З життя
Тривала і важка боротьба за життя матері
Вмирала мама довго, важко і невесело… Тільки очі… Чим ближче ставало неминуче, тим чорнішими вони були. У самий переддень… були вони оксамитово-непрозорими, невимовно розумними та всевидючими… Чи, може, це просто шкіра на обличчі біліла дедалі більше?..
Якось уже наприкінці літа я привіз її з дачі і, оскільки було вже пізно, залишився у неї на ніч. Серед ночі, на шляху до туалету, вона впала і зламала, як виявилося згодом, шийку стегна. Для старших людей це, практично, вирок.
Далі все було досить швидко: швидка — травматологія — операція і десять днів у лікарні.
Коли їхали до лікарні, я чомусь згадав, як залишався ночувати у моєї виховательки з дитячого садка Анни Петрівни, коли ховали тата, який на своєму старенькому мотоциклі потрапив під вантажівку на нічному шосе. Мамі було двадцять вісім, мені — три, і вона не хотіла мене травмувати звісткою про смерть, тож увела мене з дому на час похорону і сказала, що тато поїхав у відрядження… Заміж більше так і не вийшла, побоюючись, що новий чоловік не стане для мене справжнім батьком.
Коли її виписали з лікарні, мені довелося звільнитися з роботи, щоб доглядати за нею: доглядальницю ми б не потягнули, бо молодшому синові в цей час купували квартиру.
Я перебрався на постійне проживання в мамину однокімнатну квартиру, де три-чотири рази на день міняв їй підгузки, мив її та годував. Вона не скаржилась. Ні на що. Терпіла. Тільки ойкала по-дитячому, якщо я перевертав її необережно. А потім шепотіла: «Нічого — нічого, все, сину, добре…»
Я навіть не знав раніше, що настільки бридливий і слабкий. Уночі, коли лягав на дивані біля її ліжка, тихо плакав від відчаю. Напевно, було б гарно, якби я сказав, що це були сльози жалю до неї. Так, це правда, але лише частково, бо себе було жаль ще більше.
Розраховувати на чиюсь допомогу не можна було: обидва сини зайняті на роботі і зі своїми сім’ями, а дружина… Дружина сказала: «Ну, так адже це вона тобі — мама, а мені — просто чужа жінка…»
У цей момент я, чомусь, згадав, як вперше привів свою Таню додому, щоб познайомити її з мамою. Та була дуже гостинна увесь вечір. Коли ж я, провівши наречену, повернувся і запитально поглянув на маму, вона злегка знизала плечима і сказала: «Не знаю, але щось не так… Однак тебе, сину, це ні до чого не зобов’язує. Адже одружуєшся на ній ти, а не я».
Все життя її стосунки з моєю дружиною були прекрасними.
Тепер же, як колись давно, ми з мамою знову були лише вдвох, а вечорами, вже уклавшись і погасивши світло, ще довго розмовляли. І вона розповідала мені про бабусю і дідуся, про те, як німці прийшли в їхнє село, а вона зі старшою сестрою ховалася за парканом і підглядала за чужими ситими людьми, які грали на губних гармоніках і постійно чомусь сміялися.
Розповідала про батька, якого я майже не пам’ятав. А може, й справді не пам’ятав… Тінь якась у пам’яті залишилася. Великий, з колючими щоками і неприємно пахнучий тютюном чоловік бере мене на руки і цілує, цілує, цілує, коли приходить з роботи, і постійно повторює: «Синку мій, син, син!..»
А потім мамі ставало все гірше, і нічні наші з нею розмови поступово зійшли нанівець. Мені все здавалося, що це тому, що я її погано, несмачно годую. Тому став замовляти їжу з ресторану, яку привозили гарячою, ретельно упакованою. Коли я питав у мами, чи смачно, вона тьмяно і безучасно хитала головою і казала: «Ти у мене за цей час справжнім кухарем став». До їжі ж майже не торкалася.
У останню ніч, яку мама провела вдома, вона чомусь згадала, як вперше з’явилися в нашому місті кулькові ручки, а я в цей час навчався у третьому класі і лише чув про них. Зате тату Лени Пономарьової таку ручку звідкись привіз. Вона була настільки чудова, ця ручка, що я… Одним словом, увечері я з захопленням показав мамі вдома цю ручку. Дізнавшись, як вона у мене з’явилася, мама мене била. Болісно. Ремінцем прямо. А потім взяла мене і ручку, і ми (втрьох: мама, я і ручка!) пішли до Пономарьових, щоб повернути скарб його законним господарям.
Я ледь пам’ятав цей епізод, а мама почала просити у мене вибачення за те, що била і намагалася виправдовуватися переді мною, кажучи, що дуже боялася, як би я не став злодієм.
Я пестив мою маму по щоці і чомусь палахкотів від сорому перед нею, хоч злодієм і не став.
