З життя
Я більше не можу впоратися з сином, хочу передати його батькові
Віддати сина колишньому чоловікові? Мій хлопчик став некерованим, а я більше не справляюся.
Моєму синові 12 років. Якби десять років тому хтось передбачив, що я подумаю про те, щоб віддати свою дитину його батькові, я б лише посміялася цьому пророкові в обличчя. Але зараз я стою на краю прірви, задихаючись від немочі, і відчуваю, як життя витікає з мене крапля за краплею. Я тону, і ніхто не кидає мені рятівний круг.
Мій син, Артем, став для мене чужим. Він сперечається зі мною з будь-якого приводу, б’ється у школі, приносить додому чужі речі, а потім нахабно заявляє, що це не крадіжка, а просто «взяв пограти». Телефон розривається від дзвінків — то вчитель, то класний керівник, то батьки однокласників. Щоразу ця розмова як удар під дих, і кожен день – як мінування поля.
Ми з чоловіком розлучилися давно. Моя мама живе у сусідньому дворі, у нашому містечку під Львовом, але від неї жодної допомоги. Лише докори та “мудрі” поради, від яких хочеться кричати. Ввечері вона заходить на півгодини, засипаючи мене критикою, і йде, залишаючи по собі гіркий осад. Тож Артем — повністю на мені. Я кричала, плакала, погрожувала, відбирала кишенькові гроші — все марно. Він дивиться на мене зухвалими очима, усміхаючись, ніби знає, що я безсила, що всі мої слова — пустий звук.
Недавно стався черговий вибух. Я знайшла у його рюкзаку чужий смартфон — дорогий, зразу видно, не з дешевих.
— Артеме, звідки це? — запитала я, впившись поглядом, в якому змішалися гнів і відчай.
— Знайшов, — кинув він, навіть не моргнувши.
— Де знайшов?
— На лавці.
— На якій лавці, чорт забери?! Відповідай нормально, маленький бандите! — зірвалася я. — Ти розумієш, що це чуже? Ти вкрав!
— Не вкрав, взяв, — спокійно відповів він.
— І що ти збирався з ним робити?
— Нічого, — знизав плечима. — Просто подивитися хотів.
Я задихнулася від ярості, всередині все закипало, ніби лава.
— Ти хоч розумієш, що так не можна? Це не твоє! Завтра підеш до школи і повернеш!
Він глянув на мене з викликом, від якого в мене затремтіли руки.
— Не піду.
— Що значить “не піду”?! Не смій тут свої правила встановлювати! — закричала я, втрачаючи контроль.
— Не піду, і все.
Я не витримала — сльози потекли рікою, а він просто рушив до своєї кімнати, наче нічого й не сталося, наче мої сльози — це дріб’язок, не варті його уваги.
Наступного дня я зателефонувала його батькові, Сергію. Голос тремтів, але я виклала все:
— Це про Артема. Я більше не справляюся. Він став чужим, краде, хамить. Можливо, забереш його до себе? Йому потрібен чоловічий приклад. Я боюся, що ми втратимо його, і він виросте злочинцем.
Сергій замовк. Потім видав тяжкий видих.
— Ти ж знаєш, мені зараз не до того. Працюю допізна, немає часу його виховувати.
— А думаєш, у мене є час?! — вибухнула я. — Я одна! Мама тільки звинувачує мене, що я його упустила. Ти зайнятий, я зайнята — хтось допоможе мені?!
— Але ж ти мати… — почав він.
— А ти батько! — перебила я. — Такий же самий батько, як я!
Він протягнув щось про «подумати» і поклав слухавку. А ввечері прийшла мама. Я вирішила розповісти їй про свій план, і це був жах.
— Лена, ти що, з розуму зійшла?! — закричала вона, ледве я відкрила рот. — Віддати сина батькові? Як тобі таке в голову прийшло?
— Мам, я не справляюся. Я одна, у мене немає сил.
— Не справляєшся? Народила — виховуй! Де це видано, щоб мати від дитини відмовлялася?
