З життя
Тато, познайомся, це моя наречена та твоя майбутня невістка
— Тату, познайомся, це моя майбутня дружина і твоя невістка, Ганна! — щасливо сяяв Борис.
— Хто?! — з подивом запитав професор, доктор наук Роман Михайлович. — Якщо це жарт, то не дуже смішний!
Чоловік із відразою дивився на нігті на грубих пальцях «невістки». Здавалося, ця дівчина не знала, що таке вода і мило. Як інакше пояснити бруд, що в’ївся під нігті?
«Боже мій! Як добре, що моя Лариса не дожила до такої ганьби! Ми ж намагалися виховати цього обалдуя з найкращими манерами», — промайнуло в його думках.
— Це не жарт! — впевнено сказав Борис. — Ганна залишиться з нами, а через три місяці ми одружимося. Якщо ти не хочеш брати участь у моєму весіллі, обійдуся без тебе!
— Добридень! — усміхнулася Ганя і по-звичному пройшла на кухню. — Це пироги, малинове варення, сушені гриби…, — перераховувала вона продукти, які дістала зі зношеної торби.
Роман Михайлович схопився за серце, побачивши, як Ганя зіпсувала білу скатертину ручної вишивки, проливши варення.
— Борисе! Опам’ятайся! Якщо ти це робиш мені на зло, не варто… Це надто жорстоко! З якого ти села привіз цю невігласку? Я не дозволю їй жити в моєму домі! — кричав у відчаї професор.
— Я люблю Ганну. І моя дружина має право проживати в моїй квартирі! — знущально посміхнувся хлопець.
Роман Михайлович зрозумів, що син просто знущається з нього. Не бажаючи сперечатися далі, він мовчки пішов до своєї кімнати.
Віднедавна стосунки з сином дуже змінилися. Після смерті матері Борис став некерованим. Він кинув університет, грубив батькові та вів розгульний безтурботний спосіб життя.
Роман Михайлович сподівався, що син зміниться. Стане, як колись, розсудливим і добрим. Але з кожним днем Борис віддалявся від нього. І сьогодні, привести в їхній дім це село. Адже розумів, що батько ніколи не схвалить його вибору, тому й привів невідомо кого…
Незабаром Борис із Ганною одружилися. Роман Михайлович відмовився бути присутнім на весіллі, не хотів приймати невістку, що йому не подобалася. Його дратувало те, що місце Лариси, чудової господині, дружини та матері, зайняла ця малограмотна дівчина, яка й двох слів не могла зв’язати.
Ганна, здавалося, не помічала поганого ставлення свекра до себе, намагалася у всьому йому догодити, але робила тільки гірше. Чоловік не бачив у ній жодної гарної якості саме через те, що дівчина була малограмотна і з поганими манерами…
Борис, награвшись у зразкового чоловіка, знову почав пити й гуляти. Батько часто чув сварки молодих і лише радів цьому, сподіваючись, що Ганна піде з його дому назавжди.
— Роман Михайлович! — забігла якось невістка зі сльозами. — Борис хоче розлучення, більше того, виганяє мене на вулицю, а я чекаю дитину!
— По-перше, чому ж на вулицю? Ти ж не бездомна… Їдь туди, звідки приїхала. А те, що ти вагітна, не дає тобі права жити тут після розлучення. Вибач, але я не стану втручатися у ваші стосунки, — промовив чоловік, в душі радіючи, що нарешті позбудеться нав’язливої невістки.
Ганна заплакала у відчаї й пішла збирати речі. Вона не розуміла, чому свекор зненавидів її з першого погляду, чому Борис погрався з нею як з песиком і викинув на вулицю. Ну і що, що вона з села? Адже у неї теж є душа і почуття…
***
Минуло вісім років… Роман Михайлович жив у будинку для людей похилого віку. Літній чоловік останніми роками дуже здав. Звичайно, цим одразу ж скористався Борис, швидко відправивши батька, щоб позбавити себе від зайвих турбот.
Старий змирився зі своєю долею, розуміючи, що іншого виходу немає. За своє довге життя він зумів тисячам людей прищепити такі якості, як любов, повагу і турботу. Йому досі приходять листи вдячності від колишніх учнів… А от рідного сина виховати людиною не зміг…
— Романе, до тебе гості приїхали, — промовив сусід по кімнаті, повернувшись з прогулянки.
— Хто? Борис? — вирвалося у старого, хоча в душі він розумів, що це неможливо. Син ніколи не приїде до нього, адже надто сильно ненавидів батька…
— Не знаю. Мені чергова крикнула, щоб я тебе покликав. Чого ж ти сидиш? Біжи швидше! — посміхнувся сусід.
Роман узяв тростину і не поспішав виходити з маленької, задушливої кімнати. Спускаючись по сходах, він здалеку побачив її і одразу впізнав, хоча й пройшло багато часу з їхньої останньої зустрічі.
— Здрастуй, Ганна! — промовив чомусь тихо, опустивши голову. Напевно, досі відчував свою провину перед тією дівчиною, щирою та простою, за яку не захотів заступитися тоді, вісім років тому…
— Роман Михайлович?! — здивувалася рум’яна жінка. — Ви так змінилися… Хворієте?
— Є трохи…, — сумно посміхнувся він. — Як ти тут? Звідки дізналася, де я?
