З життя
Я не обирала роль мачухи — це не моє життя, не мій вибір
Щоденник
Ніколи не підписувалась бути мачухою — це не моє життя, не мій вибір.
Коли я зустріла Богдана, він одразу розкрив карти: троє дітей від першого шлюбу, аліменти, щедрі подарунки на кожне свято, плани купити кожному власну оселю. Мені було двадцять сім, йому — тридцять сім. Я розуміла, на що йду. Більше того, мене влаштовувало, що він не тиснутиме на тему дітей — я завжди знала, що не хочу бути матір’ю. Чайлдфрі — свідомий, чіткий вибір. Вільне життя, подорожі, кар’єра, свій час.
Спочатку все було добре. Богдан орендував просторий будинок під Києвом, заробляв чудово. Діти — чемні, виховані, приїжджали на вихідні, залишалися ночувати. Я знаходила з ними спільну мову, ми разом готували вареники, дивилися фільми, вони ставилися до мене з повагою. Одним словом, роль «приємної тітоньки по суботах» мене цілком влаштовувала.
Так минуло два роки. А потім… все пішло шкереберть. Старшому синові виповнилося чотирнадцять, він посварився з матір’ю та втечею прибіг до нас. Богдан, як завжди, пропадав на роботі, а я залишилася наодинці з цим бунтарем. Хлопання дверима, музика на всю гучність, грубість. В моєму домі з’явився чужий підліток, який поводився так, ніби я йому ніхто — і мав рацію, бо я й справді ніхто.
Минуло три місяці — і колишня дружина Богдана «тимчасово» привезла до нас молодших. Мовляв, переїжджає до Львова, нова посада, трохи облаштується — і одразу забере дітей. Але «тимчасово» перетворилося на рік. Ні дзвінків, ні натяків, що вона збирається повернути їх.
Тепер у мене вдома живуть троє чужих дітей. Старший ігнорує мене, робить усе навпаки, немов я його покоївка. Середній не встигає в школі — кожен вечір доводиться сидіти з ним над домашніми завданнями. Молодша — найспокійніша, але її треба возити на гуртки, олімпіади, спортивні секції. І все це — на мені.
Я не підписувала такого контракту. Я не хочу бути нянькою, репетиторкою, водієм і кухарем у одній особі. На роботу в мене немає часу. Я фрілансерка, колись були постійні замовлення, клієнти, прибуток. А тепер — тиша. Люди просто перестали чекати, адже я завжди з дітьми. Дні минають у біганині, побутових клопотах. А де ж я?
Я намагалася поговорити з Богданом. Спокійно, по-дорослому. Він киває, але повторює одне: «Це мої діти, я не можу вигнати їх на вулицю». І додає: «Ти ж розумієш, вони ж 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 все частіше думаю: немає виходу. 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.
***
Життя — не жертва. Коли тобі постійно доводиться виправдовувати чиїсь очікування, варто зупинитись і задуматися: чи твоє це?
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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