З життя
Ціна всього – самотність
Все має свою ціну! Тепер я самотній, як вовк…
Пише вам чоловік за сімдесят, що залишився на самоті. Хочу розповісти свою історію — може, стане попередженням для інших.
Живу у великому місті, але навколо — лише чужі обличчя. Старі стіни моєї хати вже давно здаються чужими, а вулиці, де колись ходив упевнено, тепер видаються безлюдними та холодними. Ніхто мене не чекає, ніхто не цікавиться моїм життям. Така вже плата за минуле…
Дивлюсь у дзеркало — не впізнаю себе. Обличчя змарніле, волосся біле, плечі згорблені, а в очах — пустка. Де той чоловік, що жив на повну, закохувався, гуляв на весіллях і бенкетах? Де той зарозумілий красунчик, що вважав світ своєю власністю? Натомість — лише втомлений старий, який нікому не потрібен…
**Гріхи молодості**
Колись я був справжнім гулякою, улюбленцем долі. Закохував у гарних жінок, легко закохував їх, а потім так само легко забував. «Життя одне — треба брати від нього все!» — твердив собі. І тоді це здавалось правдою.
Була в мене дружина, Оксана, добросерда й терпляча. Вона витримала зо мною п’ятнадцять років шлюбу, хоч я не давав їй ані хвилини спокою. Пропадав уночі, повертався п’яним, інколи приводив додому якихось випадкових дівчат. Оксана мовчала, терпіла, сподівалась, що колись опам’ятаюсь.
Та я не зупинявся. Гадав: «Вона нікуди не подінеться, адже створена терпіти». Хіба вона покине мене? Я ж чарівний, веселий, грошей повно! А однажды вона поставила умову: або змінююся, або вона йде. Я лише усміхнувся: «Та куди ж ти підеш, душенько?»
Виявилось, знала куди. Одного дня зібрала речі, забрала дітей і поїхала на інший край України. Без скандалів, без сліз. Просто пішла — назавжди.
Спершу не переймався. Жив, як раніше, лише інколи згадуючи про родину. Аліменти платив нерегулярно, а вони й не нагадували. Одного разу вирішив зробити їм сюрприз на Різдво — відправив подарунки. Через тиждень посилка повернулась…
Я знизав плечима: «Та ну, ще повернуться». Але роки йшли, а телефон мовчав.
**Самотня старість — останній суд**
Не думав про старість, поки був молодим. Здавалось, так триватиме вічно. Не любив стабільної роботи — обирав гулянки. Кидав одну справу, переходив на іншу, лише б не «заіржавіти». Сміявся з тих, хто будував хати, зберігав гроші, дбав про завтра.
А тепер моя «вільність» обернулась мізерною пенсією, якої ледве вистачає на ліки. Гарячу їжу не куштував уже роки. Інколи засинаю голодним, але скаржитись нікому.
Нещодавно зустрів старого знайомого. Він постарів, але виглядав доглянуто, порядний. Мав хату, родину, онуків. Поплескав мене по плечу:
— Василю, ти був королем, а тепер хто ти?…
Не знайшов слів у відповідь. У горлі застрягло. Все, що лишилось, — спогади й каяття. Не хочу жалю. Те, що сталося, — моя провина.
Коли інші будували родини, я пив у шинках з підлими друзями.
Коли інші збирали гроші, я витрачав їх на коханок.
Коли інші думали про завтра, я мріяв лише про нічні розваги.
А тепер, коли потрібні діти, не смію їм подзвонити. Можливо, вже маю онуків, але помру, так і не побачивши їхніх облич.
**Пізня порада тим, хто ще може змінитись**
Не повторюйте моїх помилок. Не вважайте, що молодість безмежна, а родина — щось належне. Любіть близьких, дбайте про них.
Бо одного дня можете опинитись у порожній хаті, де навіть луна не відповість на ваше «Добрий день»…
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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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