Коли вже під ранок їй стало зовсім зле, і її забирала швидка, вона на мить опритомніла, виринула з передсмертного забуття, взяла мене за руку та й сказала: «Господи, як же ти тут… без мене… залишишся… Молодий адже зовсім… дурний…»
Мама не дожила півтора місяця до свого вісімдесятдев’ятиріччя. Наступного дня після її смерті мені виповнилося шістдесят чотири…
З життя3 хвилини ago
It Doesn’t Seem Fair That Your Children Have Their Own Flats, While My Son Has Nothing – Let’s Get Him a Home with a Mortgage! Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have their own flats, while his son doesn’t, and now we need to figure out how to make sure his son gets one too. To clarify, my children are both mine and Anthony’s, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it be my responsibility to worry about finding a place for his son to live? Of course, I always knew Anthony had been married before and had a child. That’s one reason I didn’t rush into marrying Anthony. We lived together for three years before we got married. I watched carefully to see what his feelings were towards his ex-wife and his son. A year after we married, I had a boy. Two years later, I gave birth to our second son. I’m perfectly happy with Anthony – both as a husband and a father. He spends time with me and the children. He’s the main breadwinner. Of course, we argue sometimes – but what family doesn’t? We were living in the flat I’d inherited from my father. My mother divorced him when I was still at nursery. She’s now remarried, but had no children with her second husband. Anthony and his first wife always rented. For years they tried to save for a mortgage but never managed it. After their divorce, his ex-wife moved back in with her parents and Anthony rented a flat. When we married, he moved in with me. We didn’t focus on whose name was on the flat. We just lived in my place and did everything together: renovations, new furniture. Then, about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers died in quick succession – my mum’s and my dad’s mothers. Both left me their flats in their wills. While my boys are still small, I’ve decided to rent the flats out. Later, each of my sons will inherit one. For now, the money from one goes to my mum as a pension top-up, and the money from the other supplements my salary. Extra cash is always handy. My husband never interfered with the flat situations – after all, they’re nothing to do with him. I told him from the start that when our boys grow up, I’ll give each a flat. He agreed. That was that, as far as I was concerned. Then suddenly, my husband said to me: —My son will finish sixth form in a few years. He’s nearly an adult; he needs to start thinking about his future! I didn’t really get where he was going, but I listened anyway. —Your children have their own homes. My son doesn’t. Let’s get a mortgage and buy my son a flat!—he blurted out. I was shocked! I had so many questions. The first thing I asked was why our children – mine and Anthony’s – were suddenly just “my” children? Anthony told me not to get hung up on wording. —But my son will never inherit anything. I want him to have a place of his own! —That’s good that you care! But your son has a mother and a father. Isn’t this their responsibility? Why isn’t your ex-wife taking care of it? My husband explained that his ex-wife’s income is very low, her parents help her, and he himself can’t afford a mortgage. But if I helped, everything would be fine. It turns out I’m supposed to agree to Anthony taking out a mortgage for his son’s flat, but WE would pay it back, even though the flat would be in his son’s name. “We both have good salaries and rental income! We’ll manage!” said Anthony. We might, but we’d have to tighten our belts. Anthony also pays child maintenance for his son. When the boy goes to uni, Anthony plans to support him again because his ex-wife can’t afford it. So because of his son, my children and I won’t have holidays, won’t travel to the seaside, will always have to save. For what? Just so Anthony looks like the perfect dad? I would understand if Anthony had provided both our children with flats, and now wanted to do the same for his eldest son. But the truth is, I secured homes for our boys with no help from Anthony. Why should I pay for a mortgage on top? I told Anthony straight away – if he’s that worried, let his ex-wife take out the mortgage, and pay it off with the child maintenance money. —But I’m not getting involved!—I said. My husband’s furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me for a week. It’s a shame he can’t see my side.
It doesn’t look right that your children will have their own flats and my son wont. Let’s sort out a...
