З життя
«Мы с дочерью в слезах: спустя двадцать лет брака муж бросил меня СМСкой»
**Дневник.**
С Алисой сидели на кухне, прижавшись друг к другу, оба в слезах. Молчали. Горько, обидно, несправедливо — всё смешалось в комок, который стоял в горле. Меня бросил муж после двадцати лет, а её — парень, с которым они встречались почти год. Разница лишь в возрасте: мне сорок, ей девятнадцать. Но предательство — оно на всех одно.
Он даже лицо мне не показал. Не сказал ничего, не нашёл слов. Просто отправил СМС: «Давай разведёмся. Встречаю другую». Вот так. Без объяснений. Без «спасибо» за годы, за дочь, за то, что терпела его невнимание, его вечные отговорки. А Алисиному Сашке и того меньше понадобилось — написал в «ВКонтакте»: «Всё, между нами кончено», и исчез.
Через три часа он приехал. Без эмоций, как будто за документами. Молча сложил вещи в сумки, даже не взглянул в мою сторону. Только когда Алиса вышла из комнаты, он на секунду замер, но тут же отвернулся. Дверь захлопнулась.
У её Сашки было ещё проще. Пока мы были в «Пятёрочке», он забрал свои кроссовки и свитер, даже носки не забыл. Исчез. Первые дни мы просто плакали. Потом пришло оцепенение. А потом — злость.
— Мам, давай поменяем замок? — вдруг предложила Алиса.
Кивнула. Поменяли. Собрали всё, что напоминало о них: футболки, подарки, даже рамку с фотографией со свадьбы — в чёрный пакет и на помойку. Его дрель и перфоратор продали за тысячу рублей. Лишнюю посуду отдали тёте Люде с пятого этажа. Заделали трещину в ванной, купили герань на подоконник. Стали жить вдвоём. Без криков. Без раздражения.
— Мам, возьмём кота? — спросила Алиса как-то вечером.
— А как же аллергия отца?
— Тем лучше, что он свалил.
Взяли. Рыжего, наглого, с взглядом, будто он всех нас тут перехитрил. Стал нашим антидепрессантом.
Я подала на развод. Бывший даже выписался из квартиры, только чтобы не делить машину. А через неделю уже выложил фото с новой «любовью» — девицей, которая всего на четыре года старше Алисы.
Но я не сломалась. Записалась в «Фитнес Хаус». Подстриглась под каре. Взяла подработку — начальник даже премию дал. Алиса снова смеётся. Через полгода пошла на свидание. Мы жили.
И всё бы хорошо, если б однажды вечером он не постучал в дверь. Стоял с чемоданом и глупой ухмылкой.
— Она меня кинула, — бубнил. — Я хочу домой.
— У нас для тебя дома нет, — сказала я, не пуская.
Алиса подошла, сжала мою руку.
— Мам, не надо.
Я закрыла дверь. А он снаружи орал:
— Это ты во всём виновата! Ты холодная! Ты…
А я думала: двадцать лет — и даже лицом к лицу сказать не смог, что уходит? А теперь я виновата, что не взяла обратно?
А вокруг все ждали, что я сдамся.
— Одна не потянешь, — вздыхала мама.
— Да ладно, ошибся, — уговаривала свекровь.
— В сорок лет новых не найдёшь, — шептала сестра.
Даже коллеги качали головами:
— Ну вернулся же… Ну с кем не бывает…
Но нет. Не бывает. Потому что есть вещи, которые не прощают. Не из-за злости. А потому что себя уважаешь.
— Ты готова выкинуть двадцать лет из-за одной ошибки? — орал он потом в трубку.
— Готова — из-за твоей трусости, — ответила я. — Уйти мог как мужчина, а сбежал как трус. И вернулся, только потому что не сложилось. Это не любовь. Это страх одиночества.
Теперь я знаю: ни один брошенный муж не отменяет твоей ценности.
А мы с Алисой — живём. В тишине. В покое. С котом. И с новым замком на двери.
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