З життя
Мені 70 років: самотність і тягар для доньки
Мені сьогодні сімдесят. Самотня, як билинка в полі. Важка обуза для власної дитини.
— Донечко, приходь увечері… Благаю тебе, сама я не впораюся.
— Мамо, я завала роботою! Набридло вже слухати твої скарги. Гаразд, прийду…
Не витримала — заплакала. Боляче, до самого серця. А в голові миттєво спалахнули безсонні ночі, довгі роки, коли я сама тягнула все на собі, щоб виростити її, мою Оленку. Віддала їй все життя. Хіба це вдячність?
Мабуть, я сама винувата. Занадто пестила, забагато дозволяла. А коли їй було одинадцять, зустріла чоловіка… вперше за довгі роки відчула, що теж можу бути жінкою, коханою, бажаною. Та Оленка влаштувала такий скандал, що довелося розірвати ті стосунки, хоч серце розривалося.
Тепер мені сімдесят. І я сама. Зовсім сама. Купа хвороб, ледве пересуваюся. А моя єдина донька… двадцять років у шлюбі, і, схоже, їй простіше робити вигляд, ніби у неї немає матері. Так, у неї троє дітей — мої онуки. Але бачу їх лише на фото. Чому? Навіть не знаю…
— Ну що знову трапилося? — зі злості кинула Оленка, заходячи в хату.
— Мені призначили уколы. Ти ж медсестра, допоможеш…
— Що, я тепер щодня маю сюди товктися? Мамо, ти жартуєш?!
— Оленко, я не можу вийти — на дорозі ожеледиця…
— А платити мені будеш? Я ж не на волонтерстві!
— У мене немає грошей…
— Ну тоді бувай, мам. Шукай когось іншого.
Вранці вийшла з дому за дві години до прийому, щоб дійти до лікарні. Повільно йшла вздовж дороги, важко дихаючи і витираючи сльози. Ніколи не думала, що доживу до такого…
— Жінко, заходьте без черги… Вам погано? Чому плачете?
Це була молода дівчина з добрими очима. Зупинилася біля мене в коридорі, поклала руку на плече.
— Ні, голубко, я плачу зовсім з іншої причини…
Так ми й розбалакалися. Я, ніби на сповіді, вилила їй душу. Бо більше нікому було розказати. Її звали Ганна. Виявилося, що вона живе у двох будинках від мене. Після тієї зустрічі вона почала часто приходити, приносила продукти, допомагала по господарству.
А на день народження прийшла лише вона. Тільки Ганна.
— Я не могла не привітати вас у такий день. Ви дуже нагадуєте мені мою маму… Так тепло стає на душі поруч з вами, — сказала вона, обіймаючи мене.
І тоді я зрозуміла — вона стала мені ріднішою за власну доньку. Ми гуляли, їздили за місто, святкували разом. Вона піклувалася про мене, як про рідну.
Довго думала, та все ж вирішила — переписала хату на Ганну. Вона спершу навіть відмовлялася. Але я наполягла. Це була моя подяка за тепло, яке вона мені дарувала. Я знала — вона не з тих, що роблять добро заради вигоди.
Згодом вона забрала мене до себе — мені вже важко було жити самій. Мою хату ми продали. Щоб потім Оленка не судилася з Ганною, не влаштовувала скандалів.
І знаєте, донька згадала про мене лише через рік. Прийшла зі звинуваченнями та погрозами. Кричала, що я зрадниця, що бажає мені смерти. Мабуть, розраховувала на хату, а я її «розчарувала». Тоді чоловік Ганни встав біля дверей і тихо, але твердо промовив:
— Ідіть. І більше не повертайтесь. Вас тут не чекають.
Отак… Чужі люди виявилися ближчими, ніж рідна дитина. І боляче, і соромно, і страшно від того, як легко губиться людське. Але якби мені знову дали вибір — я б знову обрала Ганну. Бо вона — моя родина. Справжня.
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