З життя
Мать четверых детей осталась абсолютно одна в зрелом возрасте
Материнство — великое счастье, но и великая ноша. Когда женщина становится матерью, она отдаёт всё без остатка: здоровье, годы, мечты… Но никто не знает, как отзовётся эта жертва в будущем. Будет ли рядом кто-то, когда придёт старость? Прижмутся ли к ней родные руки, когда тело начнёт слабеть? Или останется она одна, с пожелтевшими фотографиями да неутолимой болью, которой не вылечит никакое лекарство.
Ольга Петровна Морозова прожила жизнь, крутясь как белка в колесе. Трудолюбивая, тихая, она одна поднимала четверых детей после гибели мужа в автокатастрофе. Младшему тогда ещё и года не было. С тех пор ни один мужчина не переступил порога её дома — не потому что не звали, а потому что сердце её было занято детьми. Они стали её смыслом.
Ольга не знала отдыха, бралась за любую работу: мыла полы в школе, торговала на базаре, вязала на заказ по ночам. Всё — детям. Себе не позволяла лишнего — десять зим подряд носила одни валенки, не помнила, когда последний раз красила ногти или ходила в театр. Вся жизнь — лишь бы дети были сыты, одеты, выучены.
Старшая дочь Галина окончила медицинский институт, потом уехала в Германию — сначала стажировка, потом постоянная работа. Там вышла замуж, родила. Теперь у неё свой дом, своя семья, своя жизнь. Ольге шлёт открытки на Рождество и изредка фотографии в телефоне. Звонит редко — вечно занята. Ольга не ропщет. В глубине души даже гордится.
Два сына — Дмитрий и Иван — живут в Киеве. Город недалеко, но что толку? Звонят раз в месяц, в гости не приезжают. Всё работа, всё дела. Ольга узнаёт об их жизни от соседей да из редких постов в соцсетях. Не упрекает. Рада, что у них всё ладится.
Младшая, Надюша, дольше всех жила с матерью. После школы, потом института, а потом вышла замуж и уехала в Новгород — мужу там досталась квартира от тётки. Ольга тяжело переживала разлуку: Надюша была её опорой. Теперь звонит чаще других, но… в каждом слове слышно: торопится, боится опоздать, спешит назад, в свою новую жизнь.
Ольга давно не выходит дальше лавочки у подъезда. Сердце пошаливает, ноги опухают, давление скачет. До магазина едва доходит, готовит что попроще. Иногда продукты приносят соседи. Чаще всех помогает Вера Степановна — подруга с юности. Именно она возила Ольгу по больницам, доставала лекарства, вызывала «скорую», когда становилось совсем худо.
Дети… Они есть, но их будто и нет. Ольга не винит их. Может, сама сделала их такими — самостоятельными, далёкими. Не научила просить помощи, потому что сама всю жизнь обходилась без неё.
Недавно Надюша заикнулась, чтобы мать переехала к ним, но муж резко воспротивился: мол, тесно, неудобно, старикам место в домах престарелых. После короткой перепалки тему закрыли. Ольга и не настаивала. Не хотела быть лишней.
Теперь дни её похожи один на другой. Утром — молитва, таблетка, чашка чая. Потом телевизор вполголоса, вязание, полив герани на окне. И снова тишина. Изредка — звонок Веры, визит медсестры. И каждый вечер — одно и то же: а вдруг завтра кто-то приедет? Постучит в дверь, принесёт ватрушек, сядет рядом, возьмёт за руку…
Иногда она берёт старый альбом. Там — её дети. Маленькие, смешные, родные. Там — она сама, молодая, с горящими глазами. Там — жизнь, которую она отдала без остатка.
Ольга не злится. Не ропщет. Только шепчет:
— Я их люблю. Буду ждать. Пока сердце бьётся — буду надеяться.
И только Богу известно, сколько ещё дней ей отпущено ждать и сядут ли когда-нибудь все её дети за одним столом.
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