З життя
Тонка ручка тягнеться до спілої клубники, поки я роблю вигляд, що прополюю лук.
У шпарину в паркані просовується маленька ручка і тягнеться до стиглої полуниці. Я роблю вигляд, що не помічаю, продовжуючи прополювати цибулю.
— Доброго дня, тітко Оксано, — тоненьким голосом кричить Лесик.
— Привіт, сонечко, — усміхаюсь я. — Іди сюди, допоможеш мені зібрати полуницю.
Паркан провис, я легко піднімаю його нижню частину, і до мене в гості заходить Ангел — так я називаю Лесика. За ним, сапаючи і зітхаючи, протискається велика собака Бровко, він майже вдвічі більший за свого господаря. Ставлю посередині грядки велику миску. Лесик збирає найбільші й найстигліші ягоди. У нього світле волосся, блакитні очі, гострі, випнута, ніби крила, лопатки. Через це я і називаю його Ангелом. Йому 5 років. Допитливий, добрий.
— Лесику, а чому твоя мама зранку сварилася?
— Та просто вона хотіла табуретки пофарбувати, а я фарбу розлив, — відповідає Лесик. — Хотів Бровкові будку пофарбувати і ненароком впустив банку.
— Ну, це не страшно. Зараз ми з тобою чаю поп’ємо та купимо іншу фарбу.
Мій маленький Ангел без нагадувань миє руки та сідає за стіл. Його улюблене місце біля вікна. З запропонованих страв вибирає полуницю з молоком та ще теплий рогалик. Рогалик посипаний цукровою пудрою, і над верхньою губою у Лесика білі солодкі вуса. На килимку біля порога лежить Бровко. Він тут не вперше, знає правила дому та терпляче чекає на частування. Йому дістається сирник. Бровко із жалем дивиться на самотню сирну оладку, потім, не приховуючи розчарування, на нас із Лесиком, запитуючи поглядом: це все!? Я очікував більшого… Ми сміємося, і я ставлю перед кудлатим сусідом миску з супом. Бровко нас прощає і, не кваплячись, приступає до частування.
Через годину трійко повертаємося з магазину з двома банками фарби: білою і зеленою. Небо блакитне, сонце високо, спекотно. Заходжу до хати перевдягтися, збираю в пакет залишки полуниці та рогаликів. На ганку будинку Лесика сидить бабуся. Вона осліпла два роки тому. Маленький Ангел турботливо поправляє хустку на її голові, щоб було рівно та красиво, заправляє вибивську прядку волосся. Ставлю бабусі на коліна чашку з полуницею, знаю — вона її любить.
На відкритій веранді разом з Лесиком фарбуємо білою фарбою табуретки, а потім, із другої банки — будку Бровка. Тепер вона буде зеленою. Лесик задоволений, Бровко — байдужий.
З роботи повертається Олена, мама Ангела. Хвалить сина за виконану роботу, запрошує всіх до столу. Лесик бере бабусю за руку і веде до дому. Потім він годує її рисовою кашею, акуратно та терпляче. Чай старенька п’є самостійно, з карамеллю. По дому пересувається сама, знає, де яка підлога скрипне. Олена працює у придорожньому кафе, від дому — два кілометри. Якщо друга зміна, повертається пізно. Вся надія на сина.
Краєм ока стежу за Лесиком, він з обох щік уплітає кашу, підсолену шматком масла. Випивши кружку солодкого чаю, іде дивитися мультики. Дитина і вже чоловік. Чи навпаки: чоловік, але ще дитина?
Підмітає підлогу, може помити посуд, допомагає бабусі правильно вдягтися, годує її, носить до хати дрова (по два поліна), воду (маленьким відром). А ще він любить свого собаку та може іноді гірко плакати, коли мати несправедливо накричить. Він може щасливо сміятися, коли купається в річці, і бризки води злітають високо-високо і сяють на сонці.
Олена проводжає мене до воріт. Я прошу не кричати на Лесика. Він чоловік, не принижуй його. Бережи. Шукайте привід, щоб похвалити.
