З життя
Через два місяці після втрати чоловіка, на порозі Тетяни з’явилась загадкова жінка.
Після смерті чоловіка Тетяни минуло всього два місяці, коли на її порозі з’явилася красива жінка років п’ятдесяти.
-Доброго дня, – усміхаючись, привіталася гостя. – Ви вдова відомого професора Соколовського?
– Так, – кивнула Тетяна. – Я його вдова. А ви хто?
– Я?.. – Гостя загадково усміхнулася. – Я Анна. Анечка, як мене колись називав ваш покійний чоловік. І у мене до вас дуже серйозна розмова. Ви мене запросите до дому?
– Так-так, звичайно, – розчинила ширше двері Тетяна, натягнуто усміхнувшись, а в серці її щось тривожно защеміло. – Проходьте… Анечка… Тоді вже і ви мене називайте просто Тетяною, і без по батькові.
– Добре, – безтурботно відповіла жінка. – Тетяна… Я давно хотіла вас побачити. Чесно кажучи, я вас такою і уявляла. Типова дружина професора, котра все життя слугує чоловікові. Чи не так?
Господиня на таке колюче зауваження промовчала, але вона відчула ще більшу тривогу в серці.
– Сідайте, будь ласка. – Тетяна вказала на одне з крісел, коли вони опинилися у вітальні. – Чи правильно розумію, ви колишня коханка мого чоловіка?
– Як швидко здогадалися. – Гостя гордо усміхнулася. – Але я не просто його коханка. І про це трохи пізніше. Отже, ви, все-таки, підозрювали, що у Марка була ще якась жінка?
– Ні! – різко відповіла господиня. – Але якщо Марк називав вас не просто Анною, а… Анечкою… Ви ж не просто так мені про це сказали, правда?
– Ну так… Не просто так. Справа в тому, Тетяно, що у нас із Марком є спільна донька.
– Донька? – Господиня завмерла, і лише тоді повільно опустилася в інше крісло. – Дивно…
– Чому дивно? – безтурботно засміялася Анна. – Теоретично, у кожного одруженого чоловіка може народитися дитина від іншої жінки. Хіба не так?
– Так, звісно, може, – сумно зітхнула Тетяна. – Але річ у тому, що у нас з Марком дітей немає. І знаєте чому? Через його безпліддя. І це можуть підтвердити численні медичні довідки. Вам їх показати, чи на слово повірите?
– Ну так, ну так… – знову засміялася гостя. – Я чула від Марка такі ж слова, коли повідомила йому про вагітність. Тому він мені й не повірив, і ми навіть посварилися через це, а потім і розійшлися. Але як би то не було, я від нього народила, і це тепер легко підтвердить аналіз ДНК. Нам з донькою потрібен тільки біоматеріал для аналізу. І ми його знайдемо. А коли знайдемо і зробимо аналіз, тоді ви зрозумієте, що тепер моя дитина – єдина спадкоємиця вашого чоловіка. Раз у вас з ним дітей не було.
– Але це ж абсурд, – нервово знизала плечима Тетяна. – Як ви могли народити від безплідного чоловіка?
– Мабуть, сталося диво? – нахабно заусміхалася Анна. – Кажуть, раз у житті і палиця стрілить.
– Скільки вашій дівчинці років?
– Вже вісімнадцять.
– О, вона вже зовсім доросла. Чому ж вона не прийшла сюди разом з вами?
– По-перше, ми живемо в іншому місті. – Анна сміливо дивилася в очі господині, насолоджуючись своєю безцеремонністю. – А по-друге, навіщо ж я відразу буду втягути дитину в судові справи, не поговоривши попередньо з вами з очей на очі. Вона поки взагалі не знає, хто її батько.
– Дивно. – На обличчі Тетяни з’явилася недовірлива усмішка. – Ви приходите до мене одна, заявляєте, що ваша донька – це дочка мого чоловіка, і хочете, щоб я вам повірила на слово? Невже я схожа на дурепу?
Обличчя гості миттєво змінилося й стало напруженим.
– Я прийшла попередити вас, що у вашого чоловіка є гіпотетична спадкоємиця, яка дуже скоро стане спадкоємицею законною. Ви повинні знати, що половина цієї квартири, і частина всього вашого майна належить моїй дитині. Як тільки буде документально доведено, що моя Марія – дочка Марка, ми – через суд – почнемо ділити майно. Тільки тому я тут, щоб ви були готові.
