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Вернулась ко мне спустя год после развода: беременная и растерянная…

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Она ушла к другому после десяти лет брака. А через год стояла на моём пороге — беременная и сломленная…

Мы познакомились с моей женой, Дашей, почти двенадцать лет назад. Я тогда учился в архитектурном институте в Нижнем Новгороде, ютился в общаге. Даша приехала из глухого городка под Владимиром — робкая, одинокая, будто мышка в этом шумном муравейнике. Мы не сразу нашли общий язык. Я её сначала и не замечал — слишком уж тихо сидела в углу с учебниками.

Но время лечит стены, как штукатурка. Через пару месяцев мы разговорились: сначала робко, а потом за полночь не могли заткнуть друг друга. Она жаловалась на трудности, я делился планами. Вскоре нам дали семейную комнату — комендантша, видя, что мы серьёзны, пошла навстречу. Так и закрутилась наша жизнь.

Я всегда знал своё место. Хотел быть опорой, мужчиной, который не только дома строит, но и в них душу вкладывает. Сразу сказал Даше: «Тебе работать не надо. Женское дело — очаг беречь. Если мужик семью не потянет, так это и не мужик вовсе». Она не спорила. Стряпала, убирала, ждала с работы — жили душа в душу.

Дела пошли в гору. Устроился в строительную контору, дорос до прораба, потом открыл своё дело. Купили дом в Подмосковье, две машины — мне «Ладу», ей «Ниву». Жили, как в мечтах. Одно не клеилось — дети. Годы шли, а в доме тихо. Оббегали кучу врачей, тратили кучу рублей, но толку — ноль. Я виду не подавал, хоть сердце щемило. Она тоже молчала, но глаза выдавали пустоту. В итоге махнули рукой: раз судьба не даёт, значит, не надо.

А потом — бац, и всё рухнуло, как картонный домик под дождём.

Вернулся домой раньше — хотел пробку объехать. Во дворе нет «Нивы», ворота распахнуты. Странно. Ждал. Вечер тянулся, будто резиновый. И тут — СМС с левого номера:

«Прости. Не могу больше врать. У меня другой. Он возвращается, и я с ним. Обманула тебя, но… может, когда-нибудь поймёшь.»

Мир перекосило, будто после новогодней гулянки. Я сидел на полу в доме, который строил для семьи, а получил — для одного. Вытащил меня из этого болота только друг — Серёга, с которым на стройке рука об руку работали. Не дал пропасть.

Время лечит, хоть и хромает. Увидел Дашу в соцсетях — на фоне Кавказских гор. Понял: живёт где-то в Сочи. А выбросить её из головы не получалось. Каждый угол в доме орал её именем. Молился, чтоб вернулась. И, видимо, кто-то наверху услышал.

Ровно через год — снова звонок в дверь. Открываю… и ноги подкашиваются. На пороге — она. Худая, измученная, в потрёпанной одежде. И живот — огромный. Почти на смене.

Даша упала на колени, рыдала и умоляла простить. Тот самый «любовник» её выгнал — она ему изменила, он её бросил. Денег нет, жилья нет, надежды — тем более. И кроме меня, ей идти некуда.

Можно назвать меня дураком. Можно сказать, что надо было хлопнуть дверью. Но знаете что? Я не смог. Потому что всё это время продолжал любить. Потому что даже сквозь боль хотел видеть её рядом. Потому что если не простишь — сам себя потеряешь.

Прошло несколько лет. Теперь у нас сын — тот самый, о котором мы и мечтать перестали. Я люблю его, как родного, потому что он мой — не по крови, а по сердцу. И Дашу люблю, хотя в груди до сих пор осколки.

Ни разу не упрекнул. Не напомнил. Потому что настоящая любовь — это когда принимаешь человека не за что-то, а вопреки всему.

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