’ll tell you all about my life. Maybe then you’ll be happy for me and stop worrying.” Valerie didn’t really need anything, but asked Natalie to fetch a loaf of bread and some sweets for tea, her curiosity well and truly piqued. Later, as they sat together over tea and cake, Natalie began: “Valerie, you remember that thing that happened to me twenty years ago? I was nearly thirty. Met a bloke—nice enough, so I thought I’d marry him even if I didn’t love him. At least I’d have a family. He moved in and I got pregnant. When the baby came, a little girl, she lived just two days and passed away. I thought I’d go mad with grief. My husband and I split up soon after. A couple of months later, once I’d stopped crying, something happened. It’s hard to explain, Valerie. I’d got everything ready for my daughter—the cot, bedding, toys, the lot. They say it’s bad luck to buy these things early, but I didn’t believe that. Then one night I was woken by the sound of a baby crying. I thought I was imagining it, but the crying came again. I went to the cot—and there she was. My little girl. I picked her up, my heart nearly bursting with happiness. She looked up at me and then drifted peacefully to sleep. And from then on, almost every night, she would come to me. I even bought formula and a bottle, but she hardly ever fed—just smiled, closed her eyes and slept in my arms. Is that even possible?” Valerie leaned forward, utterly enthralled. “I know it sounds mad, but it’s true,” Natalie insisted. “It just went on—we got used to those nightly visits. I knew my little girl was living in another world, with her own mum and dad, but she never forgot me. She would visit, and one night she said to me: ‘I will always be with you, Mum. We are bound by an invisible thread, and nothing can ever break it.’ Sometimes I wonder if it’s a dream, but she even brings me gifts from her world. They don’t last long here though—they fade away like snow in spring.” That evening, Valerie finally visited Natalie’s flat. No one else was home—just the two of them. Suddenly, a gentle light shimmered in the air and a sweet young woman appeared: “Hello, Mummy! I’ve had such a good day, I want to share it with you. And here’s a present for you.” She placed a small bouquet on the table. Turning to see Valerie, she smiled again. “Oh, hello! Mum said you wanted to meet me. I’m Marianne.” After chatting a while, Marianne faded away like morning mist. Valerie sat silent, absolutely stunned. “Well, I never… that really happens!” she whispered. “Your daughter’s a beauty, Natalie, just like you. I’m so happy for you. You really are a lucky woman—maybe luckier than anyone I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Thank you for opening my eyes. The world is so much bigger than I thought; life goes on everywhere. I’m not afraid anymore.” The flowers on the table became paler and then vanished altogether. But Natalie smiled, full of hope. Tomorrow would be a wonderful new day. She was going to meet Arkady, the man she loved and who loved her back—she just knew it. And someday soon, she’d introduce him to the two people she loved most in the world: Marianne and Arkady.
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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. Come on, let’s have tea. Nina, you look younger somehow—come on, tell me!” “I don’t know—my fifth youth!” Nina laughed as she sliced the tart. “Yesterday I rang Simon Mallory by accident… remember your crush in Year Eleven? We got to reminiscing—I’d forgotten half of it. What’s up, Irene? Not another asthma attack?” Irene sat pale and silent, then whispered: “Nina, you didn’t know? Simon passed away a year ago. He lived in another part of town—he moved from that old place ages ago.” “You must be joking! How? Who was I talking to? He remembered everything about our school days. My mood was terrible before talking to him. But after we spoke, I felt life was carrying on—that I still had strength, and joy for living… How could it be?” Nina couldn’t believe Simon was gone. “But I heard his voice. He said such beautiful things: ‘The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, sceptical of her friend’s story. Then she surprised Nina by saying: “Nina, I don’t know how, but it really does sound like it was him. His words, his style. Simon loved you. I think he wanted to support you… from the other side. And it looks like he did. I haven’t seen you so happy and full of energy for ages. One day, someone will piece your tattered heart back together. And you’ll finally remember—what it feels like to be… simply happy.”
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