– Ну що ж… – Таня раптом посміхнулася. – Дуже добре. Навіть, я би сказала – прекрасно.
– Чого? – На обличчі гості з’явилося здивування. – Чому прекрасно?
– Бо ви навіть не уявляєте, як я рада такому повороту подій. Може, вас прислав до мене навіть сам Бог. І знаєте, якби у вас були вже зараз аналізи ДНК, я б вас навіть розцілувала! Я готова просто зараз погодитися, що дівчинка, про яку я сьогодні вперше почула, дійсно є дочкою мого чоловіка.
– І чому ви цьому раді? – Анна трішки розгубилася. – Вас що, нічого не бентежить?
– Звичайно, мене багато що бентежить, але… – Тетяна піднялася з крісла і схвильовано почала ходити по кімнаті назад-уперед. – Зараз я вам теж дещо розповім, щоб і ви були готові. Поки Марк угасав від хвороби, – а ми ж боролися за його життя три довгих роки, – ми назбирали на його ім’я гору кредитів. Мені банки кредити давати відмовлялися, адже я ніде ніколи не працювала. А у Марка була чудова кредитна історія. У нього ж була дуже велика зарплата. Дуже великі гроші… Але тепер… Ви знаєте, що ця квартира й досі знаходиться в іпотеці, яку ми давно – щойно Марк захворів – перестали погашати. І тепер її забирає банк. І взагалі, я ледве кінці з кінцями зводжу. Я продала все, що можна було продати, але… – Тетяна знову усміхнулася. – Але тепер, наскільки я знаю, за законом спадкоємиця Марка успадкує не тільки майно, але й усі борги покійного. Тому те, що ви сьогодні тут з’явилися – це таке щастя!
– Зачекайте! – Анна напружилася. – Як це може бути? Адже ваш чоловік – знаменитий у всьому світі професор… Ви хочете сказати, що на ньому висять якісь зобов’язання перед банком?
– Не перед одним банком, а одразу перед п’ятьма! Так! Ми з ним винні величезні суми! Майже п’ятдесят мільйонів з копійками… Я ж кажу, ми боролися за його життя, робили дорогі операції, купували ліки, які коштують мільйони. Але, на жаль… Ми програли… Коли відберуть цю квартиру, залишиться ще майже тридцять мільйонів боргу. Тому благаю вас – поспішайте провести аналізи. Я можу вам надати речі Марка, на яких може бути біологічний матеріал. Мені не терпиться відмовитися від усіх цих пригнічуючих боргів на вашу користь. У мене є друзі-адвокати, які з радістю мені допоможуть.
– Зачекайте-зачекайте! – Анна підскочила з крісла. – Але чому я досі нічого не знаю про його борги? І про його хворобу я теж не знала!
– А ви, коли останній раз спілкувалися з ним?
– Ну… – Анна зробила невдоволене обличчя. – Востаннє ми говорили по телефону, мабуть, років десять тому. Я ж кажу, ми з донькою живемо в іншому місті.
– Ах, ви в іншому місті… І вже десять років… Ну, звісно, тому ви нічого й не знали. Скажіть, а яка ваша прізвище? І ще мені хотілося б знати вашу адресу та номери телефонів. Телефон вашої доньки, і ваш особистий.
– Навіщо?
– Я повідомлю всі ці дані колекторській службі, яка мене вже замучила. Хай тепер вимагатимуть борги у вас та вашої доньки.
– З якої раді?!
– Як з якої? Ваша донька – гіпотетична спадкоємиця, яка скоро стане спадкоємицею законною. Ви самі мені це сказали. Я ж відмовляюся від спадщини мого чоловіка на користь його дочки. Зрештою, по венах вашої Марії тече кров Марка – так буде чесніше!
– Ні! – несподівано закричала Анна. – Цього не може бути!
– Що не може бути?
– Мабуть, я все-таки помилилася. Ваш чоловік мав рацію, це не його дочка. Я зараз згадала! У той час я зустрічалася ще з однією людиною… Взагалі, прощавайте! Забудьте про цю розмову і про нас із донькою. І взагалі, вашого чоловіка я бачила всього один раз, випадково. Він читав лекцію в нашому університеті.
