З життя
Таке теж трапляється
Буває і так
— Все, досить, натерпілась. Подам заяву на розлучення! — кричала сердитим голосом Петрівна.
— Та подавай, подавай, налякала. Може, я все життя тільки про це і мріяв, — затягуючи цигаркою, відмахнувся напівп’яний Семенович.
— І подам, думаєш, не подам? Завтра ж піду в суд і віддам особисто Валентині Іванівні.
І вони розлучилися.
Написали оголошення про обмін трикімнатної квартири.
Петрівна була на пенсії.
Семенович все ще працював і заробляв непогано.
На наступний день після розлучення він прийшов, як завжди, обідати додому.
І тільки вдома згадав, що ж вони ж розлучилися, а він для себе обіду, звичайно, не приготував.
— Дай поїсти-то, — по-свойськи сказав він.
— А хто ти такий, щоб тебе годувати? — з гордістю відповіла вона.
— Ну, хоча б старий знайомий.
— Ой, у мене, може, старих знайомих не один десяток. Так що ж, накажеш мене їх усіх годувати, таке чи що? Посмішив.
— Ну, а якщо я тобі заплачу, нагодуєш?
— Заплатиш? — не очікувала такого повороту Петрівна. — А що, мені, може, все одно не з’їсти, краще тобі продам, ніж викидати за так. Тільки ціни будуть ресторанні. Я не гірше їх готую.
— Ресторанні, так ресторанні. Наливай, тільки швидше, а то час йде.
— А, що це ви мені ти кажете, громадянине?
— Та, годі, зовсім уже розійшлася, — сказав Семенович, швидко уплітаючи суп, який чомусь здався набагато смачнішим, ніж раніше, може, тому що заплатив за нього.
Так він і заходив щодня додому обідати та платив, як у ресторані. І йому було добре — не треба возитися з цими продуктами, каструлями.
І їй добре — все зайві гроші. А готувати все одно треба, що для однієї, що для двох — яка різниця.
Крім обіду, він користувався кухнею-рестораном і вдома вранці, і ввечері.
Добре, що гроші були…
Петрівну все далі захоплювала ідея домашнього ресторану.
Вона спеціально сходила в єдиний ресторан у їхньому невеличкому містечку. Подивилася, як оформлені столи, написане меню, як подають, у що одягнені офіціантки.
Загалом, запам’ятала все, що могла.
Одного разу Семенович прийшов додому і завмер біля дверей на кухню.
На столі біла скатертина, ваза з квітами, біля тарілки лежать серветка і ще якась бамажка.
Він підійшов до столу, взяв бамажку і прочитав: “Меню”.
— Тьху ти, ну вигадала бабуся.
Однак прочитав його, і на останньому рядку погляд зупинився: горілка -100 грамів – 40 гривень.
— Що будемо їсти? — запитала Петрівна, увійшовши на кухню.
Семенович підняв очі і трохи остовпів, не впізнавши своєї дружини.
Нарядне плаття облягало звідкись узяту фігуру, поверх був надітий акуратний білий фартух, волосся зібране в “зачіску”.
А головне, обличчя її осявала усмішка.
— Мені, будь ласка, все найдорожче і, будь ласка, горілки 100 грамів, ні 200 грамів.
Але Петрівна довго не могла витримати своєї нової ролі.
— Ага! — зраділа вона, — значить, все-таки не кинув, а я вже подумала: невже одумався, дай, думаю, перевірю.
— Перевірю. Ось ти! Знову за своє — починаєш заводитися. А я, може бути, з тобою на брудершафт хотів.
— Ой, стала б я з тобою на брудершафт пити. Більше мені нічого немає.
А самій чомусь стало трохи шкода Семеновича.
Якось раз Семенович прийшов додому, але на кухні його ніхто не зустрічав.
Петрівна захворіла.
Увечері вона говорить:
— Хоч би натер спину.
— За гроші, будь ласка.
— О, кат. Ладно заплачу. На, помаж.
— А що це ви мене “ти” називаєте, громадянко?
— Смієшся?
Так вони і жили.
По оголошенню про обмін квартири ніхто не звертався.
Вечорами вони дивилися телевізор, а на ніч розходилися по своїх кімнатах.
Одного разу довгим зимовим вечором вони сиділи та грали в карти.
Семенович каже:
— Послухайте, Петрівна, а що це ви все одна та одна?
— А вам, Семенович, не нудно — все один та один?
— Так, нудувато трохи.
— Так і мені, вроді, як теж трохи нудно.
— Слухай, Петрівна, а виходь ти за мене заміж.
— А що, треба подумати, — кокетливо відповіла вона…
What You Really Need is a Housekeeper, Not a Wife
You really need a housekeeper, not a wife Mum, Mollys chewed my pencil again! Sophie stormed into the kitchen, brandishing...
The Little Grey Mouse Is Happier Than You: How Olga Found Lasting Love and Quiet Happiness While Her Friends Chased Glamour and Lost It All
Emily, come on, you cant be serious, Sarah looked me up and down, eyeing my old cotton dress like it...
My Husband Brought a Colleague to Our Christmas Dinner, So I Asked Them Both to Leave
Where did you put the napkins? I told you to get out the silver ones, they go far better with...
I’m 45 and I’ve Stopped Hosting Guests at Home: Why I Now Prefer Celebrating in Restaurants and Value My Own Comfort Over Entertaining, Even if It Means Declining Impolite Visitors Who Never Reciprocate
I’m 45 now, and honestly, I don’t let people come round to my house anymore. You know how some people...
