З життя
Заздрість до сестри: її чоловік дарує їй світ, а я несу тягар родини
Я безмежно заздрю своїй сестрі. Її чоловік готовий подарувати їй увесь світ, а я несу на собі тягар усієї родини.
Я шалено заздрю своїй молодшій сестрі Оксані. Її життя — наче казка, де вона принцеса, а чоловік виконує всі її забаганки, немов відданий лицар. А я, як змарніла Попелюшка, тягну на своїх плечах всю родину, задихаючись від втоми і безнадії. Іноді мені здається, що я найдурніша і найнещасніша жінка у світі. З моїм чоловіком, Сергієм, ми разом уже майже десять років. За цей час ми пройшли через багато чого: були моменти щастя, але більше — темні часи, сповнені випробувань.
Зараз настали одні з найсутінковіших моментів нашого життя. Рік тому Сергій вирішив змінити роботу. Нам обіцяли золоті гори: стабільний дохід, хороші умови, світле майбутнє. Але реальність виявилася жорстоким глузуванням над нашими сподіваннями. Нова посада стала справжнім пеклом, гіршим за попередню, а Сергій тепер звинувачує у всьому мене, ніби це я одна штовхнула його в цю прірву.
— Це ти хотіла, щоб я змінив роботу? Ну от, задоволена тепер? — кидає він мені з отруйною усмішкою за кожної зручної нагоди.
Але хто міг передбачити такий розвиток подій? Я лише хотіла, щоб він зростав, щоб наша сім’я нарешті вибралася з вічної бідності. Хіба я могла знати, що все обернеться катастрофою? Зараз ми тонемо у фінансовій ямі. Моя зарплата — єдине, що тримає нас на плаву, тому що Сергію вже кілька місяців затримують виплати. Ми ледь зводимо кінці з кінцями, і кожен день я відчуваю, як цей тягар тисне все сильніше.
Минулої весни в мене зламався телефон. Ремонт коштував би майже як новий апарат, і ми вирішили відкласти покупку. Кілька місяців я мучилася зі старим планшетом, поки не довелося здати його в ломбард. Туди ж відправилися майже всі мої золоті прикраси — ті небагато речі, що нагадували про кращі дні. Гроші були потрібні терміново, і я віддала все, що мала. А речі Сергія? Ні, їх ми не чіпали — тільки мої жертви пішли в хід.
Оксана, моя молодша сестра, пожаліла мене і віддала свій старий телефон, щоб я могла хоч якось залишатися на зв’язку. Я викладалася на повну, щоб моя родина не голодувала. Так, Сергій теж працює, іноді бере підробітки, але робить це з таким скрипом, ніби я змушую його на каторгу. Кожен раз його доводиться вмовляти, ледь не на колінах просити.
Нещодавно чоловік Оксани, Андрій, обмовився, що на 8 березня вона вимагала в подарунок новий iPhone. Я відчула, як всередині мене спалахнула пекуча заздрість — почуття, якого я соромлюся, але не можу приглушити. Вони з Андрієм знімають квартиру в Києві, як і ми з Сергієм, але у них все інакше. Оксана вертить чоловіком, як марионеткою: він працює вечорами таксистом, їздить у відрядження, накопичує гроші і в усьому їй догоджає. Її зарплата — це її особистий маленький скарб, який вона витрачає тільки на себе. Минулого року вона просто пішла в бутік і купила собі розкішну шубу, тому що їй так захотілося.
— За житло, їжу та інші потреби має відповідати чоловік, — заявляє вона з впевненістю королеви.
Оксана — справжня красуня. Вона вкладає всі свої гроші в себе: нарощування вій, ідеальний манікюр, доглянуті брови, стильні зачіски, модний одяг та інші жіночі радощі. Поруч з нею я відчуваю себе якоюсь сірою тінню — виснаженою, недоглянутою, забутою. Я вже й не згадаю, коли востаннє була у перукаря, а про манікюр і зовсім мовчу. Все, що я заробляю, йде на родину, а Сергій навіть не думає принести додому зайву копійку. Будь-який підробіток чи зміну в житті доводиться витягувати з нього силоміць.
Днями я отримала зарплату, і Сергій знову натякнув, що за квартиру і їжу знову доведеться платити з мого гаманця. Мене розриває від образи: він навіть не намагається щось змінити, не старається заради нас.
— Ти ж знаєш, з грошима сутужно, зарплату знову затримують, — буркнув він, коли я запитала, що він подарує мені на день народження.