Анна швидко направилася в прихожую, і через декілька секунд вже грюкнула вхідними дверима.
– Ну от… – Тетяна беззвучно засміялася. – Ще одна гіпотетична спадкоємиця відпала. І скільки ж вас ще буде в моєму житті? Хто наступний? Треба все-таки попросити знайомих журналістів написати десь в пресі про мій – нібито жахливий – стан. Щоб мені не доводилося брехати.
For Two Years, Maria Was Just the Carer for Her Mother-in-Law Maria Managed to Marry a Very Distinguished Gentleman: All Her Friends Were Jealous. Her Husband Owned His Own Business, a Gated Luxury Home, Several Cars and a Cottage in the Countryside, All by Thirty-Two. Maria, Having Just Graduated and Worked as a Teacher for a Year, Married Him That Summer. After the Wedding, Her Husband Said There Was No Need for His Wife to Work for Peanuts. He Asked Her to Stay Home and Prepare for Children, and Maria Did Not Object. The First Year of Marriage Felt Like a Fairy Tale: Maria and Her Husband Travelled, Creating Memories and Buying Expensive Things. Yet Maria Had Nowhere to Wear Her New Clothes—Her Friends Were Busy Working and Spending Weekends With Their Families. Her Husband Often Partied Without Ever Inviting Maria. Maria Was Bored. Unable to Have Children, Her Feelings for Her Husband Faded. After Finishing Her Household Tasks, She Roamed Room to Room, Wondering About Her Future. A Year Passed. Her Husband Was Rarely Home, Often Returning in the Evenings, Exhausted and Irritable, Claiming His Business Was Struggling. First, He Told His Wife to Spend Less. Then He Demanded She Account for Every Purchase and Expense, Calculating and Insisting They Could Live Just as Well for Half the Amount. Maria Grew Worried. She Wanted to Work, But Couldn’t Find a Teaching Position. She Decided to Enrol on a Course, But Then Her Mother-in-Law Fell Ill, and Maria Had to Take Care of Her for Two Years. Her Husband Moved His Mother In. Maria Did Everything, Caring for the Sick. Her Husband Came Home Even Less. When Her Mother-in-Law Passed Away, Her Husband Grew Even More Distant—Barely Speaking to Maria, Withdrawn, Spending Most of His Time at Work and Seldom Returning Home. Maria Couldn’t Understand What Had Happened Until She Visited Her Mother-in-Law’s Old Flat, Where She Hadn’t Been for Ages. Behind Closed Doors, She Heard a Child Crying. Surprised, Maria Rang the Bell. A Young Woman Opened the Door—Maria Learned Her Husband Had Started a Second Family Before His Mother’s Illness, and Then Installed Them in His Mother’s Flat. For Maria, It Was a Shock. She Realised She Couldn’t Save Her Marriage. She Left for Another City, to Her Aunt, Practically With Nothing but a Small Bag—Not Wanting Anything Reminding Her of Her Marriage or How Badly Her Life Had Turned Out…
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You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” Andrew said, turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke and trembled so convincingly that Ksenia instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when you’ve been betrayed, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left a scar I’ll never get over. I truly believed I wouldn’t survive it…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for a long time—about the wife who never appreciated him, about the pain that wouldn’t let go, about how terrified he was to start over. Every word settled in Ksenia’s heart like a warm pebble, and she already imagined she’d be the woman to restore his faith in love. Together, they would heal his wounds. He’d finally see that real happiness was possible—with her. It wasn’t until their second date, between dessert and coffee, that Andrew mentioned Maxim… “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mother, but spends every weekend with me. The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. The third was brought home after he missed her birthday because he stayed out with his mates (or simply forgot…) “Andrew, I don’t need expensive presents,” she tried to keep her voice gentle, choosing every word. “But sometimes, I’d just like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “Money, it’s always about money with you, isn’t it? Presents, presents. Does love mean anything to you? All I’ve been through, and you complain?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I’ve done for you, you still find something to whinge about.” Ksenia fell silent. She always did—it was just easier that way. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend everything was fine. Strangely, Andrew always managed to find money for nights out with friends. Pubs, watching the football, café meetups every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t turn a living, breathing person into the hired help. Ksenia walked through the London evening—and, for the first time in ages, breathing came easy. She vowed to herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she rescue those who only trade on pity. Always, from now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.
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