З життя4 хвилини ago
He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself to be weak-willed and spineless. Each day depended on the mood with which he woke. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and bright, cracking jokes all day and laughing loudly. But mostly, he spent his days in gloomy contemplation, drinking copious amounts of tea and wandering around the house with a stormy face, as was typical for people in the creative professions. Victor Dudley belonged to that sort: he worked at the village school, teaching art, woodwork, and, occasionally, music lessons when the music teacher was off sick. He had an affinity for the arts. School didn’t let him fulfil his creative ambitions, so the house became his canvas—Victor made himself a studio, taking over the largest and brightest room. Which, as it happened, Sophie had earmarked as a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered paint tubes and clay everywhere, and set to work—painting feverishly, sculpting, creating… He could stay up all night working on a strange still life, or spend the entire weekend crafting a puzzling sculpture. He never sold his “masterpieces.” They filled the house, the walls thick with paintings that—truth be told—Sophie didn’t like; the cupboards and shelves buckled under the weight of his clay figurines. If the things had been truly beautiful, it might have been different—but they weren’t. The few artist and sculptor friends from Victor’s college days who visited would fall silent, avert their eyes, and sigh quietly as they looked at his creations. Not one ever complimented him. Only Leo Peabody—the oldest in the group—burst out, after finishing a bottle of rowanberry liqueur: “My word, what a load of meaningless daubs! What is all this? I haven’t seen a single worthwhile thing in this house—except, of course, your wonderful wife.” Dudley couldn’t stand the criticism. He shouted, stamped his feet, and told his wife to show the rude guest the door. “Get out!” he yelled. “You philistine! It’s you who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, I see it now! You’re just angry that you can’t hold a paintbrush in your shaky drunk hands! You simply envy me, so you belittle everything!” Peabody barely made it down the steps, and paused at the gate, almost tripping, when Sophie caught up and apologised for her husband’s behaviour. “Please don’t mind him. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should have warned you.” “Don’t make excuses for him, dear child,” nodded Leo. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab and head home. I do pity you, though. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings ruin everything! And those horrid figurines… they should be hidden, not shown off. But knowing Victor, I can only imagine how difficult your life must be. You see, for us artists, the things we create reflect our souls. And Victor’s soul is as empty as his canvases.” He kissed Sophie’s hand in farewell and left the unwelcoming house. Victor did not recover emotionally for a long time—he yelled, smashed some of his own “sculptures,” tore up paintings, and raged for a month before he calmed down. *** Still, Sophie never opposed her husband. She decided that, in time, children would arrive and her darling would set aside his hobbies. He’d turn the studio into a nursery, but until then, let him amuse himself with still lifes. Shortly after their wedding, Victor played the part of the model husband—bringing home fresh fruit and his wages, caring for his young wife. But he soon lost interest. He became distant, stopped sharing his pay, and Sophie had to take care of the home, her husband, the vegetable patch, the henhouse, and her mother-in-law. When Sophie became pregnant, Victor was delighted. But their joy was short-lived: a week later, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and suffered a miscarriage. When Victor heard the news, he changed immediately—becoming whiny, nervous, and shouting at Sophie before locking himself in the house. Sophie left the hospital a shadow of herself. No one met her, but the worst was yet to come: Victor wouldn’t let her in. “Open up, Victor!” “No, I won’t,” he sniffled from behind the door. “Why did you come back? You were supposed to carry my child. But you failed! And today my mother ended up in hospital with a heart attack—because of you!” You’ve brought nothing but trouble. Get off the doorstep—I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision went black and she sat down on the porch. “Oh Victor… I’m suffering too, let me in!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie waited until nightfall. Finally, the door creaked open. Victor, thin with grief, locked the door with a bolt, but couldn’t find the key—he never knew where anything was, usually asked Sophie. He mulled it over, then left for the gate, not looking at his wife. When he was gone, Sophie entered quietly. She waited for him all night. The next morning, a neighbour brought dreadful news: her mother-in-law hadn’t survived the heart attack. The loss devastated Victor. He quit his job, took to bed and told Sophie, “I never really loved you. I only married you because my mother wanted grandchildren. But you ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Those words hurt, but Sophie resolved not to leave him. Time passed, but things did not improve. Victor became bedridden, refusing food, claiming he had an ulcer, until finally he stopped getting up at all. And then he filed for divorce; the Dudleys separated. Sophie wept bitterly. She tried to hug Victor, to kiss him, but he pushed her away, whispering that he’d throw her out as soon as he recovered—that she’d ruined his life. *** Sophie couldn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. Her own mother, delighted to have married her daughter off early, quickly moved to the seaside to live with her new husband—after hastily selling the family home. So Sophie was left trapped by circumstance. *** Eventually, the food ran out. She scraped together the last bits, boiled a final egg from the only surviving hen, and fed Victor watery porridge and mashed yolk. Life had dealt her a cruel hand—she might have been feeding a child by now (had she not been hauling water and logs on her own), but instead had to please her ex-husband, who didn’t value her at all. “I’ll pop out for a bit—the market’s in town from the next village. I’ll try to sell the hen, or trade her for food.” Victor, staring emptily at the ceiling, croaked: “Why sell her? Boil her up for broth. I’m sick of porridge, I