Олена починає скаржитися на тяжке життя, на сліпу матір, на маленьку зарплату.
Я у відповідь: свій дім, мама жива і поруч, є робота, є син-помічник, сама здорова. Умій дорожити тим, що є, і не дивись на інших.
Олена усміхається і махає на прощання рукою.
Мої заняття з Лесиком не проходять даремно, у п’ять років він уже вільно читає бабусі «Снігову королеву». А в тихі безвітряні вечори ми йдемо із вудками на річку. Сонце — стиглий соняшник, неспішно йде в ліс, відпускаючи останні теплі промені. Підсвічені знизу хмари відливають золотом. Усе навколо завмирає, відпочиває від метушні та звуків. Наше з Лесиком спілкування зовсім не відлякує допитливу рибу, і незабаром кілька штук, сяючи лускою, вже плескають у банці. Вечеря моєму котові забезпечена…
…Сьогодні до мене прилетів Ангел. Він вже дорослий, йому 42. Поважний лікар, хірург. Кілька разів на рік навідує могилки матері та бабусі, а потім, навантажений гостинцями, заходить у мій дім. Усі звуть його Олексію Миколайовичу, але я-то знаю, що це Ангел! Великий, широкоплечий і дуже добрий Ангел. У будь-яку пору року він ставить на стіл корзинку з полуницею, сідає на улюблене місце біля вікна і щасливо усміхається. П’є чай із теплими рогаликами, викурює на ґанку цигарку, а прощаючись, обіймає мене двома великими, теплими крилами…
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He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together—Every Morning He Saw Her Face, But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Grate on Him, Especially the Way She Stretched Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Said, “Good Morning, Sunshine! It’s Going to Be a Wonderful Day.” At First He’d Loved Her Body, Her Freedom, Her Morning Rituals—Now Even Her Nakedness Filled Him with Anger. She Knew of His Three-Year Affair, But Time Had Healed Her Wounded Pride and Left Only a Sad Sense of Uselessness. Secretly, She Struggled with a Terminal Illness, Finding Solace in a Quiet Village Library. When He Finally Decided to Leave Her for His Lover, He Discovered a Hidden Folder with Her Medical Records—The Diagnosis Gave Her 6–18 Months to Live, and Six Months Had Already Passed. At a Restaurant Where They Once Celebrated Their Anniversary, She Waited for Him in the Autumn Sunshine, Tears Flowing as She Realized Her Life Was Slipping Away Unnoticed. In the End, He Cared for Her Every Moment Until She Passed, Realizing Too Late the Depth of His Loss; Under Her Pillow He Found Her New Year’s Wish: “To Be Happy with Him Until the End of My Days.” That Same Year, He’d Wished for Freedom—And in the End, Each Received Exactly What They’d Requested…
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “You belong in a care home, and you know it! Get out of our family!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, my voice breaking with emotion. The target of my outrage was my cousin, Dima. Lord, I loved him so much as a child—his golden hair, cornflower-blue eyes, cheerful nature. That was Dima all over. Family gatherings would often bring us all together around the table, but out of all my cousins, it was always Dima who stood out. With his silver tongue, he could weave tales like intricate lace, and he was a gifted artist. By the end of any evening, he’d have sketched five or six pencil drawings with ease. I would marvel at his work, unable to tear myself away from its beauty, and quietly stash his drawings in my desk for safekeeping, cherishing his creativity. Dima was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mother died suddenly and unexpectedly—she simply never woke up. Everyone wondered what would become of Dima. They looked first to his biological father, but finding him was not easy—his parents had long been divorced, and his father had another family and wasn’t about to disrupt his “peaceful life.” Then the rest of the relatives collectively shrugged—each had their own families and worries. Suddenly, our extended family was nowhere to be found when needed most. So, with two children of their own, my parents agreed to take Dima in—the late woman was my father’s younger sister, after all. