З життя
Вишукана жінка середніх років ретельно обирає м’ясо на ринку.
Зінаїда Петрівна, красива і доглянута жінка років п’ятдесяти, прогулялась базаром, вибираючи вирізку. Її супроводжувала незнайома дівчина, яка здавалася значно молодшою. В цій дівчині все було “надто”: надто довгі вії, надто яскравий макіяж, занадто коротка спідниця… Чоловіки, що проходили повз, ледве контролювали свої погляди: частина з них повертала голови слідом за нею, інші, які йшли з дружинами, могли лише тихцем кидати погляди.
Дівчина неодноразово намагалася заговорити з Зінаїдою Петрівною, та врешті наважилась:
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, мені потрібно з вами поговорити. Справа в тому, що ваш чоловік і я… загалом, ми з ним зустрічаємось…
– Та ви що кажете! – вічливо, але трохи відсторонено відповіла вона, розглядаючи м’ясо на прилавку. – Як вас звуть? Ах, Лариса… Ларочко, ви в м’ясі розбираєтеся? Як думаєте, це свіжа вирізка? Не розумію, чи це яловичина, чи телятина…
– Вибачте, – зніяковіла дівчина. – Мені здається, ви не зрозуміли…
– Любонько, попри вік, у мене немає ані склерозу, ані втрати слуху. Ви – коханка мого чоловіка, і вам потрібно зі мною поговорити. А я такої потреби не відчуваю. Ні, це все ж не телятина… Будь ласка, зважте мені цей шматок. Дякую, скільки з мене?
Розплатившись, вона помітила розгублену Ларису поруч. Дівчина, вражена незвичайним поводженням суперниці, м’ялася на місці. Зінаїда Петрівна подивилася на годинник:
– Ну, добре. Я все одно збиралася зайти в кафе – тут печуть чудові тістечка. Хочете, там і поговоримо.
Після кількох ковтків кави, Зінаїда Петрівна звернулась до Лариси:
– То про що ви хотіли поговорити?
– Відпустіть Миколу, він нещасливий з вами! – випалила дівчина вже заготовлену фразу. Зінаїда Петрівна округлила очі і розсміялася:
– Це що, Микола вас на це настрену? О, ви самі вирішили! Я так і думала… Ну, знай, любонько, – вона лагідно усміхнулася, – Микола ніколи від мене не піде. Чому? Саме тому, що я його не тримаю. Не вірите? Переконайтеся самі. Але застерігаю: щойно ви почнете давити на нього, він втече від вас, як уже бувало не раз.
– Т-то як… – Лариса ковтнула каву і закашлялася. – Як це «вже бувало»!?
– Ларочка, дитинко, ви ж, здається, розумна дівчина! Ви не думаєте ж, що Микола жив зі мною, лише чекаючи зустрічі з вами?
Лариса почервоніла: вона саме так і думала. Зінаїда Петрівна продовжила, ніби нічого не помітила:
– Ви… Боже, пам’ять… чи третя, чи четверта… чи навіть п’ята підходите до мене з подібним. Не засмучуйтеся так! Звісно, він обіцяв вам золоті гори й казав, що ви найкраща, єдина, неповторна… Казав? Ось бачите! Не вірте чоловічим компліментам, Ларочко. Насолоджуйтеся ними, але ніколи не вірте.
Лариса була зовсім приголомшена.
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, а вам… Невже вам не образливо?
– Як вам сказати… з одного боку, звісно, образливо: зрада є зрада. А з іншого – навіть приємно знати, що мій чоловік ще ого-го! І я засвоїла одну істину: чоловіка слід тримати на досить довгому поводку, щоб він не відчував себе на припоні. До речі, дарма ви не їсте тістечко, – зазначила вона, відкушуючи шматочок кремової трубочки. Дієта, так? Даремно. Ви позбавляєте себе такого задоволення! Вашій фігурі нічого не загрожує, а голодний блиск в очах жінки її не прикрашає, повірте моєму досвіду. Ну, удачі я вам, звісно, не бажаю, бо в неї не вірю, – вона підвелася, допивши каву. – Зустрічатися з вами більше не хочу, тому – прощайте.
Микола Юхимович повертався додому з недобрими передчуттями. Після істерики, влаштованої Ларисою, на хороший прийом вдома годі було чекати. Він знову згадав море сліз і з роздратуванням насупився. Якби жінки знали, як вони робляться непривабливими від сліз, ніколи б не плакали. При чоловіках. Червоні очі, розмита туш, напухлий ніс… б-р-р-р!
Підійшовши до дверей своєї квартири, Микола Юхимович глибоко вдихнув, подумки перехрестився і увійшов, прикриваючи голову папкою. Його передбачливість виявилася не зайвою: синя чашка вдарилася об дверний косяк поруч з його головою і розлетілася на веселі блакитні скалочки по передпокою.
