З життя
Вони відразу стали добре жити.
Олег з Оксаною відразу гарно зажили. Полюбили одне одного. Весілля чудове справили. І з першого ж дня – у своєму домі. Олег його разом із батьком збудував. Високий будинок вийшов, величний, з вікнами-очима, що дивилися у двір і на вулицю. Двір просторий, трохи похилий, з клумбами-квіточками. А позаду – будівлі для худоби і город чималий, де грядки рівнесенькі тягнулися до сходу сонця.
Хазяям трохи за тридцять, а у них вже шестеро діточок в домі та по дворі метушаться. І це також – правильно. Але тут молодша сестра Олега, Тетянка, що в сусідньому селі жила і кожного року народжувала незрозуміло від кого, зловживала горілкою – одного ранку так і не прокинулася після чергової гулянки.
Та чого вже тут говорити? Олег зібрався. Поїхав. Оксана ж куди від дітей і від господарства. Поховав. Все як належить, по-людськи. І додому повернувся.
Стоїть на порозі, а попереду руками чотирьох племінників обіймає. Найменшому, Михайлику, чотири роки.
Оксана мовчки сіла на стілець і дивиться. І діти – теж мовчать і дивляться. Що їм ще робити?
Оксана руки фартухом витерла і каже:
– У мене ж навіть солі не вистачить, щоб борщ на всю шумну компанію посолити.
– А ми його, знаєш, і без солі їстимемо, – Олег жартує. А сам усміхається.
Ну і Оксана усміхається. А що їй робити?
Двоюрідні ж кинулися зустрічати прибулих, одяг знімати – розкривати їх стали.
Нормальна така сім’я вийшла, коли діти всі разом змішалися. І не так вже й багато їх вийшло: всього десять на такий великий дім.
Це вже потім, наприкінці наступного літа, через їхнє село, як буря, промчав циганський табір. Полум’ям шугнув, все на своєму шляху змітаючи. Після тієї бурі багато господинь не дорахувалися кольорових килимків, повішених на паркани для сушіння, курей і качок. А в Рибаків навіть порося із заднього двору поцупили!
Тільки Олега з Оксаною цигани з приплодом залишили.
Ввечері Оксана на ґанок вийшла, а там – згорток з червоної тканини. Вона навіть відразу не зрозуміла, що це таке, тому що тканина мовчала собі і все.
Коли в домі вже розгорнула на столі – всередині хлопчик засмаглий. Та гарненький такий. Лежить, крекче і очима вугільними всіх розглядає навколо.
Олег через плече дружини зазирнув і сказав тільки:
– А що? Нормально. Тепер у нашій родині чоловіків буде на одного більше, ніж жінок. Та й наш білий колір розбавить кучерями чорними.
А Михайлик, найменший до цього, за край столу взявся, піднявся, розглядав молодшого брата і каже:
– От нам пощастило, скажи, тату! У всіх цигани щось украли, а нам навіть Василька в подарунок залишили!..
І вправлялися всі разом, задвигалися. Стали новому братові життя організовувати.
Далі що розповідати? Все як у всіх: діти ростуть, батьки старіють. Олег от тільки раз за разом стіл у хаті подовжував. Як черговий син або дочка в школу йде, треба ж і йому де уроки робити. І робили. І старалися. І в домі все разом робили.
Якось на зібранні в школі вчителька заговорила про труднощі підліткового віку, Олег з Оксаною (на батьківські вони завжди разом ходили) переглянулися і наче засоромилися обидва, бо всі ті труднощі пропустили. Залишилося тільки Василька не упустити.
А як його упустиш, якщо все як має бути? У школі – відмінник. У домі він у свої чотирнадцять всю чоловічу роботу виконує і всім допомогти намагається.
Спокійно, вчасно дочки заміж повиходили і до чоловіків умудрилися. Хлопчики теж порозженилися і кожен своїм домом жити став.
Василько в армії відслужив і до старих повернувся. Хотів у місто їхати, далі вчитися – куди там. Кожного літа повний двір онуків, Василькових племінників.
А він чекає всіх, як заморських принців. Готується…
Гойдалки у дворі поставив. А для маленьких пісочницю спорудив. У неї ж відрами з річки піску натаскав чистого. Ближче ж до паркану, для тих, кому ще на річку рано, басейн викопав-обладнав. Туди шлангом зранку води напускав, щоб прогрілася, щоб діти носами не шморгали. А в сільмазі накупив качечок-дельфінчиків, щоб зовсім на море походило.
Так вся ця орава кожного літа не до діда з бабою їхати зібралась, а до дядька Василька.
А він сяде навпочіпки біля воріт, зарослий майже до самих очей чорною щитиною, і чекає. А як побачить чергового племінника чи племінницю, так розкине руки на всю ширину, та як розправить усмішку свою широку, так дітлашки біжать до нього стрімголов, труться, труться щічками, а самі в вухо шепнути норовлять: «Ти, дядьку Васильку, чекав на мене?»
Він же цілує, цілує кожного і обов’язково відповість: «Ще як чекав! Більше за всіх!..»
Але найбільше щастя увечері трапляється, коли посуд перемитий, діти покупані і треба спати йти.
Діти всі до одного затаїлися і чекають. Тоді встає дядько Василько і каже голосно:
– Ну… хто сьогодні зі мною на сінник ночувати йде?..
І тут усі кричать. Кричать, мабуть, так, як колись «ура» на демонстраціях кричали…
Рано вранці вже бабуся Оксана полізе на сінник, щоб перевірити, чи не знесла якась курка там яйце, і побачить: прямо в середині розстелений великий кожух і спить на ньому абсолютно щаслива, гарна людина. А навколо, як курчата, дітлашки до нього туляться – до обличчя, рук, ніг. І сплять всі. Всі дванадцять.
Ну а що?
У Олега з Оксаною вже одинадцять онуків народилося…
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
My Dearest One. A Story Sarah had found out, much to her disbelief, that shed grown up in a foster...
I Buy Premium Turkey Meat for Myself and Steam Healthy Cutlets, While He Gets Out-of-Date Pork: After 30 Years of Holding Our Family Together, I Refuse to Share the Good Food with My Lazy Husband
I buy finest British turkey breast for myself and steam up beautiful cutlets, while he gets the expired pork left...
For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping...
The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight!...
One Day, I Spotted My Cheerful Sister in a Shop, Walking Hand in Hand with a Distinguished Gentleman—Both Wearing Wedding Rings
One day, I spotted my usually cheerful sister in the local shop, walking hand-in-hand with a distinguished-looking gentleman, both of...
My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: A Brother’s Betrayal, a Mother’s Escape, and the Fight to Reclaim a Life Built on Trust, Not Manipulation
His Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace “Stop pretending youre a saint. Itll all work out. Women...
He Told His Wife She Was Too Boring—But When She Transformed Her Life, She Found Herself Bored of Him Instead
It was nearly two years ago now, though it feels a lifetime past, that I heard words from my husband...
No One’s Home
Nobodys House Henry would wake, just as he always had, without an alarm, at half past six. Silence filled the...