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But… On his very first day in our home, I noticed something odd about my favourite cousin’s behaviour. Trying to bring him some comfort, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just tell us.” Immediately, Dima answered, “A model railway set.” This toy was quite expensive, and his wish surprised me. I thought—your mum just died, the most important person in your world, and all you can think about is a train set? How could he? Still, my parents bought it for him immediately. But soon Dima’s requests snowballed. “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the 1980s. Not only were these things pricey, but difficult to find. Yet my parents, depriving their own children, tried to fulfil every wish of the orphan. My brother and I endured this in silence, understanding it was for Dima. When Dima turned sixteen, he started chasing after girls. He became infatuated with me—his own cousin. But I, being sporty and quick, dodged his advances, even fighting him off physically at times and ending up in tears. My parents never knew—I didn’t want to upset them. Most kids keep such things to themselves. After I made it clear I wasn’t interested, Dima quickly moved on to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. Dima also stole from us, brazenly and without shame. I remember saving my school lunch money in a piggy bank for a present for my parents—one day, it was empty. Dima swore blind he hadn’t touched it, didn’t so much as blush. My soul was torn to pieces—how could he steal in the very house we shared? Dima shattered our family’s trust, as if nothing mattered to him. I began to hate him. That’s when I screamed, with all my might: “Get out of our family!” I let rip at Dima, said more than fit in a hat—words I can’t take back. My mother barely managed to calm me down. Since then, Dima ceased to exist for me. I avoided him in every way. Later, it turned out the other relatives all knew what “sort” Dima was—they lived nearby and had seen plenty. Only our family, living farther away, had been in the dark. Dima’s former teachers even warned my parents: “You shouldn’t have taken him in. Dima will only ruin your own children.” At a new school, he met Kate, who would fall head-over-heels for Dima and marry him right after graduation. They had a daughter. Kate patiently endured his wild whims, endless lies, and countless betrayals. As the old saying goes: “single and you suffer, married and it’s double.” Dima was later conscripted for military service in Kazakhstan. There, he formed a “second family”—apparently during breaks from service. He fathered a son. After his discharge, Dima stayed in Kazakhstan, but Kate went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back to his family. My parents never heard a word of thanks from Dima—not that they expected it. Now, Dmitry Eugene is sixty. He’s a devout parishioner at the local English church, with Kate and five grandchildren. Everything seems fine, but the bitterness from my relationship with Dima still lingers… A taste too bitter, even for honey.
BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL You should have been in a childrens home ages ago! Get out of...
POSTAGE STAMP… “Ilya’s left Katya,” Mum sighed heavily. “What do you mean?” I didn’t understand. “I don’t get it myself,” Mum said. “He was away on business for a month, came back all changed. Told Katya he loves someone else.” “Did he really say that? Must be some mistake—how awful,” I fumed at Katya’s husband. “Sonia called me—said Katya was unwell, had to call an ambulance. Turned out Katya had some kind of neurological swallowing disorder,” Mum blinked rapidly. “Alright, Mum, calm down. Honestly, Katya shouldn’t have put Ilya on a pedestal like that. She was always dancing attendance on him. Now she’s left picking up the pieces. Poor Katya. I hope Ilya isn’t serious about this new woman—he loves Katya and Sonia,” I refused to believe what I’d heard. …Ilya and Katya’s wild passion, their whirlwind romance—they married after just two months. Their daughter Sonia was born. Life was measured, calm, and then—everything tumbled downhill… Like a Rolling Boulder… I rushed straight to my sister. Some conversations are hardest with those closest to you. “Katya, how could this happen? Did Ilya even explain? Has he lost his mind?” I barraged my sister. “I’m in shock myself, Nina. Who is this woman? Did she cast some sort of spell? Ilya dashed off to her, obsessed. Threw his stuff in a bag, left. Feels