– Негідник! – кричала дружина, кидаючи один за одним предмети з кавового сервізу на шість персон у бік чоловіка. – Підлець! Розпусник! Старий цабе! Хто два місяці тому клявся, що це востаннє? – Зінаїда Петрівна вміло грала роль розгніваної дружини, проте чутливе вухо чоловіка вловило в її словах ноту нещирості, ніби вона лише грала (хоча й дуже вдало) цю роль. Дочекавшись затишшя, Микола Юхимович визирнув з-за свого “щита”. Жінка стояла з останньою чашкою в руці, з легким жалем розглядаючи біло-блакитні осколки на підлозі.
– Зінусю, любонько… – почав чоловік, обережно просуваючись у бік дружини. – Ну, клянусь, це був най-найостанній раз! Ну, ти ж у мене розумниця, ти все розумієш! Сивина в бороду… Ну, пробач!
– Негідник! – Зінаїда метнула в чоловіка останню чашку, не влучила, але не витримала і розсміялася. – Нестерпний ти! Старий псяка!
– Старий, та не дряхлий! – Микола вже обіймав жінку, цілуючи її в шию.
Зінаїда відштовхнулася. – Ні, Миколо, я кажу серйозно: припиняй! Або ти розберешся з сивиною у своїй бороді сам, або я доберуся до твого ребра і виганю всіх бісів, що засіли там, – і вона виразно кивнула на стіну кухні, прикрашену набором декоративних качалок.
Вранці примирені подружжя збиралися на роботу. Те, що сталося напередодні, було для них своєрідною традицією, способом освіжити відносини.
Зінаїда Петрівна фарбувалася перед дзеркалом. Микола Юхимович чистив черевики. Він кілька разів намагався щось запитати, але не наважувався. Зінаїда все бачила у дзеркалі:
– Ну, хотів щось запитати? Я ж бачу, як тебе розпирає. Про свою Ларочку, правда? Ні, личко я їй не торкалася, як Верочці, – вона посміхнулася, –а от фігуру… Закладаюся, вона зараз тістечка їсть без обмеження. Я, коли виходила, бачила як вона вчепилася в тістечко, ніби тиждень не їла… Ну і, звісно, твоя Лара розтовстіє некращим чином, у неї серйозна схильність до повноти. А мені доведеться зробити додатковий розвантажувальний день, – вона перейшла на серйозний тон. – Правда, Миколо, досить! Мені набридло. Я цього більше терпіти не має наміру.
– А що буде наступного разу? Сковорідки чи супові миски?
Зінаїда не відповіла в тон чоловіка і подивилася на нього дуже суворо:
– Ні те, ні інше. Око за око, зуб за зуб. Зрада на зраду…
– Зінусю, не варто так жартувати, – Микола виглядав стурбованим.
– Ніяких жартів. Я сказала – ти почув. Тобі важко лише від однієї думки, уяви на мить, яково мені?
Біля під’їзду подружжя розійшлися в нормальних відносинах, обмінявшись поцілунками, вони пішли у різні боки, кожен на свою роботу. Зінаїда Петрівна на ходу витягла мобільник і, озирнувшись, набрала номер: – Дімочка? Це я.
My Thrifty Friends Invited Me to a Birthday Party—But I Went Home Hungry
My frugal friends invited me to a birthday party. I came home hungry. I have a particular group of friends...
You Simply Don’t Know What Happiness Is – A Story of Half a Million Pounds, a Mother-in-Law’s Interference, and Escaping a Controlling Marriage for a Second Chance at Love in London
You Just Dont Realise Your Own Luck Half a million? I read the notification on my phone three times before...
Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
Completely letting go was impossible Every evening, Peter heads home from his job in London by Tube, then hops on...
