З життя
Чужа родина
Не своя родина
— Мам, що це за листа ти весь час ховаєш?
— Та це з села, від дідуся, — махнула вона рукою й взялася за приготування вечері.
— А у нас є дідусь? Ти ж казала, що по твоїй лінії нікого вже немає.
Мама на мить зупинилася різати овочі, а потім продовжила з подвійною швидкістю.
— Ну є… і що? Багато років тому я поїхала з дому, тоді він не був потрібен, а тепер маю все кинути й летіти на порятунок.
Вона заплакала, а я не знав, що сказати. У нашій родині було не прийнято говорити про її рідню, я лише знав, що мама приїхала до міста відразу після школи, працювала, навчалася, жила в гуртожитку, тоді з’явився на світ я, а батько нас покинув ще до мого народження.
У мами залишилася образа на рідних. А мені й запитати не було в кого, що ж сталося тоді, багато років тому.
Увечері, коли мама заснула, я тихенько забрав листа з її кімнати і прочитав, почерк був красивий, дрібний, явно не належав старій, хворій людині. Писали, що дідусь зовсім зліг, йому потрібен добрий догляд та дорогі ліки. Просили, якщо можливо, маму забути старі образи і свою гордість, адже йшлося про життя людини.
Підпису не було. Я поглянув на адресу. Це село було зовсім недалеко від нашого міста, у подруги була дача за кілька кілометрів від нього. Мурашки по тілу… я часто їздив до неї в гості, а поруч жив дідусь, ну як же так, чому мама так з нами вчинила…
На наступний день, як завжди, вранці зібрався в університет, лише взяв із собою ще гроші та сумку з речами й вирушив на авто вокзал.
Вийшовши з автобуса, я вдихнув на повні груди чисте, прозоре, як сльоза, сільське повітря, йти довелося недовго, старий похилений будинок стояв за кілька метрів від зупинки. Відчинивши хвіртку, я увійшов у двір.
— А ви до кого? — почув я чийсь голос, глянув просто під яблунею, розташувалася жінка років сорока, перебираючи свіжі гриби.
— Я до Семена Андрійовича, це мій дідусь.
— А, значить Шурчини дочка, — усміхнулася вона — отже, здрастуй! Заходь у дім, я чай поставлю, дідусь заснув після обіду. Йому трохи полегшало.
У будинку було затишно і пахло пирогами. Поки жінка поралась на кухні, я міг трохи її роздивитися. Дивовижно, як вона була схожа на маму, той самий вираз очей, чорне, як смола, волосся, навіть вимова була схожа. Я перевів погляд на портрет на стіні, це була стара вицвіла фотографія, де були зображені усміхнений чоловік і жінка з двома маленькими дівчатками дуже схожими одна на одну.
Зловивши мій погляд, жінка сказала:
— Це ми з твоєю мамою та наші батьки. Я — Софія, її сестра і твоя тітка, — усміхнулася вона.
— Дуже приємно. Чому я про вас жодного разу не чув. Мама вперто твердить, що у нас немає рідні.
Вона зітхнула, сіла за стіл і почала наливати чай у чашки.
— На нас твоя мати ображена. Я народилася слабкою, часто хворіла, наша мама не вилазила з лікарень, батько, звісно, працював день і ніч, щоб нас прогодувати, та оплатити лікування. Шура спочатку жила з бабусею, а потім частенько тато залишав її у сусідки. Зрозуміло, практично вся батьківська увага приділялася мені. З ранку вона вбила собі в голову, що її ніхто не любить і нічого вона не варта, навіть коли все, здається, налагодилося. Отримавши атестат, Шура поїхала до міста, більше ми її не бачили…
Вона зітхнула і додала.
— Ти пий чай, з дороги, напевно, голодна, зараз мої набіжать усе, зметуть. Двоє дітей у мене – Оленка та Льоня, сама виховую, давно вже питали, чи є у нас рідня, отже, зрадіють…
Того вечора я познайомився з дідусем і двоюрідними братом із сестрою. Мене дуже радо зустріли, а я нарешті зрозумів, що воно таке, коли говорять про велику і дружню родину, зібрану за одним столом. Я пробув у гостях ще кілька днів, купив усі необхідні ліки.
