З життя
Я ніколи не кохав свою дружину і відверто їй казав: проблема не в ній, ми жили мирно
На ім’я я Андрій Ворон, проживаю в місті Чернігів, де Сіверщина зберігає свою історію та сірі будні сучасності. Ніколи не відчував любові до своєї дружини, Ганни, і не раз викидав це їй в обличчя, як гірку правду. Вона не заслуговувала на це — ніколи не влаштовувала сцен, не дорікала, завжди була ніжною, турботливою, майже святою. Але моя душа залишалася холодною, як крига на Десні взимку. Любові не було — і це гризло мене зсередини.
Кожного ранку я прокидався з однією думкою: піти. Я мріяв знайти жінку, яка запалить у мені вогонь, з якою я зможу дихати. Але доля зіграла зі мною жорстокий жарт, перевернувши все з ніг на голову так, що я до сих пір не можу отямитися. З Ганною мені було зручно, як у старому кріслі. Вона вела господарство ідеально, виглядала так, що перехожі оберталися, а друзі плескали мене по плечу: «Де ти таку знайшов, щасливчик?» Я й сам не розумів, чим заслужив її відданість. Звичайний чоловік, нічим непримітний, а вона любила мене, наче я був для неї всім світом. Як таке можливо?
Її любов душила мене. Ще гіршою була думка: якщо я піду, її забере інший. Хтось успішніший, красивіший, багатший — хтось, хто оцінить те, чого я не помічав. Коли я уявляв її у чужих обіймах, розум затуманювався від люті. Вона моя — навіть якщо я ніколи її не любив. Це відчуття власності було сильнішим за мене, сильнішим за здоровий глузд. Але чи можна все життя прожити з тією, до котрої серце мовчить? Я думав, що зможу, але помилявся — всередині мене зріла буря, яку я не міг стримати.
«Завтра скажу їй все», — вирішив я, лягаючи спати. Вранці за сніданком зібрав рештки сміливості. «Ганно, сядь, нам треба поговорити», — почав я, дивлячись у її спокійні очі. «Звісно, дорогий, що сталося?» — відповіла вона з традиційною м’якістю. «Уяви, що ми розлучаємося. Я йду, живемо окремо…» Вона розсміялася, ніби я жартував: «Що за дивні фантазії? Це гра?» «Слухай далі, я серйозно», — перервав я її. «Добре, уявила. І що?» — запитала вона, все ще з усмішкою. «Скажи чесно: знайдеш собі іншого, якщо я піду?» Вона застигла. «Андрію, що з тобою? Чому ти взагалі про це думаєш?» — в її голосі з’явилася тривога. «Бо я не люблю тебе і ніколи не любив», — випалив я, наче удар.
Ганна поблідла. «Що? Ти жартуєш? Я нічого не розумію». «Я хочу піти, але думка, що ти будеш з кимось, зводить мене з розуму», — мій голос дрижав від напруження. Вона помовчала, а потім тихо, з якоюсь сумною мудрістю сказала: «Кращого за тебе я не знайду, не хвилюйся. Піди, я залишусь одна». «Обіцяєш?» — вирвалося у мене. «Звичайно», — кивнула вона, дивлячись мені в очі. «Почекай, але куди мені іти?» — розгубився я. «В тебе немає місця?» — здивувалася вона. «Ні, ми ж все життя разом. Певно, мені доведеться залишитися поруч», — пробуркотів я, відчуваючи, як земля йде з-під ніг. «Не хвилюйся, — відповіла Ганна. — Після розлучення розміняємо квартиру на дві менші». «Серйозно? Я не очікував, що ти так мені допоможеш. Чому?» — запитав я, приголомшений. «Бо люблю тебе. Коли любиш, не тримаєш насильно», — її слова прозвучали як вирок.
Минуло кілька місяців. Ми розлучились. А потім до мене дійшли чутки: Ганна збрехала. Вона знайшла іншого — високого, впевненого, з доброю усмішкою. Квартиру, яка дісталася їй від бабусі, вона і не думала ділити. Я залишився ні з чим — ні дому, ні родини, ні віри в людей. Обман виявився як удар в спину, і я досі чую її голос: «Я залишусь одна». Брехня. Холодна, розрахована брехня, а я повірив, як дурень.
Як тепер довіряти жінкам? Я не знаю. Моє життя з нею було зручним, але порожнім, а тепер і цього немає. Я сиджу у знімній кімнаті, дивлячись у стіну, і прокручую ту розмову. Її спокій, її слова — все виявилось маскою. Друзі кажуть: «Ти сам винен, Андрію, чого чекав?» І вони праві. Я не любив її, але хотів тримати поряд, як річ. А вона пішла, залишивши мене в самотності, якої я так боявся. Можливо, це моя розплата — за холодність, за егоїзм, за те, що не цінував її серця. Тепер я один, і тиша навколо ріже сильніше її відходу. Що ви думаєте про мій вчинок? Я сам не знаю, хто тут більший дурень — я чи вона.
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
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