like I’ve been dragged across concrete. I don’t understand…” Katya sobbed endlessly. “Let’s wait, Katya. Maybe your runaway will come to his senses. These things happen,” I hugged her. He Didn’t Come Back. Ilya made a new life in another city, and with a new wife. Ksenia was eighteen years Ilya’s senior, but the age gap didn’t prevent their happiness. “Souls don’t have ages,” Ksenia said. Ilya was smitten. Ksenia became his lodestar. She had a tough streak—could be tender, could be ruthless. Ilya adored her. Every time he’d marvel, “Where have you been all my life, Ksenia? I’ve searched half my life for you…” Meanwhile, Katya decided to seek vengeance—all men now fair game. Beautiful, she turned heads everywhere. She had a fling with her boss, entranced him. “Katya, marry me. I’ll make you rich. You’ll be treated like a queen.” “No thanks, Dmitri—I’ve had enough marriages… Let’s go to the seaside instead. I want Sonia to get some fresh air,” Katya winked. “Alright, my dear…” Sasha was simpler—helped around the flat, did her renovations, but never proposed—he was already married. Katya strung both along—no love, just distraction from her misery. She still yearned for Ilya, saw him in dreams, woke up in useless tears. Couldn’t let go of those memories. “How do you un-weld someone from your life? What did I do wrong? I was loyal, caring—never argued…” …Years went by. Katya’s life was split between Dmitri’s tender invites, Sasha’s handyman help. …Sonia was twenty when she decided to visit her father. Bought a train ticket, wondered how to address “the other woman.” Arrived in a new city. …Rang the bell. “You must be Sophia,” an interesting woman opened the door. “Mum is much prettier…” Sonia thought. “Ksenia, right?” Sonia guessed. “Yes, come in. Your dad’s not home but will be soon,” Ksenia led her to the kitchen. “How are you? How’s your mum?” Ksenia fussed, “Tea, coffee?” “Ksenia, how did you manage to steal my dad away? He loved my mum—I know that for sure,” Sonia looked her straight in the eye. “Sophia, life’s unpredictable. Love has no guarantees. Sometimes passion sweeps in and one meeting changes everything. Fate intervenes. Sometimes, you just have to change partners in the dance. It can’t be explained,” Ksenia slumped into a chair. “But can’t you just stop? Think of your duty to family…” Sonia couldn’t grasp Ksenia’s reasoning, glaring at the woman she loathed. “You can’t, child,” Ksenia replied simply. “Thank you for your honesty,” Sonia refused the coffee. “Sophia, want some cheeky advice? A man is like a postage stamp—the more you spit on him, the better he sticks. And in general, you need to be steel one day, velvet the next… By the way, your dad and I had a big row.” “Thanks for the tip. Should I wait for Dad?” Sonia asked anxiously. “I’m not sure. He’s been living in a hotel this week. Here’s the address,” Ksenia scribbled it on a scrap of paper. Sonia was relieved—now she could talk to her dad alone. “Goodbye, thanks for the coffee,” she left quickly. She found the hotel, knocked on his door. Ilya was happy—if a bit embarrassed—to see his daughter. “I was planning on returning today—after the row and all…” “That’s your business, Dad. I just wanted to see you,” Sonia carefully took her father’s hand. “How’s your mum?” Ilya asked. “All’s well. We’ve gotten used to life without you.” They spent a warm evening in the hotel room—talking, laughing, shedding quiet tears. “Dad, do you love Ksenia?” Sonia suddenly asked. “Very much. I’m sorry, darling,” Ilya answered surely. “Got it. I need to run—my train’s soon,” Sonia gathered her things. “Come by, Sonia—we’re family, after all,” Ilya’s eyes dropped. “Of course… see you soon,” Sonia left. …Returning home, she decided to follow Ksenia’s advice: Don’t love, don’t treasure, don’t believe empty men’s words. Brush them off… …But three years later, the right man came along: Kirill. He was made for Sonia, sent by fate… She knew instantly, sensed it… When you meet your true love, nothing else even tempts you… Kirill wrapped his woman in his heart and never let go. He touched her soul in ways unseen. Sonia fell deeply, utterly, without conditions…
THE POSTAGE STAMP Olivers left Emily, Mum sighed heavily. What do you mean? I didnt understand. Im as lost as...
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