— А ти хоч раз допомогла? Лише язиком мелеш! — зірвалася я. — Я все тягну на собі — чоловіка нема, тебе нема, подруг нема! Одна, завжди одна!
Вона пішла, грюкнувши дверима, а я залишилася на кухні, дивлячись у порожнечу. Можливо, я насправді погана матір? Можливо, це я винна, що Артем став таким — зухвалим, чужим, загубленим? Але потім я думаю: я ж людина, не залізна. Я втомилася бути і матір’ю, і батьком, втомилася тримати на плечах цей непосильний тягар. Так, я мати, але Сергій — батько, і чому я повинна відповідати за нас двох?
З того дня Артем майже не виходить зі своєї кімнати, мовчить, уникає мене. А я сиджу, дивлюся на телефон і чекаю дзвінка від Сергія. Вирішила: якщо він не відгукнеться найближчими днями, наберу сама. Можливо, погодиться взяти сина? Чи мені все-таки шукати сили в собі? Я не знаю, що робити. Я хочу врятувати свого хлопчика, але відчуваю, що сама тону, і ніхто не протягне мені руку. Що робити?
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew admitted, fidgeting with his empty espresso cup. His voice cracked and wavered so convincingly that Kate found herself leaning closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, you lose a part of yourself. She left me with wounds I thought would never heal… I honestly didn’t think I’d survive.” Andrew’s stories poured out for a long time: about his wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t let go, the fear of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm little stone. She imagined herself as the woman who could restore his faith in love—how they’d heal his scars together, how he’d realize true happiness was possible with her by his side. He first mentioned Max on their second date, casually dropped in between dessert and coffee… — “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but stays with me every weekend. The court said so.” — “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She started daydreaming: Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, TV evenings together. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She could become a second mum—not a replacement, but someone close, someone family… — “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Andrew watched her with a crooked smile she mistook for wariness at the time. “A lot of women run when they hear about a kid.” — “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Her first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his absolute favourite, as Andrew had tipped her off. Patiently, she helped him through his maths homework. She washed his dinosaur T-shirt, pressed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine sharp. — “You should have a rest,” she told Andrew after he’d sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this covered.” Andrew nodded—or so it seemed then, gratefully. But now she realized it was the nod of a man taking his due. Time marched on. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out by eight, home after seven. Decent salary by London standards—enough for two. But there were three. — “Hold-up on site again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a hurricane, “Client’s pulled out. But there’s a big contract coming, I promise.” The “big contract” hovered on the horizon for a year and a half, sometimes getting closer, mostly never arriving. But the bills always came—rent, utilities, internet, groceries, child support for Marina, new trainers for Max, school contributions. Kate paid all of them, quietly. She skimped on lunches, brought in tupperware pasta, walked home in the rain to save on cabs. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—did her own nails and tried not to remember the luxury of professional treatments. Three years, and Andrew had given her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each bouquet—cheap roses from the convenience kiosk near their tube stop, droopy and with snapped-off thorns. Probably on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second came after an argument about a friend who visited unannounced. The third, when he missed her birthday because he lingered with mates—simply forgot. — “Andrew, I don’t want expensive gifts,” she tried to keep her voice gentle. “Just… sometimes I’d like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face contorted instantly. — “So it’s all about money for you, is it? Presents? Don’t you care about love? Or what I’ve been through?” — “That’s not what—” — “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After all I do for you, you still complain.” She fell silent. She always did—it made things easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Yet, for mates’ nights, Andrew always found cash. Pubs, football at the local, café Thursdays. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, flop onto the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She convinced herself this was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change, surely. She just had to be even more attentive, love even harder—after all, look at what he’d suffered… Talk of marriage became a minefield. — “We’re happy as we are, why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew waved the question away like a pesky fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” — “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” — “Now you’re pressuring me—always pressuring!” He stormed off, ending the conversation. Kate longed for children of her own. She was twenty-eight, the ticking biological clock growing louder each month. But Andrew wasn’t interested in a second round of fatherhood—he had a son, and that was enough for him. Then came that Saturday—she asked for just one day. One day. — “The girls are inviting me over. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as though she’d announced she was emigrating. — “And Max?” — “He’s your son, Andrew. Spend the day with him.” — “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I’m expecting to relax?” She blinked. In three years she’d never left them alone. Never asked for a day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, tutored homework, washed, ironed—while holding a full-time job. — “I just want to see my friends. It’s only a few hours… And he’s your son. Can’t you spend a day with him on your own?” — “You’re supposed to love my child as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to make demands?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food. Three years supporting a man who yelled at her for wanting to spend a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—twisted face, throbbing temples, fists clenched—and saw him for the first time. Not as a wounded soul, not a helpless victim in need of rescue, but an adult who had learned to expertly exploit kindness. Kate, to him, was not a beloved partner, not a future wife. She was a walking wallet and a live-in maid. That was all. When Andrew left to drop Max back to Marina, Kate took out her suitcase. Her hands moved calmly, no shakes, no doubts. Passport. Mobile. Charger. A couple of shirts and jeans. The rest could be bought later. The rest didn’t matter. She left no note. What could she explain to a man who never valued her? The door closed behind her quietly, no fuss, no drama. The calls started within an hour—one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, endless trill that made her phone quiver. — “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! You’ve gone, there’s no dinner! Am I supposed to go hungry now? What the hell?!” She listened—his voice angry, demanding, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, as she’d left, Andrew thought only of himself. How inconvenient this was. Who would make his tea? No “sorry”. No “what happened”. Just “how dare you”. Kate blocked his number. Blocked him on Messenger. On every social platform—brick by brick, she built herself a wall. Three years. Three years with someone who never loved her. Who used her empathy as a disposable resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But that’s not love. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t reduce someone to a servant. Kate walked through the twilight streets of London and for the first time in ages, she could breathe. She vowed she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again give herself away to those who prey on pity. And always, always choose herself. Just herself.
I never thought Id be able to trust anyone again after my divorce, Andrew was turning an empty espresso cup...
My Ex-Husband’s Son from His New Marriage Fell Ill – He Asked Me for Financial Help and I Refused!
Im 37 years old. Ive been divorced for a good ten years now. My ex-husband was unfaithful and I couldnt...
What You Really Want Isn’t a Wife, But a Live-In Housekeeper
You dont need a wife, you need a housekeeper. Mum, Mollys chewed my pencil again! Sophie shot into the kitchen,...
My Children Are Well Provided For, I Have a Bit Put By, and Soon I’ll Be Taking My Pension: The Story of My Friend Fred, the Beloved Local Mechanic, and the Family Who Couldn’t Let Him Rest
My kids are sorted, Ive got a bit tucked away, and soon enough, Ill be drawing my pension. A few...
I’m 45 and I No Longer Entertain Guests at Home: Why I Prefer Celebrating in Restaurants and Value My Comfort Over Hosting Unruly Visitors
I’m 45 years old now, and I no longer welcome guests into my home. Some people, when visiting, seem to...
Step by Step, We Brought Water and Finally Gas to Her Old Home—Then We Added All the Modern Conveniences. Later, I Found My Aunt’s House on a UK Property Website
Bit by bit, we managed to connect Aunt Catherine’s cottage to water, and eventually gas as well. After that, we...
“We’ll Be Staying With You For a While, Since We Can’t Afford to Rent Our Own Place!” – My Friend Announced Unexpectedly. At 65, I’m Still an Active Woman With a Love for Travel and Meeting New People, but an Old Friendship Took a Shocking Turn When Unexpected Guests Arrived at My Doorstep in the Middle of the Night, Refused to Leave, and Left With My Belongings!
Were going to stay at yours for a while, because we cant afford to rent our own flat! my friend...
“I Had to Buy My Own Fridge So Mum Wouldn’t Take My Groceries – Anna’s Unusual Solution to Family Conflict Over Flat Ownership, Money, and Sharing”
I had to get myself a separate fridge, says Charlotte. It sounds ridiculous, but there was no other choice. I...