want a proper meal.” Sophie pulled at her only dress—it was the one she’d worn for graduation, then at her wedding, and now on hot days: she had nothing else. “You know I can’t… I’ll sell or trade. I could give her to the neighbours, like the others, but I think this hen would keep coming back. She’s too attached.” “‘Penny’—” Victor sneered, “you name your hens now? For goodness’ sake… but what can one expect of you…” Sophie bit her lip and looked down. “You said you’re going to market? Take some of my paintings or figurines—maybe someone will buy them.” She tried to refuse, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two whistling clay birds and a large piggy bank—Victor’s pride—and bolted outside, hoping he wouldn’t demand she lug out the paintings as well. Statues she could rustle up the courage to offer; the paintings, never. They were just too awful. She was too ashamed to take them out in public. *** It was a hot day. Despite the light dress, Sophie was slick with sweat. Her face shone, her fringe stuck to her forehead. It was the village fête. Sophie couldn’t remember when she last went out, gazing in wonder at the bustling crowds around the stalls. There was honey of every kind, colourful silk scarves, children’s sweets, the irresistible aroma of barbecue, music, laughter. She stopped by the last stall, holding her hen close. She hated to part with the old bird, but she truly loved her. Years ago, she’d nursed this hen back to health, and Penny had become a beloved pet, always limping after Sophie. Now, she tried to poke her beak out from Sophie’s bag, pecking at her hand curiously. *** An elderly stallholder eyed her. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Stainless steel, silver, even a few gold chains.” “No, thanks. I’m here to sell a live hen, an excellent layer,” Sophie replied politely. “A hen… what would I do with it…” Then a young man at the stall piped up: “Let’s have a look at your hen.” Sophie carefully handed him the bird. “She limps a bit, but she’s a fine layer.” “How much? So cheap—what’s the catch?” Sophie flushed under his steady look, feeling sweat prickle anew. “She’s just lame, nothing else.” “Alright, I’ll buy her. And those?” He gestured at her clay figures. “Oh, these… figurines. Whistles and a piggy bank.” He laughed at the pig. “Handmade, eh?” “Yes, very much so. I’ll sell them cheap—I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller rolled her eyes: “What do you need all that for, Dennis? Off to play with toys now? Your brother could use your help on the barbecue stand.” Sophie backed away, startled: “You—work on the barbecue stand? Then I can’t sell you the hen!” She tried to snatch Penny back, but Dennis dodged and laughed. “Take your money back, please! Penny isn’t for barbecue—she’s not a meat bird!” “I know. She’ll go to my mum—she keeps chickens. And of course you can visit Penny any time.” … Sophie was almost home when Dennis pulled up in a car. “Excuse me, miss—have you any more clay figurines? I’d like to buy them for gifts and such.” Squinting against the sun, Sophie smiled: “You’re in luck! There are plenty more back home.” *** Back home, Dudley lay groaning at voices in the hall. “Who’s there, Sophie? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” The visitor glanced at bedridden Victor and turned away, looking at the paintings. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Who painted this—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she walked past with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor leapt from the bed. “And I didn’t just paint! Children paint with chalk on the pavement—I *compose*!” He sat up, watching the stranger. “What do you care about my paintings?” he demanded. “I like them. I’d like to buy one. And these sculptures—yours as well?” “Of course!” Victor cried, shoving Sophie aside. “Everything here is mine!” He jumped up, limped about, showing off canvases and figurines—all the while, Dennis glanced at Sophie, noting the blush in her cheeks, her shy glance. Epilogue Sophie was surprised by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery.” As it turned out, Dudley had never been ill! As soon as someone paid attention to his “art,” he was a new man. The mysterious visitor—Dennis—came every day, buying painting after painting. When the canvases ran out, he bought up all the figurines. Victor, thrilled, shut himself in the studio to make more. He never realised that Dennis was interested not in the “art,” but in the ex-wife. Each day, Dennis left with another “masterpiece,” then waited at the gate to chat with Sophie. Something blossomed. And soon enough, Dennis walked away from that house with just what he’d wanted—Dudley’s ex-wife. And that was why he’d come at all. Back home, Dennis tossed Victor’s paintings in the fire and bagged up the clay “grotesques,” unsure what to do with them. But he remembered Sophie’s lovely face. He’d noticed her at the fair in that light dress, from the moment she appeared—and he’d known instantly she was his fate. He’d learned of her miserable life with a madcap fool who fancied himself an artist—but nowhere to go. So Dennis visited daily, snapping up “art,” just to see her. In time, Sophie understood everything. Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis vanished once Sophie left with him; Dudley heard they’d married and he was left feeling utterly bitter at being so easily deceived. After all, finding a good wife is no easy thing—and Sophie was just that. It took time for him to realise he’d lost the most precious thing in his life: a caring, loyal wife. He’d never find another one like her—Sophie had not only endured him, but pitied him, cared for him almost like a mother. And what a woman she was! And like a fool, he’d let her slip away. Dudley considered wallowing in self-pity—but then realised: there was no one left to feed him eggs, or bring him water. No one to take over the house and garden…
Coveting Another Mans Wife Living together, Victor Dudley revealed himself to be a man of weak character and little willpower....
З життя1 годину ago
Recently, I Met a Woman Taking a Stroll Down the Street with Her 18-Month-Old Daughter, Completely Oblivious to Everything Around Her
Not long ago, I met a woman strolling down the street with her eighteen-month-old daughter, seemingly lost in her own...
З життя1 годину ago
For Better, For Worse (A Story of Love, Loss and New Beginnings in the English Countryside)
Both in Sorrow and in Joy Charlotte was widowed early, at forty-two. By then, her daughter, Emily, had already married...