I Don’t Understand Why I Became His Wife We Married Just Recently—I Thought My Husband Was Madly in Love With Me, Until One Mysterious Incident Changed Everything. It Wasn’t Infidelity, But Something Even Stranger and More Serious. Looking Back, I Realize I Probably Loved Him Too Much—Forgiving Everything, Putting Him On a Pedestal, and Hoping My Devotion Would Make Him Cherish Me. He Got Used to My Adoration, Became More Self-Assured, and Started Thinking Any Woman Would Worship Him at the Snap of a Finger—even Though He’s Not Really Admired by Others. Shortly Before Our Wedding, He Wanted to Be Alone and Go on Holiday—to Prepare Himself for Marriage, So He Said. I Accepted It and Let Him Go. Later, He Told Me He’d Gone to the Mountains to Escape Civilization—No Internet or Phone, Just Nature. I Stayed Behind, Missing Him Madly and Counting the Minutes Until He Returned. A Week Later, He Came Back—It Was the Happiest Day of My Life. I Welcomed Him With All the Warmth and Love I Had, Cooking His Favourite Meals. But the Next Day, Things Started Getting Weird. He Kept Rushing to the Hallway or Another Room and Soon, Began Leaving the House Several Times a Day With Different Excuses. One Day, On My Way to the Shop, I Found a Letter in Our Mailbox—Addressed to Me, From Him, Sent While He Was Away. What Was Written Inside Left Me Trembling: “Hello. I Don’t Want to Lie to You Anymore. You’re Not the Right Person for Me, and I Don’t Want to Spend My Life With You. There Won’t Be a Wedding. Forgive Me—Don’t Search For Me or Call Me, I Won’t Be Coming Back.” So Short, So Brutal… Only Then Did I Realize He’d Been Checking the Mailbox Constantly. Silently, I Destroyed the Letter, Saying Nothing, Never Letting Him Know I Knew. But How Can I Live With Someone Who Doesn’t Want to Be With Me? Why Did He Marry Me and Pretend Everything Was Fine?
I cant understand why I became his wife. We were married only recently. I had believed my husband was passionately...
Dandelion Jam A gentle and snowy winter has passed, and with spring’s arrival in our small English town, Taissa finds herself yearning for green leaves and colourful blooms. From her third-floor window, she gazes out at the awakening city where lorries rumble, the market buzzes, and people shed their winter wear for brighter coats. Birds sing before alarms; spring brings new energy, and soon, summer will be even better. Taissa, long settled in her five-storey block, now lives with her granddaughter, Vera, a lively Year Four pupil whose parents—both doctors—left for a work contract in Africa, entrusting their daughter to her grandmother. “Gran, we’re giving you Vera to look after, just for a while,” her daughter had said. “She’ll be happier with you than traipsing across the world.” Taissa, now retired, was delighted for the companionship. Each day is filled with routine: shopping, chatting with her neighbours on the chilly bench outside—the ever-watchful Mrs Simmons from downstairs, always mysterious about her age, and the cheerful, well-read Mrs Valentine. Together, they swap news, share stories, and complain about health, their bench a hub of local gossip. Life continues: Taissa spoils Vera with treats for her good grades, welcomes her home from school, listens to her tales, and beams with pride at Vera’s dedication to dance lessons. One bright afternoon, as Taissa awaits Vera’s return, she’s joined by Mr Edward, a widower from next door, who talks about the daffodils and coltsfoot carpeting the lawns like tiny suns. Spring’s beauty is in full bloom, and with Vera’s lively mischief, their days are warm and busy. Edward and Taissa begin to meet regularly—reading the papers, walking in the park, discussing recipes, and sharing snippets of their lives. Edward’s own story is bittersweet: he raised his daughter, Anne, alone after losing his wife, and despite his efforts, Anne’s grown distant, raising a son on her own in another city. Unexpectedly, Anne arrives with austere intentions: she insists her father sell his beloved flat and move in with her for “company’s sake”. Edward resists, unwilling to leave his home and his quiet, independent life. Anne, noting his friendship with Taissa, confronts Taissa with suspicion, accusing her of ulterior motives regarding Edward’s property. The harsh words sting, but Anne soon leaves in anger, severing ties with her father. Taissa, embarrassed by the scene, grows distant from Edward—until one day, he waits for her outside, dandelions in hand, apologising for his daughter’s behaviour. He gifts her a wreath of dandelions and offers a jar of his homemade dandelion jam, extolling its health benefits and inviting her to try it in a salad. Together, they share tea with dandelion jam and laughter, and in the quiet evening, stroll to the park with a fresh issue of their favourite magazine. Sitting beneath their old lime tree, their conversation flows, and all worries melt away. For Taissa and Edward, the springtime brings sweet new beginnings—and the simple joys of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting my stories. Wishing you happiness in life!
Dandelion Jam The snow finally melted away; this year, the frost hadnt been harshjust a gentle, snowy winter. Yet, as...
After I Told My Wife That Her Daughter Isn’t My Responsibility, the Truth About Our Family Was Revealed
After telling my wife that her daughter wasnt my responsibility, the truth about our family came out For a long...
My Husband Refuses to Give Our Flat to Our Daughter: Should We Let Her Move In or Split the Proceeds Equally Between All Our Children?
The flat in question was left to my husband by his aunta modest place tucked right in the heart of...
She Didn’t Want To – But She Did: How Vasilisa’s Desperate Gamble Led to Love and Redemption in a Quiet English Village
Didnt Want To, But Did Lucy never really learned how to smoke, but she was convinced it helped settle her...