З життя
Разочарование в любимой: я ушёл после посещения её дома
Из-за разочарования в своей избраннице, я решил покинуть её после визита к ней домой.
Я был женат тринадцать лет, и моя бывшая жена не считалась классической красавицей. В молодости меня заворожила её нежность, хрупкость, и едва уловимая мягкость, которая запала в душу. Она не была ослепительной, но всегда умела себя подать. Дорогие кружевные комплекты, которыми она баловала себя, полки в нашей ванной, уставленные кремами, духами, маслами и косметикой — это был её мир. Количество флаконов и баночек поражало воображение, но от неё всегда исходил запах свежих цветов. Мы оба хорошо зарабатывали, жили в достатке, и она могла позволить себе такие небольшие роскоши.
Моя бывшая никогда не ходила дома в растянутой одежде — её волосы всегда были ухожены, одежда выглажена. Мне нравились такие женщины: ухоженные, знающие себе цену. Но судьба распорядилась иначе — пять лет назад мы развелись, и моя жизнь стала чередой мимолётных встреч. Женщины появлялись и исчезали, не оставляя следа, пока я не встретил её — Ирину. Она была словно из другого мира: красивая, грациозная, с тонкими чертами лица и уверенной походкой. Она с лёгкостью управляла мужской командой на работе, что вызывало у меня невольное восхищение. Я решил, что такую женщину упустить нельзя.
Всё началось с невинных разговоров, но вскоре я позвал её к себе домой в Санкт-Петербурге. Готовить не стал — заказал ужин из ресторана, зато стол накрыл сам, вложив в это всё своё внимание. Вечер прошёл волшебно: вино, смех, долгие взгляды. Ирина осталась у меня на ночь, и с тех пор стала частой гостьей. Однако, чем больше она приходила, тем больше меня беспокоило её поведение. Она никогда не приносила с собой ни косметички, ни сменной одежды, ни белья. Утром я видел её в неприятном виде: размазанная тушь, растрёпанные волосы, усталое лицо. После душа она надевала те же вещи, и это меня огорчало. Честно говоря, я был разочарован.
Однажды Ирина пригласила меня к себе. Я ожидал увидеть хаос, так как её привычки у меня дома навевали мысли о неряшливости. Но перейдя порог её квартиры, я был поражён. Не беспорядок, а… совсем наоборот. Внутри был свежий ремонт — стильный, дорогой, с качественной мебелью и модными аксессуарами. Всё демонстрировало вкус и изобилие. Но когда я зашёл в ванную, моё сердце сжалось от досады. На полке стояли только шампунь и паста для зубов. И всё. Никакой роскоши, ни малейшего намёка на уход за собой. Я вспомнил свою бывшую — её полки были полны флаконов, ванная благоухала ароматами, и это было для меня символом женственности и самоуважения. А здесь — пустота.
Ирине недавно исполнилось 33, но, похоже, её не заботило, как сохранить молодость. Неужели её не тревожат морщины и увядающая кожа? Я стоял, глядя на скромный набор средств, и чувствовал, как внутри росло разочарование. Но окончательным ударом стал вид на балконе. Там, на верёвке, сушилось её бельё — серое, простое, без намёка на изящество. Она заметила мой взгляд и спокойно сказала: «Для меня главное — удобство». Эти слова звучали как приговор.
Может, в свои 42 года я стал слишком придирчив? Может, мои ожидания — это груз прошлого, от которого я не могу избавиться? Но я понял: с такой женщиной я жить не смогу. Мы расстались — я сам принял решение. Ушёл, не оборачиваясь, с тяжёлым сердцем, но с уверенностью, что не смогу принять эту пустоту, где ожидал увидеть красоту и заботу. Ирина была прекрасна снаружи, но в её доме я увидел лишь равнодушие — и это убило всё, что могло между нами быть.