З життя2 години ago
A Fiancée and a Father Karina only pretended to want to meet Vadim’s parents. Why would she need to bother with them? She wasn’t planning on living with them, and as for his supposedly well-off father, he seemed like nothing but a source of problems and suspicion. Still, if you’re going to play the part, you have to play it to the end—especially when you’ve decided to get married. Karina dressed up, but kept it understated, wanting to come across as the sweet, girl-next-door type. Meeting your future in-laws is always a minefield, but navigating clever and perceptive parents is a true test of character. Vadim believed she just needed some reassurance. “Don’t worry, Karina—seriously, don’t. Dad’s a bit moody, but he’s reasonable. They won’t say anything horrible, and I just know they’ll love you. Mum’s the life of the party, of course, and Dad’s… well, a bit odd,” he said as they stood outside his parents’ house. Karina only smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her shoulder. So, Dad was gruff, Mum was a social butterfly—a classic combination. She stifled an inward laugh. The house held no surprises. She’d been to grander ones before. They were met at the door straight away. Karina felt little anxiety. Why fret over meeting ordinary people? She knew from Vadim that his mum, Nina, was a lifelong housewife, who sometimes went on girly trips but otherwise wasn’t particularly noteworthy. His father, Valery, was reputedly rather dour but at least silent—a mixed blessing. Only his name had sounded oddly familiar… They were greeted… And Karina froze at the threshold. This was the end. She didn’t know her future mother-in-law, but she recognized her future father-in-law in an instant. They’d met before—three years ago. Not many times, but enough, and on mutually agreeable terms. In bars, hotels, restaurants. No one—neither Valery’s wife nor his son—knew about their past. Well, this was a disaster. Valery recognised her too. A flash of something—surprise, alarm, or a deeper, more calculating look—crossed his eyes, but he said nothing. Vadim, blissfully unaware, beamed as he introduced her. “Mum, Dad, this is Karina. My fiancée. I’d have brought her sooner, but she’s just so shy.” Oh dear… Valery offered his hand. His handshake was firm—verging on harsh. “Very pleased to meet you, Karina,” he said, and there was a note in his voice Karina couldn’t immediately decode. Was it anger? A warning? Or something else? Karina wondered how long she had before Valery revealed her past. “It’s a pleasure, Valery,” she replied, matching his tone, doing her best not to give the game away. She squeezed his hand and adrenaline surged. What would happen next? But… nothing. Valery forced a polite smile and even pulled a chair out for her at the table. Maybe he’d bring the drama later… But nothing happened. Then it dawned on Karina—he wouldn’t say anything. If he exposed her, he’d expose himself to his wife. Once she relaxed, the atmosphere was oddly relaxed. Nina told childhood stories about Vadim, while Valery seemed to take a genuine interest in Karina, asking about her job. Ha—he already knew plenty. His subtle irony didn’t bother her anymore. Once or twice he even cracked a joke, and, to her own surprise, Karina laughed. But there were double entendres only she and he understood. For example, while looking at Karina, Valery remarked: “You remind me of a former… colleague. Very clever. She had a knack for handling people—all sorts of people.” Karina didn’t miss a beat. “Everyone has their own talents, Valery.” Vadim, giddy in love, gazed at Karina, oblivious to the undercurrents. He truly loved her. That was perhaps the sweetest—and the saddest—part. For him, anyway. Later, when talk turned to travel, Valery looked at Karina and mused, “I’m fond of quiet places. Somewhere you can sit and think—with a good book, of course. How about you, Karina? Where do you like to go?” He was baiting her. “I prefer crowds and noise—life and energy,” Karina replied coolly. “Although, sometimes too many ears can be dangerous.” For a moment, it seemed Nina noticed something and frowned, but she brushed off the thought. Valery knew Karina wasn’t one who craved peace and quiet. And he knew why. When the evening wrapped up, and they prepared for bed, Valery hugged Vadim. “Take care of her, son. She’s… special.” It sounded both like praise and a warning. Only Karina understood the hidden meaning. She felt the room’s temperature plummet. “Special.” He’d chosen his word carefully. *** That night, when the house fell silent, Karina couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, thinking over this unforeseen encounter and wondering how to navigate her new reality. The future was looking bleak. Karina suspected Valery was just as sleepless as she was—he, over this sudden reckoning; she, over the difficult conversation looming. Everything, really. She got up, threw on her favourite hoodie over top and quietly padded downstairs. She deliberately let her footsteps fall just heavily enough that anyone else awake would notice. She slipped outside to the veranda, anticipating this would lure out Valery. She didn’t have to wait long. