З життя
Чоловік залишив дружину прямо в пологовому будинку.
Микола покинув свою дружину Оксану, коли вона лежала в пологовому будинку. Дізнавшись, що дитина народиться з інвалідністю, він пішов з сім’ї, а через багато років вирішив повернутися та вимагати гроші.
Лікар сказав Оксані: – Ваш син ніколи не зможе ходити. Це ще добре, що він залишився живим при такій родовій травмі. Оксана міцно пригорнула сина до грудей і промовила: – Це мій син, і я завжди буду поруч із ним, чого б мені це не коштувало… а наш тато нам допоможе.
Коли Оксана сказала Миколі, що син не зможе ходити, той трохи розгубився, а потім, отямившись, сказав:
– А як же я з ним буду грати у футбол? Як у майстерні будемо працювати? Та й взагалі, навіщо такий син, який буде немічний.
Микола вирішив запитати поради у своєї старшої сестри. Оксана, звісно, не очікувала, що Олена зможе таке сказати. Адже вона здавалась їй мудрою жінкою. А Олена сказала наступне:
– Навіщо вам ця дитина, справжня обуза в житті. Ви ще молоді й зможете народити здорових дітей, і будете щасливо жити.
– Та це, дружина проти, вона не хоче від нього відмовлятися. Вчепилася в нього й не відпускає, – пробурмотав Микола.
– Так а ти не будь тряпкою та нюнею. Візьми і постав їй умови, щоб вона вибрала або тебе, або свого сина інваліда. І якщо вона не дурень, то вибере тебе, адже хвора дитина їй не по кишені.
Наблизився час виписки. На зустріч до Оксани та сина прийшли її мама й подруги. Чоловік так і не з’явився, ніби крізь землю провалився. Він сам подав на розлучення і платив копійки аліментів.
Оксана за фахом юристка, змогла влаштуватися й проводити консультації вдома. Вона допомагала таким же мамам, які залишились без чоловіків, але зі своїми дітьми. Через рік жінка змогла відкрити свою юридичну практику й зарекомендувала себе як висококваліфікований спеціаліст. Вона створила клуб для сімей, де є діти з інвалідністю, щоб люди спілкувалися між собою і давали одне одному поради. Всією спільнотою їм вдалося домогтися для своїх дітей безкоштовного відвідування басейну, театральних вистав. У дітей щастя світилися в очах, а батьки плакали. Батьки зрозуміли, що дітям можна показувати світ, а не сидіти цілими днями в квартирі.
Оксана робила все можливе для свого сина, аби він усміхався і тішив її своїм гарним настроєм. Часто вони літали на море, відпочивали. Оксана відвідала всіх лікарів, лише от син так і не встав на ноги, але болі зменшились. Максим почав займатися бальними танцями на візках. Хлопець був досить розумним, навіть на дистанційному навчанні в школі зміг бути відмінником. Після школи він вступив в університет на програмування, оскільки ця спеціальність була йому дуже близька.
Після отримання диплома Максим влаштувався на високооплачувану роботу і став заробляти більше, ніж мама. Він завжди дарував їй подарунки, які замовляв через інтернет. Оксана усміхалася, і сльози мимоволі текли по її щоках. Було дуже приємно, що в неї такий турботливий син. Максим виріс добрим і щедрим. А також він почав вести блог, який розкрутив усього за кілька тижнів, і став популярним блогером.
У своїх відео він розповідає про життя людей з інвалідністю, яких не варто занепадати, а навпаки, продовжувати жити, незважаючи ні на що. Він був настільки оптимістичним, що не кожен би зміг.
Якось днями у Оксани задзвонив телефон. Вона взяла слухавку і почула голос колишнього чоловіка. Він сказав:
– Мені показали Максима, що він зараз відомий блогер, і натякнули, скільки він може заробляти. Потрібно зустрітися та поговорити.
Оксана і Микола домовилися зустрітися в кафе неподалік від дому. Микола був здивований тим, що дружина перетворилася на красуню, а син Максим, насправді, виріс великим і сміливим молодцем. Оксана відразу вирішила перебити колишнього чоловіка і запитала:
– Давай ближче до справи? Чого прийшов? Що тобі потрібно? Адже весь цей час ти навіть жодного разу не з’являвся і не питав про сина, а тут на тобі, прийшов.
– Ти ж яка гарна стала. На дорогій машині приїхала. Багато живете. А ось у мене є синочок, братик Максима. Він потрапив у біду, сів п’яним за кермо і збив молоду дівчину на пішохідному переході. Тепер йому загрожує серйозний термін. А якщо заплатимо за збиток, то можуть дати умовний термін.
Оксана не могла повірити, що колишній чоловік буде просити у неї грошей. Вона була шокована. Подивившись на нього, сказав:
– Отже, ти залишив мене з дитиною з інвалідністю на руках. Навіть жодного разу не подзвонив і не з’явився, щоб дізнатися, як я і син почуваємося, можливо, в чомусь потребуємо. Зате ти виховав сина, який дозволив собі сісти п’яним за кермо, ледь не вбив і не залишив калікою людину. І в тебе вистачає нахабства просити в мене грошей?
– У вас цих грошей кури не клюють. Тобі шкода чи що? Адже це брат Максима. Ось ви всі багатії такі, скупі на гроші.
– Знаєш що, забудь мій номер і більше не дзвони й не приходь. Знати тебе не хочу.
Тепер Микола почав писати Максиму на пошту і тиснути на жалість, щоб той дав грошей.
Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. Suddenly, I wanted everything at once: to cry, to laugh, to eat. Not far from our block is a small shopping centre. The owner of a children’s shop there, after some confusion over sizes, even offered to come with me to Anna’s flat. I don’t know if she wanted the business, having seen I’d buy a lot, or was just moved by my mission. An hour later, four huge bags of clothes for the kids stood in Anna’s hallway. I bought bedding, food, vitamins, even toys. I wanted to buy everything—I finally felt needed. It’s been 10 days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Anna is quite the crafty homemaker—my flat feels cosier already. I’ve started calling my parents. I even text ‘KINDNESS’ to children’s charity fundraisers. I can’t believe how I lived before. Every day after work I hurry home, because I know someone’s waiting. And this spring, we’re all heading up to Newcastle together—tickets have already been bought.
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DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
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