З життя
Я не обирала роль мачухи — це не було моєю життям чи вибором
“Я не підписувалася бути мачухою — це не було моє життя, не мій вибір.”
Коли я зустріла Олега, він одразу був чесним: троє дітей від першого шлюбу, аліменти, подарунки на кожне свято, плани купити кожному квартиру. Мені було двадцять сім, йому — тридцять сім. Я знала, на що йду. До того ж, мене влаштовувало, що він не тиснутиме на тему дітей — я завжди була серед тих, хто свідомо не хоче ставати батьками. Чайлдфрі — це був мій вибір. Вільне життя, подорожі, робота, свій час.
Спочатку все було непогано. Олег знімав великий будинок під Києвом, заробляв добре. Діти — чемні, виховані, приїжджали на вихідні, залишалися ночувати. Я знаходила з ними спільну мову, ми дивилися фільми, готували щось смачне, вони ставилися до мене з повагою. Загалом, роль «приємної тітоньки на вихідні» мене цілком влаштовувала. Ніхто нікому не заважав.
Так минуло два роки. А потім… усе пішло шкереберть. Старшому сину виповнилося чотирнадцять, він посварився з матір’ю і буквально втік до нас. Олег, як завжди, пропадав на роботі з ранку до ночі, а я залишилася наодинці з бунтівним підлітком. Вічні хлопання дверима, навушники на повну, грубі відповіді. У моєму домі з’явилася чужа дитина, яка поводилася так, ніби я для неї просто повітря — і мала рацію, адже я справді була для нього ніким.
Минуло три місяці — і колишня дружина Олега «тимчасово» відправила до нас і молодших дітей. Мовляв, переїжджає до Львова, там нова посада, трохи облаштується — і одразу забере дітей. Але «тимчасово» перетворилося на рік. Діти досі з нами. Ні дзвінків, ні натяків, що мати збирається їх повернути.
Тепер у моєму домі живуть троє чужих дітей. Старший ігнорує мене, робить усе навпаки, ніби я — його покоївка. Середній не впорається з навчанням, кожен вечір доводиться сидіти з ним над уроками. Молодший — найспокійніший, але його треба возити на гуртки, секції, олімпіади. І все це — на мені.
Я не підписувала контракт на таке життя. Я не хочу бути нянькою, репетиторкою, водієм і кухарем в одній особі. Мені немає коли працювати. Я фрілансер, у мене були постійні клієнти, замовлення, стабільний дохід. Зараз — тиша. Люди просто перестали чекати, адже я завжди при дітях. Дні минають у біганині, побутових клопотах. А де ж я в усьому цьому?
Я намагалася поговорити з Олегом. Спокійно, по-дорослому. Він киває, але відповідає одне й те саме: “Це мої діти, я не можу їх вигнати”. І додає: “Ти ж розумієш, вони ж ні в чому не винні…” Так, не винні. Але й я — не винна. Я не народжувала цих дітей. Я не обіцяла бути їм матір’ю. Я не готова жертвувати своїм життям заради чиїхось помилок.
Останніми тижнями я ловлю себе на думці, що виходу немає. Лише розлучення. Лише свобода. Я втомилася бути заручницею чужої родини, чужих помилок, чужих дітей. Я не зла. Я просто людина, яка хоче жити своїм життям, а не нав’язаним кимось. І якщо він цього не розуміє — значить, ми з самого початку говорили різними мовами.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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