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, approaching from behind. “Not tonight,” said Karina. A faint breeze carried Valery’s distinctive cologne. He examined her closely. “What do you want from my son, Karina?” His pleasant mask was gone. “I know what you’re capable of. I know how many men like me you’ve known. And I know you’ve always chased money. You never hid your price—however discreetly stated. Why Vadim?” If he wouldn’t reminisce, she wouldn’t play nice. “I love him, Valery,” she purred. “Why not?” He didn’t buy it. “Love? You? That’s a joke. I know your type, Karina. And I’ll tell Vadim everything. What you did. Who you really are. Think he’ll marry you then?” Karina closed the distance between them, stopping just out of reach. She tilted her head, scrutinizing him as if she hadn’t seen enough already. “Go ahead, Valery. But then your wife will learn our little secret too.” He hesitated. “This isn’t blackmail. It’s equality. If you reveal how we met, you can’t hide what we did. Trust me, I’ll fill in the details.” “It’s not the same…” “Really? Is that what you’ll tell your wife?” Valery froze. Karina’s bluff had succeeded—he realized he was trapped with her in this. “What would you tell her?” “Not just her. Everyone. Vadim, too. I’ll tell them what kind of family man you are, where you really spent your late nights. The whole story. I’ll have nothing left to lose. You want to save your son from me? Try it.” A tough call—getting his son to call things off would trigger his own divorce. “You wouldn’t dare.” “You think I wouldn’t?” Karina scoffed. “You’d dare, but I wouldn’t? Try me—if you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you. You know NIna values loyalty above all.” Once, far too drunk, he’d confessed to Karina his guilt about cheating on his faithful wife. Nina would never forgive him—ever. Which meant he really would have to choose. He knew Karina wasn’t bluffing. “Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll keep quiet. And you…. you too. No one says anything. We forget the past.” That’s why Karina hadn’t been worried. He stood to lose much more than she did. “As you wish, Valery.” The next morning, they left Vadim’s family home. Under Valery’s venomous gaze, Karina said goodbye to his wife—who now called her “daughter.” Valery twitched. He longed to warn his son about this scheming bride-to-be, but he couldn’t risk exposing himself. Losing Nina would cost him more than a wife—it would cost him much of his wealth. She’d never leave the marriage empty-handed. And Vadim might never forgive him… Another time, Karina and Vadim stayed another fortnight with his parents. The holiday was in full swing. Valery avoided Karina, claiming endless work. But one day, alone at home, curiosity got the better of him. He decided to snoop through Karina’s handbag. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find leverage. He rummaged through her things—makeup bag, diary, notebook—and then he spotted something blue and white. A pregnancy test. Two clear lines. “I thought my son’s marrying you was a catastrophe,” he muttered, replacing the test. “No, THIS is a catastrophe!” But he hadn’t closed the bag before Karina entered. “Really, Valery, you shouldn’t poke about in a lady’s belongings,” she scolded wryly—though she didn’t seem bothered. Valery didn’t try to hide his snooping. “You’re pregnant by Vadim?” Karina took her bag from him, looked him in the eye and said, “Well, you’ve spoiled the surprise, Valery.” Valery was furious. Now Karina would never leave his son. If he told the truth now—well, that would bring everything crashing down. Now he had to keep silent. Hard as it was to bite his tongue, watching his son walk into a trap. *** Nine months passed… and then six more. Vadim and Karina were raising Alice. Valery did his best to stay away. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn’t consider the child truly his granddaughter. Karina unsettled him—her coldness to Vadim, her shady history. And now, again… Nina decided to visit Vadim and Karina. “Valery, are you coming?” “No. I’ve got a headache.” “Again? You know, I think this might actually be serious.” “It’s just tiredness. You go ahead.” Valery, as ever, played the invalid—migraine, cold, earache, weak legs—always some excuse. He even popped a few pills for effect. He couldn’t bear seeing Karina, but he couldn’t tell the truth either. The evening dragged, interrupted only by his anxious thoughts. He lounged. He read a bit. Eventually, he realised how late it was. Past eleven, and Nina wasn’t home. No answer on the phone. He called Vadim in alarm. “Vadim, is everything okay? Has Nina left already? She’s not home yet.” “Dad, you’re the last person I want to talk to right now.” Click. Valery was about to drive over when, outside, Karina’s car pulled up. Seeing her almost made his knees give way. “What are you doing here? Tell me—what’s happened?” he demanded, shaken. Karina seemed unbothered. She poured herself a glass of his wine, took a sip, then settled in. “Everything’s collapsed.” “What do you mean?” “Our shared disaster. Vadim found old photos of us on the website of a café he was going to book for our anniversary. That party at The Lily, remember? Some blasted photographer uploaded every picture. Vadim’s hit the roof. Your Nina’s threatening divorce. And, well—you got your wish, I’m probably divorcing Vadim too.” Valery stared, replaying the events in his head. That party, those photos… He’d warned them not to take pictures, but who’d have predicted this? He sank onto the floor beside her. “So why come to me?” “I needed to get out for the evening.” Karina smiled. “It’s chaos at home. Alice is with the nanny. Want some wine?” She offered him his own bottle. They sat on the veranda, drinking. Only the hum of crickets united them. “This is all your fault,” Valery muttered. Karina nodded, eyes on her glass. “Yup.” “You’re insufferable.” “That’s true.” “You don’t even pity Vadim.” “I do—but I pity myself more.” “You only love yourself.” “I won’t deny it.” He reached out, lifted her chin, made her look at him. “You know I never loved you,” he whispered. Karina shrugged. “I believe you.” *** In the morning, when Nina finally arrived—ready to forgive her husband, even if it cost her half her sanity—she walked in on Karina and Valery asleep together. “Who’s there?” Karina stirred. “It’s me,” said Nina, gazing at the ruin of her life. Karina just smiled serenely. Valery woke up a moment later, but he didn’t go after his wife.