Drifts of Destiny
Drifts of Fate Matthew, a thirty-five-year-old solicitor, can’t stand New Year’s Eve. For him, its less celebration and more endurance...
“We’ll Be Staying at Yours for a While Because We Can’t Afford Our Own Flat!” — My Friend Told Me. At 65, I Live an Active Life, Exploring New Places and Meeting Fascinating People, but an Unexpected Visit From an Old Friend and Her Entire Family Turned Into a Nightmare That Ended Our Friendship Forever
“We’ll be staying at yours for a bit, as we can’t afford a place of our own!” my friend told...
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew admitted, fidgeting with his empty espresso cup. His voice cracked and wavered so convincingly that Kate found herself leaning closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, you lose a part of yourself. She left me with wounds I thought would never heal… I honestly didn’t think I’d survive.” Andrew’s stories poured out for a long time: about his wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t let go, the fear of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm little stone. She imagined herself as the woman who could restore his faith in love—how they’d heal his scars together, how he’d realize true happiness was possible with her by his side. He first mentioned Max on their second date, casually dropped in between dessert and coffee… — “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but stays with me every weekend. The court said so.” — “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She started daydreaming: Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, TV evenings together. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She could become a second mum—not a replacement, but someone close, someone family… — “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Andrew watched her with a crooked smile she mistook for wariness at the time. “A lot of women run when they hear about a kid.” — “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Her first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his absolute favourite, as Andrew had tipped her off. Patiently, she helped him through his maths homework. She washed his dinosaur T-shirt, pressed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine sharp. — “You should have a rest,” she told Andrew after he’d sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this covered.” Andrew nodded—or so it seemed then, gratefully. But now she realized it was the nod of a man taking his due. Time marched on. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out by eight, home after seven. Decent salary by London standards—enough for two. But there were three. — “Hold-up on site again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a hurricane, “Client’s pulled out. But there’s a big contract coming, I promise.” The “big contract” hovered on the horizon for a year and a half, sometimes getting closer, mostly never arriving. But the bills always came—rent, utilities, internet, groceries, child support for Marina, new trainers for Max, school contributions. Kate paid all of them, quietly. She skimped on lunches, brought in tupperware pasta, walked home in the rain to save on cabs. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—did her own nails and tried not to remember the luxury of professional treatments. Three years, and Andrew had given her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each bouquet—cheap roses from the convenience kiosk near their tube stop, droopy and with snapped-off thorns. Probably on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second came after an argument about a friend who visited unannounced. The third, when he missed her birthday because he lingered with mates—simply forgot. — “Andrew, I don’t want expensive gifts,” she tried to keep her voice gentle. “Just… sometimes I’d like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face contorted instantly. — “So it’s all about money for you, is it? Presents? Don’t you care about love? Or what I’ve been through?” — “That’s not what—” — “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After all I do for you, you still complain.” She fell silent. She always did—it made things easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Yet, for mates’ nights, Andrew always found cash. Pubs, football at the local, café Thursdays. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, flop onto the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She convinced herself this was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change, surely. She just had to be even more attentive, love even harder—after all, look at what he’d suffered… Talk of marriage became a minefield. — “We’re happy as we are, why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew waved the question away like a pesky fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” — “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” — “Now you’re pressuring me—always pressuring!” He stormed off, ending the conversation. Kate longed for children of her own. She was twenty-eight, the ticking biological clock growing louder each month. But Andrew wasn’t interested in a second round of fatherhood—he had a son, and that was enough for him. Then came that Saturday—she asked for just one day. One day. — “The girls are inviting me over. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as though she’d announced she was emigrating. — “And Max?” — “He’s your son, Andrew. Spend the day with him.” — “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I’m expecting to relax?” She blinked. In three years she’d never left them alone. Never asked for a day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, tutored homework, washed, ironed—while holding a full-time job. — “I just want to see my friends. It’s only a few hours… And he’s your son. Can’t you spend a day with him on your own?” — “You’re supposed to love my child as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to make demands?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food. Three years supporting a man who yelled at her for wanting to spend a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—twisted face, throbbing temples, fists clenched—and saw him for the first time. Not as a wounded soul, not a helpless victim in need of rescue, but an adult who had learned to expertly exploit kindness. Kate, to him, was not a beloved partner, not a future wife. She was a walking wallet and a live-in maid. That was all. When Andrew left to drop Max back to Marina, Kate took out her suitcase. Her hands moved calmly, no shakes, no doubts. Passport. Mobile. Charger. A couple of shirts and jeans. The rest could be bought later. The rest didn’t matter. She left no note. What could she explain to a man who never valued her? The door closed behind her quietly, no fuss, no drama. The calls started within an hour—one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, endless trill that made her phone quiver. — “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! You’ve gone, there’s no dinner! Am I supposed to go hungry now? What the hell?!” She listened—his voice angry, demanding, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, as she’d left, Andrew thought only of himself. How inconvenient this was. Who would make his tea? No “sorry”. No “what happened”. Just “how dare you”. Kate blocked his number. Blocked him on Messenger. On every social platform—brick by brick, she built herself a wall. Three years. Three years with someone who never loved her. Who used her empathy as a disposable resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But that’s not love. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t reduce someone to a servant. Kate walked through the twilight streets of London and for the first time in ages, she could breathe. She vowed she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again give herself away to those who prey on pity. And always, always choose herself. Just herself.
I never thought Id be able to trust anyone again after my divorce, Andrew was turning an empty espresso cup...
My Ex-Husband’s Son from His New Marriage Fell Ill – He Asked Me for Financial Help and I Refused!
Im 37 years old. Ive been divorced for a good ten years now. My ex-husband was unfaithful and I couldnt...