Кілька разів дзвонила мама і просила негайно їхати додому, але я не міг залишити діда, а тітка фізично не встигала працювати та доглядати батька.
— Он злетиш із бюджету, хто буде твою освіту оплачувати? — кричала в слухавку мама — я для тебе все зробила, ночами не спала, виховувала, а де ти зараз? З людьми, які й пальцем не вдарили, щоб щось для нас зробити.
— Мамо, ти про що? Ти ж навіть адресу свою не повідомляла п’ятнадцять років… чужі, рідні… Він у першу чергу мій дід. А вже події минулого давно пора забути… Йому потрібен догляд, турбота. Раз ти не їдеш, з ним буду я. До речі, у тебе чудова сестра і племінники. Дурно ти так, мамо…
Вона кидала слухавку, злилася, збирала дзвінок знову, але наші розмови ні до чого не приводили.
Через тиждень я повернувся до міста, треба було продовжувати навчання, адже в мене був випускний курс, а серце моє не було на місці.
Гроші, які вдавалося заробити, клеячи оголошення та кілька годин репетиторства на тиждень, я відсилав у село. Але це, звісно, були сущі дурниці…
Відносини з мамою нагадували натягнуті струни, як то вона навіть умудрилася сховати мій паспорт, щоб я залишився у місті на святкові вихідні, замість поїздки до села.
Так промайнув рік, у метушні, клопотах і постійних сварках і скандалах.
Отримавши на руки диплом, я тут же зібрав речі і поїхав.
У селі тітка попросила для мене роботу в школі, життя пішло своєю чергою. Дідусь уже вставав на ноги й здійснював невеликі прогулянки по саду, він був мені дуже радий. Але очі залишалися сумними, він чекав на дочку…
Вересень наповнив моє життя метушнею і приємними клопотами, мені дали першокласників, я їх так полюбила, що щодня бігла на роботу, ніби на свято. А тут краєм ока почала помічати, що мені симпатизує наш учитель історії, теж недавній випускник міського вузу, і що його теж у село занесло, міркувалося мені, зазвичай, усі в місто рвуться. А тут…
— Анютко, ти б не списувала Льошу з рахунків, — шепотіла іноді тітка — хлопець хороший, руки з того місця ростуть, он який будинок звів. А те, що в місті не залишився, так бабуся у нього тут, одна, ось і живуть.
Згодом Льоша запросив мене на побачення, так і закрутилася наш роман. Він став частим гостем у нашому домі, дідусь схвалив мій вибір, а коли Льоша зробив мені пропозицію — благословив нас.
Весілля було призначене на кінець квітня, я заздалегідь повідомила мамі про це листом. Відповіді не надійшло, мені було дуже прикро, що в такий важливий день її не буде поруч зі мною…
Напередодні дня весілля, коли ми з тіткою і двома моїми подругами готувалися на кухні до майбутнього торжества, у двері стиха постукали…
Я кинулася відчиняти. На порозі стояла мама. Побачивши мене, вона заплакала.
— Я… я зовсім ненадовго, от привітати тебе приїхала…
Я запросила її увійти, але вона не зважилася зробити і кроку. Тут з кухні підбігла тітка, почувши наші голоси, вийшов дідусь.
Він обійняв дочку, вони ще довго простояли, витираючи одне одному сльози. Дідусь щось говорив мамі пошепки, а вона плакала…
Ось уже багато років я живу в селі, у мене велика й дружна родина, підростають діти, я як і раніше проводжу уроки в початкових класах, а найголовніше нарешті я знайшов рідних людей, яких колись мати вважала чужими. Мама нікуди не поїхала, нарешті вона помирилася з батьком і сестрою, а те, що було в минулому, нехай там і залишиться.