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A Child for a Friend When Lily was in her final months of pregnancy, her younger brother left home, and her father started drinking heavily, turning Lily’s life into a living hell. Every morning, Lily would air out the house, clear empty bottles from under the table, and wait for her father to wake up. “Dad, you can’t drink! You barely survived a stroke.” “I’ll drink if I want, who’ll stop me? It’s the only way to numb the pain.” “What pain?” “The pain of knowing no one needs me. Not even you—I’m a burden to you, Lily. My life’s worthless, my marriage was a mistake, and all I passed on to my kids was weakness and poverty. I’m better off drinking.” Already in low spirits, Lily got annoyed. “That’s not true, Dad. Life can be much worse for other people.” “How much worse, Lily? You grew up without a mother. Now you’re about to bring a child into poverty, and she’ll grow up without a father.” “It’s not all gloom, Dad. Life can change overnight…” She sadly remembered how happy she once was, planning to marry Ilya. Yes, her world had fallen apart—but life had to go on. That day, her father got drunk again. In anger, Lily shouted, “Did you drink the money I’d set aside? How did you even find it? You’ve turned the place upside down looking for my things!” “Everything in this house belongs to me,” her father retorted. “Including the pension you try to hide from me—my pension!” “And you drank it all away? Did you even think about how we’re supposed to live now?” “Why should I care? I’m ill. You’re grown, now you look after me!” Lily searched through the cupboards. “I know there were two packs of pasta and some butter yesterday. Now they’re gone! What are we supposed to eat for dinner?” Shocked, she sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands. How could she know that Aunt Natasha had taken to coming over, plying her father with drink, and cleaning out the house while Lily was gone? Natasha had slipped into their house like a snake, determined to destroy what was left of their family. Lily cried herself to sleep that night, exhausted, hungry, and defeated. In the morning, there was a knock at the door. Natasha Anatolievna walked in, dressed in her best coat and heeled boots, not bothering to remove them as she marched into the house. “Morning. My friend in council services tells me you’re behind on the bills and may have your electricity cut off soon. What’s going on, Lily? Fancy making me a cuppa?” Without waiting for an answer, Natasha started rifling through cupboards and the fridge. “I’ll make the tea, you’re pregnant—just like my own daughter, Sophie… You’ve no sugar, no tea, nothing at all. Let’s go shopping.” Lily avoided looking at her. “Aunt Natasha, I can’t offer you tea. It’s better if you leave.” But Natasha wouldn’t be turned away. “You’ve really got problems, haven’t you? Remember what I said—move in with me. I’m not suggesting, I’m insisting. There’s no place here for a baby, your father’s a drunk, you haven’t even got any food! Let’s go, pack your things, you’re coming with me.” Feeling dizzy, Lily sat down, tears rolling down her cheeks. Natasha hugged her. “Listen, love, I know how you feel about me. You’ve never forgiven me for what my daughter did, stealing your fiancé. But I can’t watch you suffer like this. Want it or not, I’ll look after you.” What followed felt like a dream: Natasha helped Lily pack, called a taxi, and off they went. *** On the day Lily went into labour, Natasha Anatolievna never left her side. “Listen carefully, Lily. I’ve already told the hospital staff you want to give the baby up. When she’s born, don’t hold her, don’t look at her, don’t breastfeed.” Lily grimaced in pain. “Aunt Natasha, I don’t care anymore. I just want this over with…” “Don’t forget what I said—you can’t manage this baby on your own. I’ve found a lovely couple ready to adopt her the moment she’s born.” A few hours later, Lily gave birth to a baby girl. “Three kilos three hundred, healthy, everything’s fine,” the nurse announced, wrapping up the wailing baby and whisking her away without showing Lily. But the paediatrician gave Lily a stern look. “What’s this? You have a healthy, beautiful daughter, and you won’t even look at her? Elena, bring the baby back and give her to her mother.” Lily shook her head, upset. “I don’t want to. I’ve got nothing—I didn’t even want this pregnancy… There are people who need her more. I’ll sign the forms; she’ll be adopted…” “Don’t be ridiculous—at least look at your child.” Lily squeezed her eyes shut, but then felt something soft and warm brush her hand. The nurse laid the baby beside her, who began rooting blindly, mouth open. At last, Lily looked at her daughter. The tiny, helpless baby regarded her through half-closed eyes, fumbling for Lily’s chest with her little fists. “Come on, Mum, feed your baby,” the paediatrician smiled, brightening as she saw Lily tremble with emotion. “She’s beautiful, she needs you—not some strangers. Understand?” Lily burst into tears, pulling her daughter close and nodding. For two hours, she