— Борис розповів. Ви ж знаєте, він ніяк не хоче спілкуватися з сином. Але хлопчик постійно проситься то до тата, то до дідуся… Ваня ж не винен, що ви не визнаєте його. Дитині не вистачає спілкування з рідними. Ми ж удвох з ним залишилися…, — промовила жінка тремтячим голосом. — Вибачте, напевно я даремно все це затіяла.
— Постій! — попросив старий. — Який він уже, Ванюша? Пам’ятаю, востаннє ти надіслала фото, на якому йому було всього три роки.
— Він тут, біля входу. Покликати? — нерішуче запитала Ганя.
— Звичайно, доню, клич! — зрадів Роман Михайлович.
У хол увійшов руденький хлопчик, повна, зменшена копія Бориса. Ванюша несміливо підійшов до дідуся, якого ніколи не бачив.
— Здрастуй, сину! Який же ти вже великий…, — просльозився старий, обіймаючи онука.
Вони довго розмовляли, гуляючи осінніми алеями парку, що прилягав до території будинку для людей похилого віку. Ганя розповідала про своє нелегке життя, про те, як рано померла її мати і молодій жінці довелося самій піднімати на ноги сина і господарство.
— Пробач, Ганю! Я дуже винен перед тобою. Хоча й вважав себе завжди розумним, освіченим, але тільки нещодавно зрозумів, що людей треба цінувати не за розум і виховання, а за щирість і душевність, — сказав старий.
— Роман Михайлович! У нас до вас пропозиція, — усміхнулася Ганя, нервуючи та затинаючись. — Поїхали до нас! Ви самотні, і ми з сином самі… А так хочеться, щоб поруч була рідна людина.
— Дідусю, поїхали! Будемо разом на риболовлю ходити, в ліс по гриби… У нас дуже красиво в селі, і місця вдома багато! — попросив Ваня, не відпускаючи руку дідуся.
— Поїхали! — усміхнувся Роман Михайлович. — Я багато упустив у вихованні сина, сподіваюся, зможу дати тобі те, чого не дав свого часу Борису. Тим більше, я ніколи не був у селі. Сподіваюся, мені сподобається!
— Звичайно, сподобається! — засміявся Ванюша.
“We’ll Be Staying With You For A While, We Can’t Afford To Rent A Flat!” – Said My Friend I’m a very active woman. Even though I’m 65, I still manage to visit fascinating places and meet interesting people. I recall my youth with both joy and nostalgia—back then, you could holiday wherever you liked! You could go to the seaside, or camping with friends, or set sail down any river, all for little money. Sadly, those days are gone. I always loved meeting new people, be it on the beach or at the theatre, and many friendships lasted years. One day, I met a woman named Sarah. We were holidaying at the same seaside guesthouse and parted as friends. Years passed and we’d occasionally exchange letters. Then, one day, I received an unsigned telegram: “The train arrives at three in the morning. Meet me!” I couldn’t imagine who would send it. My husband and I didn’t go anywhere, but at four in the morning, there was a knock at our door. Opening it, I was stunned—standing there was Sarah, two teenage girls, her mother, and a man, with a mountain of luggage. My husband and I were bewildered, but we let them in. Then Sarah asked me: “Why didn’t you come to meet us? I sent you a telegram! And you know, that cost me!” “Sorry, but we didn’t know who sent it.” “Well, you gave me your address. So, here I am.” “I thought we’d just write letters, that’s all!” Sarah explained that one of the girls had just finished school and wanted to attend university. The family had come to support her. “We’ll be living with you! We have no money for a flat or hotel!” I was shocked—we weren’t even family! Why should we let them stay with us? We had to feed them three times a day. They’d brought some food, but didn’t cook, just ate ours. I ended up looking after everyone. I couldn’t take it anymore, so after three days I asked Sarah and her family to leave. I didn’t care where to. There was an awful row. Sarah started smashing crockery and screamed hysterically. I was utterly appalled. As they packed up, they managed to steal my bathrobe, several towels, and—astonishingly—even a large saucepan. I still don’t know how they got it out, but that pan simply vanished! And so ended our friendship—thank goodness! I never saw or heard from her again. How can people be so shameless? Now, I’m much more wary when meeting new acquaintances.
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You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” Andrew said, turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke and trembled so convincingly that Ksenia instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when you’ve been betrayed, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left a scar I’ll never get over. I truly believed I wouldn’t survive it…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for a long time—about the wife who never appreciated him, about the pain that wouldn’t let go, about how terrified he was to start over. Every word settled in Ksenia’s heart like a warm pebble, and she already imagined she’d be the woman to restore his faith in love. Together, they would heal his wounds. He’d finally see that real happiness was possible—with her. It wasn’t until their second date, between dessert and coffee, that Andrew mentioned Maxim… “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mother, but spends every weekend with me. The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. The third was brought home after he missed her birthday because he stayed out with his mates (or simply forgot…) “Andrew, I don’t need expensive presents,” she tried to keep her voice gentle, choosing every word. “But sometimes, I’d just like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “Money, it’s always about money with you, isn’t it? Presents, presents. Does love mean anything to you? All I’ve been through, and you complain?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I’ve done for you, you still find something to whinge about.” Ksenia fell silent. She always did—it was just easier that way. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend everything was fine. Strangely, Andrew always managed to find money for nights out with friends. Pubs, watching the football, café meetups every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t turn a living, breathing person into the hired help. Ksenia walked through the London evening—and, for the first time in ages, breathing came easy. She vowed to herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she rescue those who only trade on pity. Always, from now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.
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