З життя
Я все ще твій син, мамо: невідправлене послання
Я все ще твій син, мамо: лист, якого я не зміг не написати
Мамо, ти, мабуть, інколи сидиш на кухні сама, перебираючи старі листівки з вітаннями, де всі радіють моїй появі на світ. Де посміхаються люди, чиїх облич уже давно немає поруч. Ти зберігаєш мої дитячі плішечки, мій перший молочний зуб, пасмо світлого волосся — ніби намагаєшся повернути той час, коли я був зовсім крихітним. Жоден альбом не здатний оживити минуле. Але ти все одно бережеш його — як найцінніший скарб. Позаду я — твій син.
Я виріс. Мені за тридцять, у мене дружина, робота, квартира у Києві та обов’язків — на ціле життя. Але знаєш, мамо? Я все рівно твій. Той самий хлопчик, що приходив додому з обдертими колінами, з двікою з математики, з мокрими від сліз щоками. Ти тоді не розпитувала — просто обіймала. І я знав: завтра, може, і доведеться відповідати за помилки, але сьогодні — мене просто люблять. Без умов.
Хотілося б, щоб ти знала — я все той самий. Просто тепер ношу костюм, плачу за комуналку й надто рідко дзвоню. Не через забуття. Через сором бути втомленим, слабким, недосконалим. Та коли особливо важко, я повертаюся думками в наш будинок у Львові, де пахне медовиком, а твій голос додає: «Головне — ти вдома, решта налагодиться».
Пам’ятаєш, як у шостому класі дістала з шафи сіре пальто в коричневу клітку? Воно було «на виріст», і ти тішилася, що тепер якраз. А я влаштував істерику, бо вважав, що виглядаю смішно. Зараз у мене таке саме пальто — лише від известного бренду, обране стилістом, коштує воно, мабуть, як тоді вся наша меблівка. Але в ньому я — все той хлопчик. Твій.
Наше дитинство, мамо, — не просто спогади. Це мій фундамент. Те, що робить мене собою. А ти — єдина, хто пройшов усю цю путь поруч. Лише ти знаєш, як я гарячкував уночі, як боявся темряви, як ховався під столом, коли помер наш пес Барсік. Ти — єдина, хто прожив усе разом зі мною. Тому я й досі твій син.
Інколи я так виснажений, мамо… Світ вимагає бути найкращим: працювати більше, заробляти більше, встигати все. Трохи розслабишся — втратиш клієнтів, повагу, себе. А вдома… вдома тепер мушу бути ідеальним: чоловіком, батьком, опорою. І лише одне місце дозволяє мені бути просто людиною. Твій поріг.
Ти не докоряєш, не питаєш: «Чому не справляєшся?» Ти просто ставиш чайник, кладеш руку на плече й кажеш: «Передихни…» Це єдине місце, де можна не грати роль. Де можна бути собою. Слабким. І це значить — я все ще твій син.
У цьому світі так мало певності, мамо. Все хитке: бізнес-партнери зрадять, друзі віддаляться, дружина втомиться, діти виростуть. Але ти — як кріпкий дуб, на якому тримається моє життя. Ти — єдина, чию любов я ніколи не сумнівався. Навіть коли кричав, хлопав дверима, мовчав тижнями.
Твоя любов — не бонусна картка, не обіцянка, не угода. Вона — як світло у вікні. Воно просто є. Воно витримало час і мій характер. Вистояло все. І це — найвірніша опора, яку я коли-небудь мав.
Мамо, я кохаю одну жінку. Вона — моя дружина, Олена. Ти спочатку не розуміла її, питала: «Що спільного у вас?» Але знаєш? Вона схожа на тебе. Зберігає перші малюнки наших дітей, записує їхні смішні слова у зошит, гріє нас своєю добротою. Вона чекає наших дітей такими, як ти чекала мене: подряпаними, із поганими оцінками, у сльозах — але своїми. Без умов.
Дивлюся на неї — і менше боюся майбутнього. Згадую тебе — і менше боюся себе. Бо я виріс у любові, а тепер передаю її далі. І в цьому — весь сенс.
Мамо, дякую. За кожен збережений панчішок, за безсонні ночі, за кожне «нічого, впораємось». За те, що, незважаючи ні на що… я все ще твій син. І залишусь ним назавжди.
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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.
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