З життя
Мама запитує: “Ти чекаєш на дитину?
— Марічко, ти чекаєш на дитину? — запитала мама.
Як вона могла здогадатися?! Я ж лише вранці сама про це дізналася!
А використаний тест ніяк не міг їй потрапити на очі, навіть випадково — я одразу ж викинула його у смітник, а сміття винесла на вулицю.
— Звідки ти знаєш?
— Знаю… Ти ж моя донька! — відповіла мама.
Я не зовсім зрозуміла, що вона хотіла цим сказати, та й не намагалася зрозуміти — не до того було. У той момент мені хотілося лише одного: заснути і прокинутися… п’ять місяців тому, ще до знайомства із Ігорем. Як шкода, що не можна взяти та повернути час назад!
— Ти розійшлася з Ігорем?
І знову мама потрапила в яблучко.
Два тижні тому коханий призначив мені зустріч у кав’ярні. Я думала — звичайне побачення, а виявилося — прощання. «Вибач, Марічко, але… Взагалі, дякую тобі за все… І, будь ласка, не телефонуй більше. Зробиш боляче і собі, і мені, але все одно нічого не зміниш… Та й взагалі… собаці гуманніше відрубати хвіст одразу, одним махом!» Після цих слів він встав і пішов, а я сиділа і думала, що дійсно схожа на собаку, якій відрубали хвіст — мою любов. Від того, що гуманий Ігор зробив це одним махом, не було легше…
А тепер ще й ця нікому не потрібна вагітність…
— Так, мамо, ми розійшлися, — голос зрадницьки затремтів. — Тільки, будь ласка, нічого не говори. Я і так знаю, що ти скажеш. Мовляв, я тебе попереджала, а ти не послухалася… Так, ти мене попереджала, що Ігор — егоїст і ловелас, а я не послухалася. Задоволена?
— Як я можу бути задоволеною, якщо моїй донечці погано? — сказала мама і погладила мене по голові, як у дитинстві. — Коли тобі народжувати?
— Ніколи. Я не хочу дитину!
— Марічко, дівчинко моя рідна… Коли не стало твого батька, я була у такому стані… Вижила лише завдяки тобі. Коли мене не стане, вона… — мама знову погладила мене, цього разу не по голові, а по плоскому животу, — стане твоїм ліками від відчаю…
Я була так занурена у свої біди, що не звернула уваги на фразу «коли мене не стане». Зачепилася лише за слово «вона».
— Звідки ти знаєш, що буде дівчинка, а не хлопчик?
— Знаю… — знову не стала вдаватися в деталі мама. І додала прохально. — Народи її, Марічко. І пам’ятай: що б не сталося, моя душа завжди буде поряд з тобою.
Ввечері 6 травня швидка забрала мене до пологового будинку із переймами, 7-го ранку я народила дівчинку, а вдень прийшла сусідка тітка Люба з жахливою новиною: моя мама померла. Вона, відправивши мене до пологового, викликала швидку і собі, а за кілька годин тітці Любі зателефонував лікар із лікарні і повідомив, що…
— Вона залишила ваш номер телефону. Обширний інфаркт. Ми нічого не змогли зробити.
Похорон пам’ятаю смутно — ними в основному займалася тітка Люба та інші сусіди. Тільки через кілька тижнів, перебираючи документи, виявила, що у довідці з пологового і свідоцтві про смерть стоїть не лише однакова дата, а й час — 6:30.
Світланка народилася в ту саму хвилину, коли померла мама… Містика?
Чи може це бути простим збігом? Тут же згадалися мамині слова: «Коли мене не стане…» Але ж вона ніколи не скаржилася на серце! Невже у мами був дар передбачення і вона передчувала свою близьку смерть?
Маленька Світланочка стала моїм порятунком і ліками від відчаю. Коли донечці було три з половиною рочки, я вперше взяла її з собою на кладовище.
— Ми прийшли провідати бабусю Свєту… — пояснила я донечці. — Ці квіточки ми принесли для неї. Давай поставимо їх сюди, в баночку…
Дівчинка здивовано розглядалася навколо, а потім покликала:
— Бабусю, ти де? Заховалася?
— Бабуся не заховалася, просто вона тепер живе на небі. Говорити з нами вона не може, зате…
— Може нас бачити, так? — закінчила Світланка за мене фразу.
— Так. Бачити і захищати…
Коли ми йшли, донечка закинула голову і помахала хмарі, що плинула у височині:
— Бабусю, не нудьгуй, ми ще до тебе прийдемо!
Зараз моїй маленькій вже сім, і для мене немає людини ріднішої і улюбленішої, ніж вона. До речі, всі знайомі в один голос стверджують, що моя Світланочка — вилита бабуся. Я і сама охоче визнаю їхню зовнішню схожість, але останнім часом стала помічати, що у донечки є… дар передбачення. Скільки разів вона правильно пророкувала погоду, прихід гостей або зникнення якоїсь речі. А вчора раптом зовсім вразила:
— Скоро у мене з’явиться тато… — і додала після невеликої паузи:
— Не бійся, бабусі він сподобається…
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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