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew admitted, fidgeting with his empty espresso cup. His voice cracked and wavered so convincingly that Kate found herself leaning closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, you lose a part of yourself. She left me with wounds I thought would never heal… I honestly didn’t think I’d survive.” Andrew’s stories poured out for a long time: about his wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t let go, the fear of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm little stone. She imagined herself as the woman who could restore his faith in love—how they’d heal his scars together, how he’d realize true happiness was possible with her by his side. He first mentioned Max on their second date, casually dropped in between dessert and coffee… — “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but stays with me every weekend. The court said so.” — “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She started daydreaming: Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, TV evenings together. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She could become a second mum—not a replacement, but someone close, someone family… — “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Andrew watched her with a crooked smile she mistook for wariness at the time. “A lot of women run when they hear about a kid.” — “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Her first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his absolute favourite, as Andrew had tipped her off. Patiently, she helped him through his maths homework. She washed his dinosaur T-shirt, pressed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine sharp. — “You should have a rest,” she told Andrew after he’d sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this covered.” Andrew nodded—or so it seemed then, gratefully. But now she realized it was the nod of a man taking his due. Time marched on. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out by eight, home after seven. Decent salary by London standards—enough for two. But there were three. — “Hold-up on site again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a hurricane, “Client’s pulled out. But there’s a big contract coming, I promise.” The “big contract” hovered on the horizon for a year and a half, sometimes getting closer, mostly never arriving. But the bills always came—rent, utilities, internet, groceries, child support for Marina, new trainers for Max, school contributions. Kate paid all of them, quietly. She skimped on lunches, brought in tupperware pasta, walked home in the rain to save on cabs. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—did her own nails and tried not to remember the luxury of professional treatments. Three years, and Andrew had given her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each bouquet—cheap roses from the convenience kiosk near their tube stop, droopy and with snapped-off thorns. Probably on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second came after an argument about a friend who visited unannounced. The third, when he missed her birthday because he lingered with mates—simply forgot. — “Andrew, I don’t want expensive gifts,” she tried to keep her voice gentle. “Just… sometimes I’d like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face contorted instantly. — “So it’s all about money for you, is it? Presents? Don’t you care about love? Or what I’ve been through?” — “That’s not what—” — “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After all I do for you, you still complain.” She fell silent. She always did—it made things easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Yet, for mates’ nights, Andrew always found cash. Pubs, football at the local, café Thursdays. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, flop onto the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She convinced herself this was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change, surely. She just had to be even more attentive, love even harder—after all, look at what he’d suffered… Talk of marriage became a minefield. — “We’re happy as we are, why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew waved the question away like a pesky fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” — “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” — “Now you’re pressuring me—always pressuring!” He stormed off, ending the conversation. Kate longed for children of her own. She was twenty-eight, the ticking biological clock growing louder each month. But Andrew wasn’t interested in a second round of fatherhood—he had a son, and that was enough for him. Then came that Saturday—she asked for just one day. One day. — “The girls are inviting me over. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as though she’d announced she was emigrating. — “And Max?” — “He’s your son, Andrew. Spend the day with him.” — “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I’m expecting to relax?” She blinked. In three years she’d never left them alone. Never asked for a day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, tutored homework, washed, ironed—while holding a full-time job. — “I just want to see my friends. It’s only a few hours… And he’s your son. Can’t you spend a day with him on your own?” — “You’re supposed to love my child as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to make demands?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food. Three years supporting a man who yelled at her for wanting to spend a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—twisted face, throbbing temples, fists clenched—and saw him for the first time. Not as a wounded soul, not a helpless victim in need of rescue, but an adult who had learned to expertly exploit kindness. Kate, to him, was not a beloved partner, not a future wife. She was a walking wallet and a live-in maid. That was all. When Andrew left to drop Max back to Marina, Kate took out her suitcase. Her hands moved calmly, no shakes, no doubts. Passport. Mobile. Charger. A couple of shirts and jeans. The rest could be bought later. The rest didn’t matter. She left no note. What could she explain to a man who never valued her? The door closed behind her quietly, no fuss, no drama. The calls started within an hour—one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, endless trill that made her phone quiver. — “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! You’ve gone, there’s no dinner! Am I supposed to go hungry now? What the hell?!” She listened—his voice angry, demanding, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, as she’d left, Andrew thought only of himself. How inconvenient this was. Who would make his tea? No “sorry”. No “what happened”. Just “how dare you”. Kate blocked his number. Blocked him on Messenger. On every social platform—brick by brick, she built herself a wall. Three years. Three years with someone who never loved her. Who used her empathy as a disposable resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But that’s not love. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t reduce someone to a servant. Kate walked through the twilight streets of London and for the first time in ages, she could breathe. She vowed she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again give herself away to those who prey on pity. And always, always choose herself. Just herself.
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