З життя
«Свекруха встановлює свої правила, а чоловік мовчить: я на межі»
Іноді я дивлюсь на себе збоку й не розумію, як дійшла до такого — як можна вийти заміж за чоловіка, котрий у тридцять років досі живе під маминою крилечком? Звали його Олег, ззовні — дорослий, серйозний, самостійний. А на ділі — мамінькин синок. Та ще й такий, що кроку без її «дозволу» не зробить.
Познайомилися ми через… кого б ви думали? Через його маму! Працювала я тоді продавчинею, і одна поважна жінка частіше почала заходити до нашого магазину. Хвалила мене, казала, що я їй як рідна. Потім і сина свого привела: «Олежечку, подивись — не дівчина, а скарб!» А він і клюнув. Почав запрошувати на каву, дарувати квіти. Ну а далі — весілля.
Квартиру нам дала його мама. Сама переїхала до свого сусіда-либерала, а синові сказала: «Живіть тут, копите на своє. Я онуків хочу!» Слова ніби добрі, але вийшло — не безкорисно. Незабаром вона повернулася в наше життя… з ганчірками, каструлями і своїми «корисливими порадами».
Кожен понеділок — ніби день сурка. Я за вихідні відмиваю квартиру до блиску, після чого повертаюся з роботи — а все знову перетерте, перепрасуване і перекладене. На столі записка: «Зварила борщу, перебрала шафи, помила підлогу, постіль змінила. Цілую». Ввічливо, але руки трусяться. Це мій дім чи її?
Я сказала Олегу, що так більше не можу. Він відмахнувся: «Вона ж старається! З любов’ю робить!» Мовляв, я повинна дякувати — менше роботи. Але від її «допомоги» у мене відчуття, ніби мене позбавили права бути господинею у власному житлі. Вона навіть мою білизну перепрасує! Лізе у шафи, перекладає речі. Яка вже там приватність…
І ось що смішно — у себе вдома вона так не робить. Були в неї в гостях: чисто, але без фанатизму. А у нас — все, як під лінійку, до міліметра. Чужа жінка в моєму домі, а я не можу їй нічого сказати. Бо, як нагадала мені мама: «Квартира ж її. Терпи, поки свою купите».
Але як терпіти, коли кожного дня ти відчуваєш, що тебе витісняють з ролі господині? Я не кажу, що свекруха погана. Але в неї нав’язлива потреба контролювати все. Напевно, вона нас вважає не окремою сім’єю, а своїми «маленькими дітьми», котрим треба вказувати.
А Олег… Він просто відмовляється ставити межі. Йому і так добре. Він вважає, що ми «у вигідному положенні». А я почуваюся тут чужою. Він навіть не бачить, як мені важко. Або не хоче бачити.
І коли свекруха заявляє: «Хочу онуків. Ось народяться — і я буду частіше приходити, сидіти з малюком, допомагати», — мені стає моторошно. Бо я чітко розумію: вона не «допомагатиме», а житиме з нами. Влаштує свій розклад, своє меню, свої правила. Я й так уже ледве дихаю, а там, боюся, просто зварюся.
Недавно я поставила Олегу ультиматум: або він сам поговорить з матір’ю, або це зроблю я. І неважливо, чия це квартира. Вона віддала її нам, отже, має поважати нас. Я не речовина, яку можна перекладати з полиці на полицю. Я — дружина, господиня, жінка, і я маю право на свій порядок у своєму домі. Навіть якщо цей дім поки що не мій.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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