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.
When I Boarded the Plane, I Found Our Seats Taken: How My Wife and I Dealt with a Mother Who Refused to Move After Taking Our Reserved Window Seats for Her Child—A Lesson in Courtesy and Planning on a Flight to Rome
When I boarded the aeroplane, I found our seats had already been claimed. My wife and I had planned to...
You’re Taking Advantage of Gran—She Looks After Your Child but Refuses to Help with Mine, Not Even at the Weekends
Youre taking advantage of Grandma. She helps with your child and wont even take mine at weekends. Sometimes life tosses...
My Mother-in-Law Is Celebrating Her Birthday in Our Flat Tomorrow — Navigating a Strained Relationship, New Baby Duties, and Family Expectations in Our Shared London Home
Tomorrow is my mother-in-laws birthday. My little one is just over four months old. At first, she invited us to...
The Children Came to Visit and Called Me a Poor Housekeeper The day before my birthday, I started preparing dishes for the party. I asked my husband to peel the vegetables and chop the salads while I browned the meat and made the rest of the food myself. I thought I had prepared a wonderful, hearty feast to treat my big family. On my birthday morning, my husband and I went to the bakery to buy a large, especially fresh cake we knew our grandchildren would love. The first to arrive were my son, his wife, and their child, followed by my eldest daughter with her two children, and finally my middle daughter with her husband and their kids. Everyone gathered around the table, clattering with spoons and forks. It seemed like everyone enjoyed themselves and that there was enough food to go around. The grandchildren were so full they smeared the wallpaper with their sticky hands, and the adults managed to stain the tablecloth. During tea, my eldest daughter turned to me and said, — “You hardly put anything on the table… We ate, and now what?” Her words really struck me. Even though it was meant as a joke that made the others laugh, I felt hurt. It’s true I always try to pack a little something for the children, but it’s hard to cook for such a big family with just a few pots and a small oven, and I can’t spend my whole pension on a single party. — “Don’t worry, my dear,” my husband whispered to me in the kitchen as we fetched the cake, “if everything’s gone, it means they enjoyed it. You can just give them the recipes when they’ve got some free time, let them cook. And honestly, next time, they should bring something to contribute. There’s so many of them, and only the two of us.”
The children came to visit and called me a poor housekeeper. The day before my birthday, I started preparing dishes...
The Key in His Hand Rain drummed against the window of the flat with the bleak consistency of a metronome, each beat ticking out the time left. Michael sat hunched on the edge of his sagging bed, as if by shrinking he could disappear altogether from the notice of fate. His large hands—once strong, shaped by years on the factory floor—now lay powerless in his lap. His fingers curled and uncurled in vain, desperate for something solid to hold on to. He wasn’t looking at the wall; he was seeing a map traced on the faded wallpaper—a map of hopeless journeys: trips from the NHS surgery to the private diagnostic clinic. His gaze, like an old film stuck on a single frame, was dulled and washed out. Another doctor, another kind but weary “Well, you have to understand—you’re not as young as you once were.” He couldn’t muster any anger. Anger took energy, and he had none left. Only fatigue remained. The pain in his back had become more than a symptom—it was the backdrop to every thought and action, a white noise of helplessness drowning everything else out. He did everything he was told: swallowed pills, slathered on gels, lay on the chilly table in the physio clinic, feeling like discarded machinery on the scrapheap. And all that time—he waited. Passive, almost devout, for the lifeline he hoped someone—perhaps the government, or a brilliant doctor, or clever professor—would throw out to him as he sank slowly into the muck. He stared into the horizon of his life and saw only rain-soaked greyness beyond the glass. His own will, once so sharp and practical on the job and at home, was reduced to a single function: to endure and hope for a miracle from somewhere else. Family… There had been family, but it had slipped away, vanishing quickly and with a strange clarity. His daughter Katie was first to go—clever Katie, off to London in search of something more. He’d never begrudged her ambition; if anything, he’d encouraged her to chase it. “Dad, I’ll help you as soon as I’m settled,” she’d said over the phone. He’d known even then that it wasn’t important. Then his wife left—Raia. Not to the shops, but forever. Cancer took her so fast. It was as if her absence magnified the weight in his spine, leaving him, halfway between the chair and the bed, still breathing, but blaming himself for it. She, the wellspring of his strength, faded in three months. He’d nursed her until the end, until her cough turned desperate and her eyes dulled to a distant shine. Her last words, gripping his hand in the hospital: “Hang on, Mike…” He wasn’t able to. He broke. Katie called, begged him to stay with her in her tiny rented flat, but what use was he to her there? In a stranger’s home, a burden. She wouldn’t be coming back. Now only Raia’s younger sister, Val, visited, once a week by the clock—bringing soup in Tupperware, pasta with a lukewarm cutlet and a fresh pack of painkillers. “How are you, Mike?” Val would ask, peeling off her coat. He’d nod, “Alright.” They’d sit in silence, her bustling around, tidying his little room, as if the order of things could somehow restore the order of his life. Eventually, she’d leave behind the scent of another woman’s perfume, and the soft, near-tangible weight of a duty performed. He was grateful. Yet also, crushingly