З життя
Эхо предательства: история любви и прощения
Зоя копала грядки у дома, когда подошла соседка Марфа. Та будто невзначай бросила:
— Зоя, а твой Мишка что, дома не ужинает? Он, между прочим, у Елены Сергеевны за столом сидит…
Зоя замерла. Руки опустились.
— Марфа, ты что мелешь?!
— А то, что сама видела, — злорадно прищурилась та. — Вчера шла к учительнице — сына спросить. Гляжу в окно, а там твой Михаил с ней за столом, будто семья. Постучала — он под стол как мышь нырнул.
— Врёшь. Выдумала всё, — Зоя махнула рукой, но спина уже холодела.
— Да на кой мне врать? Не веришь — как хочешь. Только потом не жалуйся.
Зоя будто и не поверила, но камень на сердце остался. Тем более, Миша в последнее время от еды отказывается. Третий день приходит с работы: «Устал, есть не буду». Ни борща, ни тефтелей.
Вечером, когда муж рано заснул, Зоя ворочалась без сна. Смотрела на его лицо в лунном свете и гнала мысли прочь. «Не может быть. Не может…»
На следующий день Миша не вернулся. Ужин остыл. Зоя, не выдержав, накинула платок и побежала к дому Елены Сергеевны.
У калитки она замерла. Тишина. Свет горел только в прихожей. Но что за куртка висит в коридоре? Похожа. Очень. И тут её осенило. Дочка Анюта недавно вышивала — и, гордясь, украсила отцовскую куртку ромашками. Зоя дрожащими руками вывернула подкладку. Маленькие цветочки впились в глаза, как нож. Сердце заколотилось. Ноги подкосились. Она села прямо на пол. Слёзы потекли сами.
Через минуту в коридор вышел Миша. Растрёпанный, виноватый.
— Зоя… ты не так поняла…
— А ты что, географию здесь учишь? Или у вас уроки до полуночи? — Зоя встала, и в голосе было больше горечи, чем злости. — Я-то, дура, верила, что ты устаёшь… А ты — с ней, за одним столом. И под стол прячешься, как таракан!
Миша бросился за ней, но она уже бежала через улицу.
— Зоя! Ну прости! Люди же видят!
— Пусть видят! Я не по чужим хатам шляюсь. Мне стыдиться нечего! Это тебе — и ей — должно быть стыдно!
Елена Сергеевна была в деревне на особом положении — городская, с манерами. Местные для неё не считались. Жила в коммуналке и мечтала вернуться в Москву. Пока не сломалась ступенька на крыльце. Она расплакалась на пороге. В этот момент проходил Миша. Помог, починил. А потом… остался на чай.
С этого и началось.
Сначала — магазинные печеньки. Потом — котлеты. Потом — долгие разговоры за столом. Елена не любила Мишу, но и одиночество тяготило. А он… Он гордился. Учительница! С ним чай пьёт!
Но теперь всё вылезло наружу.
Зоя рыдала в подушку. Девятилетняя Аня и шестилетняя Катя приползли к ней и тоже заплакали. Просто потому что мама плачет.
Развод? Да куда идти? Родителей нет. В деревне — одни пересуды. Работы — кот наплакал.
Миша винил себя. Не подходил к Зое несколько дней. Жил, как чужой. Сам варил, сам стирал. Пытался говорить, каялся, клялся — но Зоя была непреклонна.
— Иди к своей учительнице. Я тебе не пара.
— Зоя… ради детей…
— Не прикрывайся детьми! Не тебе теперь их вспоминать!
Прошло два месяца. Школа кончилась. Елена уехала. Собрала вещи и исчезла. А в доме Зои и Миши повисла мёртвая тишина.
Август. Последние дни лета. Девочки играли во дворе.
— Анька! Катька! — позвала Зоя из окна.
Девочки вбежали в дом. Мать протянула свёрток:
— Отнесите папе в поле поесть.
Аня с Катей помчались во весь дух. Трактор Миши стоял посреди нивы. Девочки замахали руками.
— Пап! Мама передала!
Миша вышел из кабины, будто очнулся.
— Мама?! Передала?! — переспросил он.
— Держи! — Аня протянула свёрток. — Там котлеты и хлеб.
Миша сел на землю, разложил еду, вдохнул запах свежего хлеба. Глаза затуманились.
— Па, ты что, плачешь?
— Нет, это пыль…
Вернувшись домой с полевыми цветами, Миша подошёл к Зое.
— Прости меня, Зоя. И спасибо.
— Да ладно. Не простила бы — не накормила бы, — Зоя впервые за долгое время улыбнулась.
Прошло девять месяцев. В семье родился Ваня. Крепкий, румяный, с папиными глазами.
А Миша? Миша больше ни разу не зашёл к чужим женщинам даже за спичками.
Теперь он знал точно: дом — это самое дорогое, что у него есть.
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