He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together, Fifteen Mornings Waking Up Side by Side—But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Drive Him Mad, Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” What Seemed a Simple Phrase, Her Slim Arms, Her Sleepy Face, Now Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Walk Past the Window, Gaze Out for a While, Then Slip off Her Nightdress and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Marriage, He’d Adored Her Body, Its Natural Confidence That Seemed Almost Indecent—But Now, Though She Was Still Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Considered Pushing Her to Hurry Her Morning Routine but Only Managed a Gruff: “Get a Move On—I’ve Had Enough!” She Refused to Rush or Let His Affectionless Hostility Change Her Pace—She Knew About His Affair, Even Recognized the Young Woman He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Dulles the Sharp Sting of Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sense of Uselessness. She Forgave Him—the Aggression, the Neglect, His Need to Relive His Youth—But She Wouldn’t Let Him Rob Her of Living Mindfully, Cherishing Each Moment. She’d Made Up Her Mind When She Learned She Was Ill. The Disease Was Slowly Consuming Her; It Would Win Soon. Her First Urge Was to Confess to Everyone—To Lessen the Brutal Truth by Sharing the Burden with Loved Ones. Yet She Endured the Hardest Day Alone, Accepting Her Fate, and Then Resolved to Remain Silent. Life Slipped Away, Yet Each Day She Gained the Wisdom of a True Observer. She Found Solace in a Quiet English Countryside Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Each Way. Every Day, She’d Hide in the Narrow Aisles Marked “Life & Death’s Secrets” by the Elderly Librarian and Lose Herself in Books She Hoped Contained Every Answer. He’d Go to His Lover’s Flat, Where Everything Felt Warm, Bright, Familiar. Their Love Affair Had Grown Wild—Three Years of Passion, Jealousy, Heartache, and Asphyxiating Desire. Today He Came With a Decision: Divorce. Why Torment All Three of Them? He Didn’t Love His Wife—No, He Hated Her—and Here, He Could Start Fresh, Find Happiness. He Tried to Recall His Feelings for His Wife, but There Was Nothing—He Couldn’t Even Remember Caring for Her on That First Day. He Pulled Out a Photo of Her from His Wallet, Tore It Into Pieces—Determined to End It. They Arranged to Meet at the Restaurant Where, Six Months Earlier, They’d Celebrated Fifteen Years as Husband and Wife. She Arrived First. He Stopped Home to Find the Divorce Papers, Ransacking Drawers in a Panic Until He Spotted a Dark Blue Folder He’d Never Seen Before. He Ripped Off the Seal, Expecting Dirty Secrets—But Found Only Medical Reports, Official Documents. His Wife’s Name on Every Page. Realisation Struck Like Lightning; She Was Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis: “6–18 Months Life Expectancy.” Six Months Had Already Passed. He Remembered Little of What Happened Next—Only the Words “6–18 Months” Looping Relentlessly in His Mind. She Waited for Forty Minutes. No Answer from His Phone. She Paid the Bill and Went Outside. The Autumn Weather Was Glorious—The Sun Gentle, Comforting. “Life Is Beautiful, the World So Wonderful, So Warm.” For the First Time Since Her Diagnosis, She Felt Sorry for Herself. She’d Found the Strength to Hide Her Secret from Everyone, Sparing Them the Pain at the Cost of Her Own Crumbling Life. After This Year, She Would Be Nothing but a Memory. She Wandered Down the Street, Watching Bright Faces Filled With Hope Of Winters and Springs Yet to Come—As If the Future Were Theirs To Shape. She Would Never Know That Feeling Again. Bitterness Swelled and Burst Forth as Tears She Couldn’t Stop… He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt The Swift Passage of Life as a Physical Ache. He Remembered His Wife Young, Full of Hope When They First Met—He’d Loved Her Then. In That Moment, Fifteen Years Vanished: Happiness, Youth, and Life Still Ahead. In Her Final Weeks, He Became Devoted, At Her Side Every Hour, Overcome by a Joy He’d Never Known. He Was Terrified She’d Leave—He Would Have Given His Own Life to Save Hers. Had Someone Reminded Him Of His Hatred Just a Month Ago, He’d Have Sworn: “That Wasn’t Me.” He Witnessed Her Battle to Say Goodbye, Weeping Secretly at Night When She Thought He Slept—He Understood No Punishment Was Worse Than Knowing Your Days Are Numbered. He Saw Her Fight for Every Moment, Grasping Even the Smallest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Path from Home to Cemetery in Flowers. He Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered—He Felt Centuries Older. At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found a New Year’s Wish She Had Written: “To Be Happy With Him Until My Last Day.” They Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True—Perhaps They Do, For That Year He Wrote: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, It Seemed, They Had Wished For…
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