З життя
«Свекруха ініціювала розлучення, а тепер благає повернути сина, але вже запізно»
Мене звуть Олеся, мені тридцять два, і щойно завершився один із найболючіших періодів мого життя — розлучення з чоловіком. Його звали Іван. Ми були одружені трохи більше трьох років, і, чесно кажучи, це були не найлегші роки. Причина наших сварок, образ і, зрештою, повного розриву — зовсім не Іван. А його мати, Ганна Степанівна.
Від самого початку я їй не спогодила. Навіть коли ми ще лише зустрічалися, вона намагалася переконати Івана, що я йому не пара, що я з «не тої родини», «занадто вперта» та «погано впливаю на його кар’єру». Її улюблена фраза була:
— Одружуватися треба не по коханню, а по розрахунку, інакше життя проведеш у бідності.
Коли ми таки влаштували весілля, я намагалася знайти з нею спільну мову. Носила подарунки, запрошувала в гості, доглядала під час хвороб. Але все даремно. Вона при кожній нагоді встромляла шпильки. Шепотіла Івану, що я не вмію готувати, що діти в нас будуть каліками, бо у моєї бабусі «горб був», і навіть стверджувала, що бачила, як я «підозріло посміхалася» сусімку-чоловікові.
Вона постійно капала йому на думку. Втручалася у всі наші розмови, завжди з’являлася в найнезручніші моменти, приходила без попередження та влаштовувала вистави ревнощів. Переконувала Івана, що я йому зраджую, і одного разу навіть привела до дому дівчину, з якою, як з’ясувалося пізніше, мріяла «одружити» сина. Організувала вечерю при свічках у квартирі, де ми з Іваном ще жили разом! Сама накрила на стіл, сама все спланувала. А я того дня, до речі, працювала до пізньої ночі.
Іван спершу сміявся.
— Мама трохи дивна, не звертай уваги, — казав він.
Але з кожним днем він ставав усе тихішим, все рідше підтримував мене, все частіше мовчав, коли я плакала.
А потім мені стало нестерпною. Я почала прокидатися серед ночі від тривоги, з’явилися проблеми з серцем, я схудла, і в один момент усвідомила: я не живу, а виживаю. Я більше не могла дивитися, як мати мого чоловіка методично руйнує наш шлюб, а він сам лише мовчить і спостерігає. Я зібрала речі та пішла. Без істерик. Без скандалів. Просто поставила крапку.
Іван навіть не спробував мене зупинити. За два дні він повернувся до матері. Вона, очевидно, перемогла.
Минуло два місяці. І ось у суботу вранці пролунав дзвінок у двері. На порозі стояла вона. Ганна Степанівна. Заплакана, з тремтячими руками, з пакетиком цукерок — «до чаю».
— Олесю, — ледве доносився її голос, — повернися до Івана… Він зовсім не той. Звільнився з роботи. Почав пити. Каже, що не хоче жити…
Я спершу навіть не зрозуміла, що відбувається. А потім розсміялася.
— Ви ж цього хотіли, пам’ятаєте? Аби ми розлучилися. Щоб я зникла з його життя. Тепер насолоджуйтесь суспільством свого сина. Він тепер тільки ваш. Ви ж так старалися.
Я захлопнула двері. Не тому, що зла. А тому що боляче.
Відтоді вона пише мені майже щодня. Благає. Каже, що не знала, як добре я вміла тримати Івана в тонусі, що я була чудовою дружиною, господинею і взагалі «світлою людиною». І я читаю її повідомлення, і не вірю. Це ж та сама жінка, яка три роки методично руйнувала моє життя?
Я не повернуся до Івана. Я не можу повернутися туди, де мене так довго ламали. Навіть якщо він зміниться, навіть якщо зрозуміє — я вже не та Олеся. Я більше не живу очікуванням чиєїсь любові. Я більше не шукаю схвалення. Я просто хочу спокою. Тиші. Радості. Без вічних докорів і візитів із пустим поглядом.
Нехай тепер Ганна Степанівна тішиться своєю перемогою. Адже вона її здобула. Тільки з таким результатом, якого сама собі не бажала. Нехай думає. Якщо ще вміє…
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