З життя
Жорстокий коментар, який змінив долю перед весіллям.
Владиславу вона зрадила лише раз, ще до весілля. Він назвав її товстою і сказав, що Наталка не влізе у весільну сукню. Вона образилася і поїхала з подругами в клуб. Напилася там, прокинулась у незнайомій квартирі з голубооким красенем. Було страшенно соромно! Вона нічого не сказала Олегу, одразу пробачила йому всі образи і навіть сіла на дієту. Алкоголь кинула, бо скоро дізналася про вагітність, тож був привід відмовитися.
Донька народилася вчасно, чарівна голубоока дівчинка, Олег її обожнював. Усі п’ять років Наталка переконувала себе, що все гаразд, і очі в доньки голубі, бо у свекра також голубі. Ну, кучерява вона, і що з того? Щосили намагалася забути того кучерявого хлопця, ім’я якого навіть не пам’ятала. Але щось у глибині материнського серця підказувало їй, що дівчинка не від чоловіка. Можливо, тому вона пробачала йому усе: нічні переписки, часті відрядження, вічне невдоволення її зовнішністю та кулінарією. Дівчинці потрібна сім’я: батька вона обожнює, і які чоловіки не зраджують?
– Терпи, куди ти підеш? – говорила мати. – У нас, сама знаєш, місця немає, бабуся прикута до ліжка, брат наречену привів, куди мені вас усіх? Говорила тобі: не можна оформляти квартиру на свекруху, будеш потім під розбитим коритом!
Наталка і терпіла. Але це не допомогло, і одного разу Олег усе ж пішов від неї. Сказав, що зустрів іншу, навіть плакав, говорив, що завжди буде для Марічки батьком, але проти своїх почуттів піти не може. Його мати, яка онучку начебто обожнювала, після розлучення видала:
– Тест на батьківство зроби, а то, може, даремно аліменти платиш!
Наталка ледве не зомліла: вона думала, що у неї однієї такі підозри. Виявляється, ні.
– Ти з глузду з’їхала? – накинувся на неї Олег. – Марічка – моя дочка, це сліпому видно.
Недаремно свекруха підозрювала, бо коли через рік після розлучення Наталка потрапила до лікарні з апендицитом і побачила там знайоме обличчя, її сумніви розвіялися вмить у цих голубих очах над білою маскою.
– Вибачте, а ми з вами не зустрічалися? – запитав хірург.
Наталка відчайдушно кивнула головою. І сподівалася, що він не згадає. Але він згадав, бо наступного дня під час обходу пожартував:
– Сподіваюся, ви не втечете так стрімко, як минулого разу?
Наталка почервоніла, як помідор. І вирішила для себе, що піде з лікарні за першої ж нагоди. Тільки от одного вона не розрахувала: за ті дні, що вона там перебувала, Макар встиг зробити так, що тікати Наталці не захотілося.
Про доньку вона нічого не сказала, точніше, сказала, що донька є, але про його батьківство навіть натяку не було.
Макар усе зрозумів сам, у перший же день, коли побачив дівчинку. Він хвилювався, купив ляльку, задав Наталці десятки питань, щоб правильно поводитися.
– Ти розумієш, – сказав він, – коли ми з сестрою були маленькі, мама зустріла чоловіка, і вона дійсно його любила, але моя сестра його не прийняла, і мама, врешті-решт, дала йому відставку. Не хочу так, хочу бути для твоєї дочки другим батьком.
Вже від цих слів Наталці стало погано. А коли він увійшов і побачив дівчинку, завмерши на кілька секунд, і розгублено подивився на Наталку, стало ясно: він теж усе зрозумів.
«Яка різниця, – подумала Наталка. – Все одно рано чи пізно довелося б йому сказати».
Навчена своїм шлюбом, вона чекала звинувачень і криків. Але Макар, коли вони залишилися наодинці, міцно обійняв її і прошепотів: «Яке ж це диво!».
Спочатку Марічка начебто нормально приймала Макара. Але коли Наталка обережно запитала у доньки, чи не проти вона, якщо Макар буде жити з ними, вона заплакала і сказала:
– Я думала, що тато повернеться до нас! Нехай Макар в іншому домі живе.
Зрештою вона її вмовила, але Макар сильно засмучувався.
– Вона ж моя дочка! Ти повинна їм сказати!
– Олег цього не переживе. І Марічка. Ти зрозумій, для неї він – батько, а для Олега вона – єдина донечка. Здається, його дама не може мати дітей. Так мені свекруха сказала.
