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Запрошення в гості: вечеря, яка вразила до глибини душі
Свекруха з свекром запросили нас у гості. Побачивши їхній стіл, я була вражена до глибини душі.
Три дні я готувалася до прийому свекра з свекрухою, наче перед важливим іспитом. Я виросла в селі біля Вінниці, де гостинність була не просто традицією, а священним обов’язком. З дитинства мене вчили: гість повинен піти ситим і задоволеним, навіть якщо для цього доведеться віддати останнє. В нашій хаті стіл завжди ломився від їжі — м’ясні нарізки, домашні сири, овочі, закуски, пироги. Це було не просто частування, а знак поваги, символ тепла і щедрості.
Наша донька Оксана вийшла заміж кілька місяців тому. Зі свекрами ми вже зустрічалися, але тільки на нейтральній території — в кафе, на весіллі. В нашій хаті, у затишній квартирі на околиці міста, вони ще не були, і я хвилювалася до тремтіння, як усе пройде. Я сама запропонувала їм прийти в неділю — хотіла, щоб ми зблизилися, дізналися одне про одного краще. Свекруха, Олена Павлівна, із задоволенням погодилася, і я одразу ж кинулася в бій: закупила продукти, запаслася фруктами, морозивом, спекла свій фірмовий торт з кремом і горіхами. Гостинність у мене в крові, і я виклалася на всі сто, аби не розчарувати їх.
Свекри виявилися інтелігентними людьми — обидва викладачі в університеті, з манерами і розумом, які одразу викликали повагу. Я боялася, що нам не буде про що говорити, що між нами виросте стіна з ніякової тиші, але вечір пройшов на диво тепло. Ми балакали про майбутнє наших дітей, жартували, сміялися, засиділися допізна. Оксана з чоловіком приєдналися до нас ближче до вечора, і атмосфера стала ще теплішою. Наприкінці свекри запросили нас до себе через тиждень. Я зрозуміла: їм у нас сподобалося, і це гріло мені серце.
Запрошення окриляло мене. Я навіть купила нову сукню — темно-синю, з акуратним вирізом, щоб виглядати гідно. Звісно, знову спекла торт — магазинні мені не до душі, в них немає душі. Чоловік, Петро, вранці бурчав, що хоче поїсти перед виходом, але я відрізала: «Олена Павлівна сказала, що готується до нашого приходу. Прийдеш ситим — образиться! Потерпи». Він зітхнув, але послухався.
Коли ми приїхали до них у міську квартиру, я ахнула від захоплення. Інтер’єр був наче з обкладинки журналу: свіжий ремонт, дорога меблі, витончені деталі. Я очікувала чогось особливого, передчуваючи затишний вечір. Але коли нас провели до вітальні і я побачила їхній стіл, моє серце завмерло від шоку. Він був… порожнім. Жодної тарілки, жодної серветки, жодного натяку на частування. «Чай чи кава?» — запитала свекруха з легенькою усмішкою, наче це було само собою зрозумілим. Єдиним частуванням виявився мій торт, який вона похвалила і попросила рецепт. Чай з шматком торта — ось і весь наш «пир».
Я дивилася на цей голий стіл і відчувала, як всередині зростає клубок образи і здивування. Петро сидів поруч, і я бачила, як у його очах тліє голодне розчарування. Він мовчав, але я знала: він рахує хвилини до повернення додому. Я видавила усмішку і сказала, що нам пора. Подякували, попрощалися, а свекри, наче нічого й не було, оголосили, що на наступному тижні знову прийдуть до нас. Іще б пак — у нас-те стіл завжди ломиться від їжі, а не стоїть сиротливо з одинокою чашкою чаю!
В машині, поки ми їхали назад, я не могла викинути з голови цю картину. Як можна так зустрічати гостей? Я думала про наші родини, про прірву в розумінні гостинності, що розверзлася між нами. Для мене стіл — це серце дому, символ турботи, а для них, здається, просто меблі. Петро ж мовчав, але я знала: він мріє про запечену курку, що чекала на нас у холодильнику. Вранці я не дала йому її з’їсти, а тепер він дивився у вікно з виглядом людини, яку зрадили. І я сама почувалася обманутою — не їжею, а байдужістю, якої не очікувала від людей, що стали частиною нашої сім’ї.
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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