З життя
Я все ще твій син, мамо: невідправлене послання
Я все ще твій син, мамо: лист, якого я не зміг не написати
Мамо, ти, мабуть, інколи сидиш на кухні сама, перебираючи старі листівки з вітаннями, де всі радіють моїй появі на світ. Де посміхаються люди, чиїх облич уже давно немає поруч. Ти зберігаєш мої дитячі плішечки, мій перший молочний зуб, пасмо світлого волосся — ніби намагаєшся повернути той час, коли я був зовсім крихітним. Жоден альбом не здатний оживити минуле. Але ти все одно бережеш його — як найцінніший скарб. Позаду я — твій син.
Я виріс. Мені за тридцять, у мене дружина, робота, квартира у Києві та обов’язків — на ціле життя. Але знаєш, мамо? Я все рівно твій. Той самий хлопчик, що приходив додому з обдертими колінами, з двікою з математики, з мокрими від сліз щоками. Ти тоді не розпитувала — просто обіймала. І я знав: завтра, може, і доведеться відповідати за помилки, але сьогодні — мене просто люблять. Без умов.
Хотілося б, щоб ти знала — я все той самий. Просто тепер ношу костюм, плачу за комуналку й надто рідко дзвоню. Не через забуття. Через сором бути втомленим, слабким, недосконалим. Та коли особливо важко, я повертаюся думками в наш будинок у Львові, де пахне медовиком, а твій голос додає: «Головне — ти вдома, решта налагодиться».
Пам’ятаєш, як у шостому класі дістала з шафи сіре пальто в коричневу клітку? Воно було «на виріст», і ти тішилася, що тепер якраз. А я влаштував істерику, бо вважав, що виглядаю смішно. Зараз у мене таке саме пальто — лише від известного бренду, обране стилістом, коштує воно, мабуть, як тоді вся наша меблівка. Але в ньому я — все той хлопчик. Твій.
Наше дитинство, мамо, — не просто спогади. Це мій фундамент. Те, що робить мене собою. А ти — єдина, хто пройшов усю цю путь поруч. Лише ти знаєш, як я гарячкував уночі, як боявся темряви, як ховався під столом, коли помер наш пес Барсік. Ти — єдина, хто прожив усе разом зі мною. Тому я й досі твій син.
Інколи я так виснажений, мамо… Світ вимагає бути найкращим: працювати більше, заробляти більше, встигати все. Трохи розслабишся — втратиш клієнтів, повагу, себе. А вдома… вдома тепер мушу бути ідеальним: чоловіком, батьком, опорою. І лише одне місце дозволяє мені бути просто людиною. Твій поріг.
Ти не докоряєш, не питаєш: «Чому не справляєшся?» Ти просто ставиш чайник, кладеш руку на плече й кажеш: «Передихни…» Це єдине місце, де можна не грати роль. Де можна бути собою. Слабким. І це значить — я все ще твій син.
У цьому світі так мало певності, мамо. Все хитке: бізнес-партнери зрадять, друзі віддаляться, дружина втомиться, діти виростуть. Але ти — як кріпкий дуб, на якому тримається моє життя. Ти — єдина, чию любов я ніколи не сумнівався. Навіть коли кричав, хлопав дверима, мовчав тижнями.
Твоя любов — не бонусна картка, не обіцянка, не угода. Вона — як світло у вікні. Воно просто є. Воно витримало час і мій характер. Вистояло все. І це — найвірніша опора, яку я коли-небудь мав.
Мамо, я кохаю одну жінку. Вона — моя дружина, Олена. Ти спочатку не розуміла її, питала: «Що спільного у вас?» Але знаєш? Вона схожа на тебе. Зберігає перші малюнки наших дітей, записує їхні смішні слова у зошит, гріє нас своєю добротою. Вона чекає наших дітей такими, як ти чекала мене: подряпаними, із поганими оцінками, у сльозах — але своїми. Без умов.
Дивлюся на неї — і менше боюся майбутнього. Згадую тебе — і менше боюся себе. Бо я виріс у любові, а тепер передаю її далі. І в цьому — весь сенс.
Мамо, дякую. За кожен збережений панчішок, за безсонні ночі, за кожне «нічого, впораємось». За те, що, незважаючи ні на що… я все ще твій син. І залишусь ним назавжди.
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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