Макар ображався, Марічка влаштовувала скандали, Наталка з усіх сил намагалася підтримувати мир у їхній дивній сім’ї. Зрештою у них склалися певні правила, завдяки яким вдавалося лавірувати між двома коханими людьми: до Олега вона возила доньку сама, намагаючись, щоб чоловіки не зустрічалися, Марічку з Макаром наодинці не залишала, а то вони неодмінно сварилися, служила ніби перекладачем між ними. Навіть на Восьме березня вона готувала з Марічкою листівку, боялася, що та висловить щось Макарові, а він не витримає і скаже їй правду.
А потім Наталка завагітніла. І страшенно налякалася. Вона боялася, що друга дитина буде схожа на Марічку як дві краплі води, і Олег все зрозуміє; боялася, що Марічка ревнуватиме і сердитиметься на Макара ще більше; боялася, що Макар скористається ситуацією, поки вона в пологовому, і все розповість Марічці.
Домовилась з мамою, що та забере собі Марічку на пологи. Мати погодилася, хоча у неї і так дома двоє дітей (брат встиг подарувати їй онуків), але все вийшло не так: за день до того, як у Наталки почалися пологи, мама потрапила в лікарню з камінням у жовчному. Вітчим на себе третього дитини брати відмовився, брат і його дружина цілісінькими днями на роботі. І Наталка вирішила відвезти доньку до Олега. Але ось халепа: той був у відрядженні, а звертатися до свекрухи зовсім не хотілося.
– Я що, з власною донькою не впораюсь? – образився Макар.
Ці пологи були куди складнішими для Наталки: мало того, що довелося робити кесарів розтин, потім затриматися в лікарні, бо син був жовтущим, так ще й вдома бомба сповільненої дії! Макар запевняв, що все добре, а дочка відмовлялася з нею говорити, і Наталка страшенно переживала. «Він їй усе розповів, – думала вона».
Ще, навіщо, не зрозуміло, поділилась своєю історією з сусідками, а ті давай запевняти, що треба всім усе розповісти, що таємне завжди стає явним, і Наталку чекає розплата за брехню. Роздратована сусідками і зм’якшена окситоцином, вона подзвонила до Олега і сказала:
– Мені треба тобі зізнатись.
– У чому?
Довго мовчала, збиралася з думками.
– Ти про Марічку, чи що?
– Що про Марічку? – злякалася Наталка, хоча сама збиралась усе йому розповісти.
– Те, що вона від твого хахаля. Знаю я.
– Він тобі сказав? — здивувалась Наталка.
– Та я давно знаю, заспокойся. Їй рік був, коли я тест зробив. Мені ще перед армією говорили, що дітей у мене не буде. Я мовчав, сподівався на диво і думав, ось воно. А потім сумніватись став. Мама ще… Ось і перевірив.
– Але… Як…
У Наталки в голові не вкладалось те, що він усе ці роки мовчав.
– А що мені було робити? – огризнувся він. – Дівчинка-то в чому винна? І не вздумай їй сказати! Я стільки терпів не для того, щоби ти мене без дитини лишила.
Ось тобі і Юріїв день!
На виписці Наталка була сама не своя: усе дивилася то на дочку, то на чоловіка. Обоє вели себе дивно: переглядались і мовчали.
– Ну, як ви без мене? – запитала нервово Наталка, коли син заснув, а Марічка сіла малювати.
– Та добре все! Даремно ти її стільки охороняла, без тебе ми одразу порозумілися.
– Ти їй сказав?
– Ні, звичайно! Ти ж заборонила.
– Заборонила. А чого вона тоді така похмура?
Макар хитро усміхнувся.
– А от спитай сама.
Наталка пішла в кімнату дівчинки. Та аж язика від старання висунула: малювала щось червоним олівцем. Наталка підійшла ближче, розглянула. На малюнку було троє дорослих і двоє дітей.
– Це хто? – запитала вона.
– Незрозуміло, чи що? Ти, тато, Макар і ми з Вадимком.
– Красиво.
– Ага. Мамо! А як ти думаєш – може у людини два тата бути?
«Так і є – сказав!»
– Ну… Буває так, – обережно відповіла вона.
– Тоді можна я буду Макара теж татом звати? Він хороший. Ми з ним побудували замок з лего і ходили дивитись рибок. Там такий смішний продавець, дідусь у кепочці. Він запитав, ким працює мій тато. А я не знала, що відповісти, він же про Макара запитав. І я сказала, що лікар. Це ж класно, коли тато – лікар. Я у нього вже спитала, але вирішила в тебе уточнити.
До горла підступив клубок. Наталка раптом зрозуміла, у яку пастку себе завела. Олег її простив, і Макар пробачить. А якщо колись правду дізнається Марічка… Треба вирішувати зараз: сказати чи чекати розплати. Наталка обняла дочку і промовила:
– Звісно, можна. Думаю, Макар зрадіє, якщо ти будеш називати його татом. Але татові краще не кажи…
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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. 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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!
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