Але варто йому не отримати подарунок на свято, як він ображається, наче дитина. Я завжди намагаюся його порадувати, знайти хоч якусь дрібничку, щоб він не відчував себе обділеним. А він? Я не чекаю від нього дорогих телефонів чи розкішних сюрпризів — щастя ж не в грошах. Але навіть простого уваги, маленького жесту турботи від нього не дочекаєшся. Він цього просто не розуміє.
Я думала, що наші біди — тимчасові, що це лише темна смуга, яка скоро закінчиться. Але тепер я бачу: це не смуга, а ціле життя. Я намагалася говорити з Сергієм, доходило до сварок, але він лише розводить руками: «Зарплату затримують, що я можу зробити?»
— А якби у нас були діти, як би ми тоді виживали? — запитала я одного разу у відчаї.
Він змовчав. А я дивлюся на Оксану, і заздрість з’їдає мене зсередини. Мені соромно за ці почуття, але вони сильніші за мене. Її чоловік носить її на руках, обсипає подарунками, купує все, що вона забажає, а я досі користуюся її старим телефоном, який вона викинула як непотрібний. Чому одним жінкам, як Оксані, дістається все? Це така щаслива доля? Чи справа в чоловіках? Чому у одних життя — суцільне свято, варто лише пальцем клацнути, а у мене — безкінечна сіра туга?
“We’ll Be Staying With You For A While, We Can’t Afford To Rent A Flat!” – Said My Friend I’m a very active woman. Even though I’m 65, I still manage to visit fascinating places and meet interesting people. I recall my youth with both joy and nostalgia—back then, you could holiday wherever you liked! You could go to the seaside, or camping with friends, or set sail down any river, all for little money. Sadly, those days are gone. I always loved meeting new people, be it on the beach or at the theatre, and many friendships lasted years. One day, I met a woman named Sarah. We were holidaying at the same seaside guesthouse and parted as friends. Years passed and we’d occasionally exchange letters. Then, one day, I received an unsigned telegram: “The train arrives at three in the morning. Meet me!” I couldn’t imagine who would send it. My husband and I didn’t go anywhere, but at four in the morning, there was a knock at our door. Opening it, I was stunned—standing there was Sarah, two teenage girls, her mother, and a man, with a mountain of luggage. My husband and I were bewildered, but we let them in. Then Sarah asked me: “Why didn’t you come to meet us? I sent you a telegram! And you know, that cost me!” “Sorry, but we didn’t know who sent it.” “Well, you gave me your address. So, here I am.” “I thought we’d just write letters, that’s all!” Sarah explained that one of the girls had just finished school and wanted to attend university. The family had come to support her. “We’ll be living with you! We have no money for a flat or hotel!” I was shocked—we weren’t even family! Why should we let them stay with us? We had to feed them three times a day. They’d brought some food, but didn’t cook, just ate ours. I ended up looking after everyone. I couldn’t take it anymore, so after three days I asked Sarah and her family to leave. I didn’t care where to. There was an awful row. Sarah started smashing crockery and screamed hysterically. I was utterly appalled. As they packed up, they managed to steal my bathrobe, several towels, and—astonishingly—even a large saucepan. I still don’t know how they got it out, but that pan simply vanished! And so ended our friendship—thank goodness! I never saw or heard from her again. How can people be so shameless? Now, I’m much more wary when meeting new acquaintances.
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You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” Andrew said, turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke and trembled so convincingly that Ksenia instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when you’ve been betrayed, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left a scar I’ll never get over. I truly believed I wouldn’t survive it…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for a long time—about the wife who never appreciated him, about the pain that wouldn’t let go, about how terrified he was to start over. Every word settled in Ksenia’s heart like a warm pebble, and she already imagined she’d be the woman to restore his faith in love. Together, they would heal his wounds. He’d finally see that real happiness was possible—with her. It wasn’t until their second date, between dessert and coffee, that Andrew mentioned Maxim… “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mother, but spends every weekend with me. The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. The third was brought home after he missed her birthday because he stayed out with his mates (or simply forgot…) “Andrew, I don’t need expensive presents,” she tried to keep her voice gentle, choosing every word. “But sometimes, I’d just like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “Money, it’s always about money with you, isn’t it? Presents, presents. Does love mean anything to you? All I’ve been through, and you complain?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I’ve done for you, you still find something to whinge about.” Ksenia fell silent. She always did—it was just easier that way. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend everything was fine. Strangely, Andrew always managed to find money for nights out with friends. Pubs, watching the football, café meetups every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t turn a living, breathing person into the hired help. Ksenia walked through the London evening—and, for the first time in ages, breathing came easy. She vowed to herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she rescue those who only trade on pity. Always, from now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.
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