З життя
«Чому знову кричить твоя дочка? — запитала жінка, яка називає себе бабусею»
— Твоя дитина знову репетує?! — це були слова жінки, яка себе називає бабусею.
— Чому вона знову кричить?! — кинула мені свекруха з таким зневажливим виглядом, ніби я принесла в дім чужу дитину, а не її рідну онуку.
— Вона хвора, температура, — спробувала пояснити я, ледве дихаючи від втоми.
— Мені байдуже! Хай не верещить! У мене голова тріскається! — випалила вона навіть не глянувши у бік дитячої, де моя маленька Соломія гарячковато хлипала, лежачи на зім’ятій простирадлі.
Я метушилася по квартирі, як білка в колесі. Дитина стогнала, все тіло боліло, я шукала жарознижуюче, механічно перевіряла воду у пляшці, завішувала штори, щоб сонце не сліпило… Потім увімкнула проектор нічного неба — це єдине, що її хоч трохи заспокоювало. Вона дивилася на мерехтливі зірки на стелі і на секунду припиняла плакати, а я в цю мить мчала на кухню — варити кашку, готувати відвар, перевіряти підгузник. Все і відразу. І все — сама.
А свекруха… Вона сиділа у кріслі, розвалившись, у сукні з принтом під зміїну шкіру, ніби справжня королева у власних очах. Стонала, що в неї «голова розривається», вимагала тиші і докоряла мені, що я «не можу заспокоїти свою дитину».
— Слухай сюди, — прошипіла вона, коли я знову пройшла повз, — скоро ти вилетиш з цього дому. Зі своєю скиглячою дитиною. У мого сина були дівчата в сто разів кращі. Він не для цього одружився — щоб жити в божевільні! Сім’я йому швидко набридне, я впевнена!
І знаєте що… Йди ти. Просто йди. Але я не сказала цього вголос. Я стиснула зуби і побігла до дитячої, бо моя маленька знову плакала — від гарячки, від болю, від того, що окрім мене її ніхто не пригорне. Я знову вкрила її ковдрою, поцілувала в гарячий лобик, притиснула до грудей.
А потім знову на кухню. І знову — крізь її отруйні слова:
— У хороших матерів діти не верещать!
— Та твоя дурненька просто розпещена!
— Такі жінки, як ти — ганьба!
— Моєму синові потрібна нормальна дружина, а не це…
А де був мій чоловік? Він завжди «зайнятий». Він не помічає, що його матір отруює мені життя. Він каже: «Не звертай уваги, вона просто в літах». А те, що я падаю від втоми, що в мене тремтять руки, що дитина хвора, а я залишаюся з цим пеклом сама — йому, здається, все одно.
Я не знаю, що буде завтра. Не знаю, скільки ще витримаю в цьому домі, де нас із донькою ненавидять. Але я знаю одне — більше не дозволю нікому принижувати мою дитину. Я готова піти. Готова боротися. Я вже не просто дружина і невістка. Я — мати. А це значить, що я сильніша, ніж вони думають.
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