З життя
«Кем ты стал для меня? — спустя тридцать лет отец вернулся и тут же оказался в больнице»
**2 октября**
Сегодня произошло то, чего я никак не ожидал. Вернулся с работы, заехал во двор нашей хрущёвки в спальном районе Нижнего Новгорода. Поставил «Жигули», открыл багажник, достал два тяжеленных пакета с продуктами и пошёл к подъезду. Только собрался набрать код — как вдруг слышу:
— Лёша? Это ты?..
Обернулся. На лавочке сидел старик — небритый, в потрёпанной куртке, с седой бородёнкой и помутневшим взглядом. На вид — бродяга. Я нахмурился.
— Простите, мы знакомы?
— Лёшенька… Я же Виктор. Отец твой. Неужели не узнал?
Как обухом по голове. Отец. Тот самый, который бросил нас с матерью почти тридцать лет назад, когда мне было всего восемь. И вот теперь сидит, будто ничего и не было.
— Адрес твой от Лидии узнал, подруги покойной матери твоей… Она сказала, что Наталья умерла. А я не знал. Не знал ничего. Господи, как же она страдала, а я…
— Где ты был? — перебил я, сжимая кулаки. — Где ты был, когда мама по ночам рыдала? Когда я ей чай заваривал, потому что ты снова «загулял»? Когда ты поднял на нас руку?! Ты забыл? А я — нет.
— Сынок, ну что уж вспоминать… С Таней потом тоже не сладко было. Сначала весело — пили, гуляли, она радовалась, что я от вас ушёл. А потом… деньги, ссоры. Детей у нас не было. А её дочь потом меня на улицу выставила. И всё. Теперь я — никто. А помнишь, как я тебя на каруселях катал? Как мороженое покупал?..
— Серьёзно? Думаешь, шарик эскимо всё искупит? Забыл, как ты из шкафа последние деньги забрал перед уходом? Как маме в лицо плюнул, когда к «новой жизни» уходил?! Забыл?! А я — нет!
Резко развернулся, зашёл в подъезд. Руки дрожали. Дома встретила жена — Света.
— Что с тобой? Бледный, как смерть…
— Отец. Появился. Сидел у подъезда — грязный, оборванный. Говорит, никого у него нет, просит помощи. Тридцать лет не было, а теперь вспомнил, что сын существует!
— Может, всё же поговоришь?..
— Он мне чужой! Ни капли жалости!
Света промолчала. Я ушёл в комнату, но уснуть не мог. В голове — детские крики, мамины слёзы, тот вечер, когда отец выволок чемодан и хлопнул дверью…
Через три дня он снова сидел у подъезда. Сгорбленный, жалкий.
— Сынок… Я всё понимаю. Но ты теперь человек, семья… Может, хотя бы поесть дашь?..
— А где ты был, когда мне на ботинки не хватало?! Где ты был, когда мама с воспалением лёгких слегла?! Мне тогда никто не помог. И тебе я ничего не должен. Уходи!
Отец опустил голову, не сказал больше ни слова.
Наутро в дверь постучали. Медсестра.
— Вы Алексей? Ваш отец в больнице. Его избили, на улице поругался с кем-то. Он вас просил передать… Больше родных у него нет.
— И что? Я ему не сын. Он мне никто.
— Но… он говорил, что у него есть сын, которого любит… Извините.
И уже уходя:
— Вторая городская, третье отделение…
Света слышала.
— Лёш… Давай сходим? Хотя бы посмотрим…
Через час мы были там. Взяли еду, чистую одежду. Врач покачал головой:
— Состояние тяжёлое. Печень. Запущенный цирроз. Осталось немного…
В палате отец поднял на меня глаза — и они стали мокрыми.
— Пришёл… Я знал. Это Света? Невестка моя… А внуки есть? Хоть раз увидеть…
Через пару дней пришли с дочкой. Старик смотрел на неё, как на чудо. Глаза сияли.
— Боже… Вылитая бабушка. Красавица… Живи счастливо, внученька…
А на четвёртый день позвал меня.
— Прости, сынок… За всё. За то, что не любил. За то, что маму загубил. Прости…
Я взял его руку. Крепко. Молча. Это было единственное «прощаю».
Через неделю его не стало. Сам организовал похороны. Похоронил рядом с мамой. Кроме нас, никто не пришёл. Но впервые за много лет на душе стало тихо.
Я ничего не был должен. Но сделал то, что должен был — по-человечески.
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“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
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