alone. It wasn’t just physical loneliness—it was a prison built from helplessness, grief, and a subdued rage at unfairness. One melancholy night, his wandering gaze fell on a key lying on the tattered rug. He must have dropped it the last time he shuffled in from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special. A bit of metal. He stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. He remembered his grandfather—brightly, as if someone had turned on a light in a dark corner of memory. Grandad Peter—one sleeve empty and pinned—would sit on the stool and tie his laces with a lone hand and a broken fork. Patient, focused, quirkily triumphant when he managed it. “Look, Mikey,” Grandad would say with a gleam of victory in his eye, “A tool is always close by. Sometimes a tool looks like junk. The trick is spotting the friend in the rubbish.” As a boy, Michael had thought this was just old man talk—a comforting fable. Grandad was a hero, and heroes could always manage. Michael, he decided, was ordinary; his battles with pain and loneliness weren’t fit for brave stories. But now, staring at the key, the old scene rang not like consolation, but as a quiet rebuke. His grandfather never waited for help. He used what he had—a bent fork—and beat back helplessness itself. So what had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, sitting by the door of someone else’s charity. The thought jarred him. Suddenly, the key—the chunk of metal, echoing his grandad’s words—became a silent command. Michael stood, groaning as his body objected, almost shame-faced in the empty flat. He took two shuffling steps, picked up the key. His attempt to straighten was met with the familiar knife of pain. He froze, waiting for it to pass, but this time, instead of collapsing back onto the bed, he pressed on. Moving slowly, he went to the wall. He turned his back to it, pressed the blunt bit of the key to the wallpaper right where the pain sat, and gently, gingerly leant in, applying pressure. There was no plan to ‘massage’ or ‘treat’—just the act of pushing back. Pressure against pain, reality against reality. He found a spot where, miraculously, this struggle brought not agony, but the slightest, dull relief—something inside relented, softened a fraction. He moved the key, tried again, higher then lower, with the same careful experiment. Each movement was slow, full of listening to his own body. It wasn’t treatment—it was negotiation. The key, not some medical gadget, was his tool. It seemed foolish. A key was no miracle. But the next evening, when pain returned, he tried again. And again. He discovered places where pressure brought not more pain, but relief—a sense of opening a vice by fractions. He began leaning against the doorframe to stretch. Drank a glass of water when the empty cup reminded him—something free, at least. Michael had stopped waiting, hands idle. He started using whatever was at hand: the key, the doorframe, the floor for simple stretches, his own resolve. He kept a notebook—not a pain diary, but a list of ‘key victories’: “Today managed five minutes by the cooker.” On the sill, he placed three old baked bean tins—planned for the bin. He filled them with earth from the front garden and planted a few onion bulbs. Not a vegetable plot, but a tiny patch of life that he was now responsible for. A month passed. At the next appointment, the doctor’s eyebrows went up at what he saw in the new scans. “There’s some improvement. Have you been doing the exercises?” “Yes,” Michael said. “I’ve been using what I’ve got.” He didn’t mention the key—the doctor wouldn’t have understood. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t come by ship. It had simply lain on the floor, ignored while he watched the wall, waiting for someone else to turn on the light. One Wednesday, when Val appeared with soup, she stopped in the doorway. On the windowsill, in those tin cans, green shoots of spring onion pointed skywards. The room no longer reeked of medicine and defeat, but of something almost hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him standing confidently at the window. “Kitchen garden,” he replied. After a moment, he added, “Want some for your soup? Home-grown, fresh.” That evening, she stayed longer than usual. Over tea, without discussing his aches and pains, he told her about the stairs—the single extra flight he now climbed each day. His rescue didn’t come from Doctor Dolittle with a magic potion. It had hidden itself as a key, a doorframe, an empty can, and a concrete staircase. It hadn’t removed pain, loss, or age. But it put tools in his hands—not to win a war all at once, but to fight his small daily battles. And it turns out, if you stop waiting for a golden ladder from heaven and see the plain, concrete one at your feet, you might find the climb itself is already a life. Slowly, carefully, step by step—but always upward. And on the windowsill, in those three battered cans, grew the finest green onions in the world.
The rain was tapping against the flat window, steady as a grandfather clock, counting down the hours to something you...
Husband Refuses to Let Our Daughter Live in the Flat He Inherited from His Aunt—He Wants to Sell It and Split the Money Equally Among Our Three Children, but I Believe Our 19-Year-Old Daughter Should Have Her Own Place While Studying—Who’s Right in This Family Dilemma?
My husbands aunt left him a flat right in the centre of Oxfordtiny little thing, youd miss it if you...
Two Weeks Away from My Garden Retreat: Returning to Find the Neighbours Had Built a Greenhouse on My Land and Planted Cucumbers and Tomatoes
It had been a fortnight since I last visited my garden retreat, and in that time, the neighbours had erected...
A Dog, a Proposal, and a Happy Ending: How a Free Pup Led to Love, Laughter, and a New Family – A Heartwarming English Tale
I stumbled into a reason to propose. A strange, dreamlike tale Thank you ever so much for your kind supportall...