З життя
Тиждень у мами: втеча від домашнього хаосу
Тиждень вже живу у мами — більше не міг витримувати безлад у власному домі.
Я виріс у сім’ї, де порядок був не просто звичкою — це був спосіб життя. Мама, попри роботу та двох дітей, завжди знаходила час тримати хату в ідеальній чистоті. Кожна річ мала своє місце, підлоги блищали, у холодильнику пахло свіжістю, а в повітрі відчувалася турбота. Я звик думати: затишок — це перш за все чистота. І одружившись, навіть не уявляв, що може бути інакше.
Але через три роки шлюбу я опинився у пастці вічного хаосу. Щодня, повертаючись з роботи, я буквально спотикаюся о безлад. Гора брудної посуду в мийці, крихти по всій кухні, відро для сміття переповнене, а в холодильнику — забуті залишки їжі, вкриті пліснявою. Підлога липка, у ванній — купа білизни, а взуття в передпокої ніхто не прибирає, поки я сам не візьмуся.
Донька вибігає мені назустріч у перепачканих колготках з дірками, волосся розкуйовджене, а одяг не першої свіжості. Пробитися через коридор — справжнє завдання: дитячий візок, пакети, розкидані іграшки, взуття… Шафи повсюду розчинені, речі виваливаються. І це при тому, що вранці я сам все розклав по полицях. Вже не зрозуміти, чи живемо ми у великій трикімнатній квартирі, чи у комірці без вікон.
Я намагався говорити. М’яко, без докорів. Казав: «Солодка, давай хоча б трохи приберемо, мені важко в такому оточенні». Вона слухала, кивала, обіцяла, але нічого не мінялося. Колись, до народження дитини, у нас було порівну: і прибирання, і готування. Раз на тиждень ми разом мили підлогу, витирали пил, посуду мили по черзі. Було відчуття спільних зусиль.
Та тепер, коли я працюю до ночі, а Світлана цілий день дома з дитиною, усе, чого я прошу — не переступати через купи одягу, не шукати чисту чашку серед брудної посуди, не збирати шкарпетки по всій хаті. Я ж не відмовляюся допомагати: щонеділі мию підлогу, витираю пил, зранку виношу сміття. Але я втомився. Втомився повертатися додому і не відпочивати, а братися за віник. Втомився шукати чайник серед непотрібу. Втомився сваритися через дрібниці.
У підсумку я поставив умову: або за три дні у хаті з’явиться хоча б відносний порядок, або я піду. Вона сміялася, думала, що жартую. Але коли через троє діб нічого не змінилося — я мовчазно зібрав речі та переїхав до мами. Вже тиждень, як я тут. Сплю у своїй колишній кімнаті, їм теплий борщ, відкриваю холодильник — і не боюся побачити там щось рухливе.
Я не хочу розлучення. Я люблю Світлану. Люблю доньку. Але я не розумію, як можна жити у такому безладі. Я не вимагаю багато. Я хочу поваги. До дому. До себе. До наших стосунків. І якщо цього не буде… тоді, можливо, доведеться вибирати між спокоєм і любов’ю. Бо жити у вічному хаосі — це не життя. Це виживання.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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