З життя
Сын тайно навещает меня, чтобы скрыть это от жены… А я когда-то отдала ему всё
**Дневник.**
Сегодня снова зашёл сын. Тихо, словно вор, чтобы жена не заметила. А я… я когда-то отдала ему всё.
Растила его одна. Мужик, от которого забеременела, даже не подумал о штампе в паспорте — сбежал, едва узнал. Когда родился Алёшка, его отец и вовсе растворился: сначала задерживался, потом пропадал на «встречи с друзьями», а затем исчез на выходные и не вернулся. Так и осталась я одна — с младенцем на руках и с пустотой внутри, которую нужно было заполнить не слезами, а делами.
Выжили благодаря родителям. Без них — пропала бы. Отец таскал дрова, сложил нам печку своими руками, мама варила борщи, качала коляску, ночами подменяла, когда силы уже кончались. Работала в ателье, брала заказы на дом — всё ради него. Чтобы не чувствовал себя ущербным.
Алёша рос хорошим — добрым, отзывчивым, с лучистыми глазами. Когда пришла пора в армию, я ревела в подушку — боялась, что потеряю его. Но через знакомых устроила, чтобы служил в части недалеко от нашего Воронежа. Каждую неделю ездила к нему, а командир иногда отпускал его на побывку. Домой. Ко мне.
После армии поступил в университет. И тут всё изменилось. Встретил Людмилу. Увидела её впервые на празднике — статная, с холодной улыбкой, смотрела так, будто уже всё решила за него. Алёша сиял рядом, как мальчишка, а она улыбалась — не как родным, а как случайным прохожим.
Сразу поняла: я ей не нужна. Ни я, ни бабушка, души не чаявшая во внуке. Лена не слышала, когда я объясняла: я не соперница. Я — его мать. А она — его женщина. Это разные роли. Но она словно соревновалась. И выигрывала.
Перед свадьбой отдала им свою квартиру. Да, двушка в хрущёвке — не палаты, но своя, нажитая, с любовью. Переехала к маме, потому что Алёша говорил: «Мать, так будет лучше». Поверила. Думала — станем ближе.
Сначала благодарили. Потом начался ремонт. Людмила выкинула всю мебель, переклеила обои, сменила даже светища. Ни одной вещи, напоминающей обо мне. Молчала — ну, мол, молодые, новый быт. Хотя щемило сердце.
Через год родилась Дашенька. Первая внучка. Счастливее меня не было. Привезла подарки — одеяльца, пинетки, ленточки… Но Лена принимала их с натянутой улыбкой, будто делала одолжение, пуская меня на порог. Сначала разрешала видеться раз в неделю. Потом заявила:
— У вас кошки. Шерсть. У Даши может быть аллергия. Больше не приходите.
Да, у мамы две кошки. Старые, домоседки, на улице ни разу не были. Да, шерсть могла остаться, но мы стирали, гладили, опрыскивались — всё равно «нет». Внучку теперь видим только на улице, в коляске. Да и ту Лена не доверяет, крепко держит ручку, с тем же ледяным взглядом.
Алёшу почти не видим. Забегает украдкой — на час, на двадцать минут, между сменами. Поглядывает на часы, нервничает. Однажды спросила:
— Алёш, чего ты так? Ты же мужик, в чём дело?
Он напряжённо улыбнулся:
— Мам, Лена кормит грудью, стресс ей вреден. Вдруг молоко пропадёт… Не хочу скандалов. Всё нормально.
Поняла — врёт. Через полгода Даша уже будет на кашах. Найдётся новая причина. Он стал чужим. Будто не я его растила. Не я ночами дежурила у его кровати во время температуры. Не я носила передачи в часть, пока он маршировал в кирзачах.
Теперь он живёт в страхе. Боится, что жена нахмурится. Словно не мужчина, а мальчишка, дрожащий перед строгой нянькой.
Молчу. Не упрекаю. Но сердце рвётся. Потому что знаю: всё, что отдала — любовь, дом, здоровье — теперь ничего не стоит. Рядом с ним женщина, которой плевать на его прошлое и корни.
Мне не нужна благодарность. Не жду подарков. Хотела просто видеть его счастливым. А вижу — как он боится. И в этом — самая страшная материнская боль.
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