З життя
Все життя я мріяв бути на місці брата, але незабаром усе змінилося
Весь час я мріяв бути на місці брата, але скоро все змінилося.
Моя мама завагітніла мною у вісімнадцять років. Батько покинув нас, щойно почув новину — йому не потрібна була сім’я, лише безкінечні вечірки і друзі. Батьки мами, мої дідусь та бабуся, були в гніві. У маленькому містечку під Харковом дитина без чоловіка вважалася ганьбою, і дідусь вигнав її з дому з криком: “Не хочу бачити таку безвідповідальну доньку!”. Я не можу уявити, як їй було — молодій, самотній, з малям на руках. Але вона вистояла: вступила на заочне, знайшла роботу, працювала понад силу. Їй виділили кімнату у гуртожитку, і ми почали життя вдвох. Мені довелося дорослішати швидше, ніж іншим дітям — я ходив за продуктами, прибирав, розігрівав їжу. Ігри? На них не було часу. З малих років я був її опорою, її єдиним чоловіком.
Я ніколи не скаржився — пишався цим. Але скоро в нашому житті з’явився Віктор. Він мені подобався: приносив цукерки, пригощав смаколиками, дбав про маму. Вона розквітала поруч з ним, і одного разу сказала: “Ми з Віктором одружимося, переїдемо у великий будинок”. Я був щасливий — мріяв про справжнього батька, і сподівався, що Віктор ним стане. Спочатку все було як у казці. У мене з’явився свій куток, я міг відпочивати, слухати музику, читати книги. Віктор допомагав мамі, і її очі сяяли від радості.
Але потім вона оголосила, що чекає дитину. Невдовзі Віктор сказав: “Тобі, Сашко, доведеться перебратися в комору. Там буде дитяча”. Я не зрозумів: у домі повно кімнат, чому саме я? Наступного дня мої речі вже лежали в тісній комірчині, де ледве поміщалося ліжко. Це було несправедливо, але я промовчав — звик терпіти.
Коли народився братик Михайлик, почався кошмар. Його крики не давали мені спати, я ходив як зомбі. У школі оцінки знизилися, вчителі сварили, а мама кричала: “Ти повинен бути прикладом для брата! Досить ганьбити нас, ледарю!” Михайлик підріс, і на мене звалили нові обов’язки — гуляти з ним, возити коляску у дворі. Друзі сміялися з мене, а я червонів від сорому, але мовчав. Все найкраще — іграшки, одяг — купувалося Михайликові. Я просив щось для себе, а Віктор сухо відповідав: “Грошей немає”. Я водив брата в садочок, забирав, годував, прибирав дім — жив в очікуванні, коли він виросте і дасть мені свободу.
Михайлик пішов до школи, і мама наказала допомагати йому з уроками. Він був розбещеним, примхливим — вчився відверто погано, а мої спроби його врозумити закінчувалися його скаргами мамі. Вона завжди ставала на його бік, а я отримував догану: “Ти старший, повинен бути терпеливішим!” Його переводили з школи в школу, але він всюди провалювався. Врешті віддали в приватну, де за гроші закривали очі на його двійки. Я ж пішов до технікуму на автослюсаря — не тому, що хотів, а щоб втекти з дому.
Потім були заочні курси, робота — я працював день і ніч, копив на своє житло. Одружився, знайшов спокій. А Михайлик? Віктор подарував йому квартиру, але він все одно живе з батьками, здає житло і витрачає гроші на дурниці. Працювати не хоче, валяється перед телевізором. Одного разу на Новий рік ми зібралися у батьків. Прийшла його чергова дівчина, Олена. Я випадково почув їхню розмову на кухні.
— Тобі пощастило з братом, — говорила вона моїй дружині, Таню. — Сашко такий працьовитий, відповідальний. Чому ж Михайлик не такий? Я прошу його з’їхатися, завести сім’ю, а він лише до мами липне. Гроші з оренди є, а користі?
— Так, Сашко молодець, — усміхнулася Таня. — Кинь Михайлика, він тебе не вартий. З нього чоловік не вийде.
Я завмер. Михайлик змінював дівчат, як рукавички, але жодна не затримувалася — мама їх усіх проганяла, вважаючи недостойними свого “золотого хлопчика”. А він і не пручався, жив у своїй ліні, як у коконі. І тут я зрозумів: я більше не заздрю йому. Все, про що я мріяв — бути на його місці, — виявилося порожнім. Доля дала мені випробування, але і нагородила за них. У мене є сім’я, любляча дружина, донька, дім, який я збудував власними руками. Я пишаюся собою, і вперше в житті мені не шкода, що я не Михайлик. Моє життя — моя перемога, вистраждана і справжня.
DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
DO I REMEMBER? I COULD NEVER FORGET! Polly, darling, theres something I must tell you Well, do you recall my...
Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden with soft snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a massive German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. Watching from his window, Andrew felt a pang of worry—Duke had never behaved like this before. Each morning, as he stepped outside, Andrew noticed Duke watching him tensely. Whenever he approached the kennel, Duke positioned himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling softly and looking at him pleadingly, as if to say: “Please, don’t go in there.” This odd behaviour was so out of character for their years of friendship, it made Andrew uneasy—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to get to the bottom of it, Andrew came up with a plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting piece of steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked desperately at the window, Andrew crept towards the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that froze him on the spot… …There, curled up in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, freezing, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its frail body shivered with cold. Duke had found it somewhere, and instead of chasing it away or leaving it to its fate, he had sheltered it. He had slept outside to avoid scaring it and guarded the entrance as if there was treasure inside. Andrew held his breath. He reached out, gently lifted the tiny creature and pressed it to his chest. In that moment, Duke raced over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but gently, eager to help. “You’re a good dog, Duke…” Andrew whispered, clutching the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the lovingly built kennel found its purpose again—as a little home for souls in need of saving.
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