lay next to her baby, unable to look away—even for a second. That’s when her mother’s instincts awoke. “Here’s my reason to live—my daughter. Doesn’t matter if Ilya’s gone, or if my dad’s a mess… My daughter needs me. So I’ll stay with her.” *** Lily was roused by Natasha’s voice. Natasha Anatolievna, wrapped in a dressing gown, stood at her bedside. “Did you forget our agreement?” she whispered. “You promised you’d give up the baby. I’ve lined up people ready to take her right now.” “Natasha Anatolievna, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not giving her to anyone.” “But you have nothing! Nowhere to go, no money—how will you provide for this child?” “I’ll go home. I won’t bother you any longer. I’ll manage somehow.” Lily watched Natasha’s face twist into a snarl. “Have you lost your mind? You’ll end up begging on the streets!” The baby in the cot awoke to Natasha’s shouting. Lily got up and reached for her. “Don’t touch! I’ll rock her and give her a bottle. We’ll just tell the nurses you can’t breastfeed,” Natasha declared. Lily shook her head. “You have no say in this, she’s my daughter. I said I’m keeping her!” “You can’t! You promised!” Natasha cried, helplessly. “Leave.” Natasha left. Lily’s roommate quietly lifted her head. “Who was that?” “My aunt.” “Blimey. Don’t listen to her—you did the right thing. I’m Lisa. I can help, if you ever need anything. There are good people in the world.” “I’m Lily.” “Nice to meet you. You know, I think that woman wanted to snatch your baby. She’s strange, that one…” *** Just before discharge, Lily had another visitor—her ex-friend Sophie, heavy with child. “Hey,” Sophie mumbled. Lily gingerly sat down beside her. “I heard you had your baby.” “Yeah. A girl.” Sophie glanced away. “Thing is, Mum’s got a family ready to adopt your baby.” “So?” “They’re lovely people, rich—willing to pay a fortune.” Sophie grabbed Lily’s hand. “They’re offering you a hundred thousand. You could buy a flat, or put down a deposit on a house!” “A hundred thousand? Well, if you care so much, why not sell your own baby to them?” Lily replied coldly. Sophie pouted, but kept clutching Lily’s sleeve. “Wait, Lily. Give the baby to me! I’ll care for her—she’s Ilya’s daughter, after all.” “You think you can cope with two kids?” “You don’t get it, Lily! My marriage is falling apart!” Lily stood, ready to leave. Sophie grabbed at her, wild-eyed. “I need this baby, Lily!” “Let go.” A few hours later, Ilya himself burst in. Lily flinched. “You had the baby? Can I see her?” “No! You’ve soon got Sophie’s baby to see—go look at her!” “We need to talk, Lily. Since you gave birth, I haven’t had a minute’s peace. I want to take my daughter. Give her up, and I promise I’ll adopt her straight away.” Lily shook her head firmly. “I’m not like you—I’ll never give up someone who needs me. You’re wasting your time, I’m not handing her over!” He wouldn’t leave. “Give me the baby! You had no right to have my child! I’ll take her anyway—she’s mine!” “You? Mummy’s boy? Ask your mum’s permission first!” Lily pushed past him, scooped up her daughter and went to find the nurse. “Can I ask you not to let anyone else in? I don’t want to see anyone. It’s like a circus in here!” Epilogue On the day she was discharged, Lily left the maternity hospital, holding her daughter close. She wasn’t alone—her roommate Lisa was being discharged too, greeted by her husband and mother. Lily paused on the steps, spotting the Reznikovs’ car. Out stepped Ilya’s mother, Valerie Jacobs, scrutinising Lily with cold eyes. A chill crept down Lily’s spine. Her would-be mother-in-law looked like a wolf preparing to pounce. Lisa joined her. “Who’s that, Lily?” “Ilya’s parents.” “Looks like they’re lying in wait for you. Honestly, Lily, the way they’re all after you creeps me out. Something’s not right. Didn’t I say you can stay with me and my mum? Let’s go.” Lily nodded. She, too, felt a strange unease. *** Staying with new friends, Lily unexpectedly found love. Lisa’s cousin Ivan, a confirmed bachelor, began courting her. Ivan turned out to be kind and good-hearted. He married Lily, adopted her daughter, and even helped her father. As for Sophie and Ilya, their marriage crumbled. It turned out Sophie had faked her pregnancy with a prosthetic bump, fooling the entire Reznikov family. Natasha Anatolievna, desperate to protect her daughter, owned up to her son-in-law: Sophie had miscarried in early pregnancy, and Natasha had hatched a “perfect” plan. “Ilya, don’t blame my daughter. Yes, she lost the baby—but you’re hardly innocent either. You’ll soon have a child elsewhere. Why not take Lily’s baby as your own? Adopt her, she’s your blood. We’ll pretend Sophie’s pregnant, and, when Lily gives birth, we’ll take her baby and tell everyone Sophie had her.” Ilya liked the plan. All would have worked, had Lily not “rebelled,” refusing to give up her newborn and trapping her former friend and Natasha. Ilya’s mother, Valerie Jacobs, furious at the deception, threw Sophie out and made Ilya file for divorce.
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