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«Матері потрібен відпочинок»: Ці слова він повторював щодня після народження сина… і до останнього дня
“Мама має відпочити” – ці слова він повторював щодня після народження сина… і аж до самого кінця.
Кожного вечора, повертаючись із роботи додому, він першим ділом мив руки й одразу йшов до нашого сина. Ані запах вечері, ані улюблена газета не могли його відвернути. Підходив до ліжечка, нахилявся, брав малюка на руки — і в цю мить я знову закохувалася в нього. У чоловіка, який не боявся бути батьком. У мужа, який пам’ятав про мене.
— Мама має відпочити, — говорив він із посмішкою, ніжно колихаючи на руках сонного Данилка й тихенько наспівуючи колискову, доки той не засинав.
— Мама має відпочити, — шепотів серед ночі, підводячись першим, щоб перепеленати сина, а потім тихенько передавав його мені, чекав, доки я погоджую, і знову акуратно клав у ліжечко.
— Мама має відпочити, — казав він кожного вечора, зав’язуючи фартух і годування нашого вередливого, впертого малого з ложки, перетворюючи кожну кашку на пригоду.
— Мама має відпочити, — повторював, збираючи однорічного Данька на прогулянку, щоб я могла спокійно помитися і просто побути сама — хоч півгодини.
— Мама має відпочити, — говорив він, саджаючи на коліна вже підрослого сина, і починав розповідати йому чарівні казки, вигадуючи їх на ходу, аби відволікти дитину й дати мені тишу.
— Мама має відпочити, — вимовляв, перевіряючи домашні завдання, терпляче пояснюючи Данилкові математику, яку той ніяк не міг зрозуміти.
— Мама має відпочити, — тихо сказав він, коли Данило, підрісши, повернувся пізно з випускного і мовчки пройшов на кухню.
Кожного разу, коли я чула ці слова, мене накривало хвилею ніжності. Серце стискалося, а очі наповнювалися сльозами — не від болю, ні, від щастя. Хотілося зупинити час і залишитися в цій любові назавжди.
А потім настав третій етап любові. Коли слово “мама” в його устах змінилося на “бабуся”.
— Бабусі треба відпочити! — посміхався він нашому онукові, коли той, залишившись у нас на вихідні, почав капризничати і кликати батьків. І тоді чоловік знову наспівував ту саму колискову — тільки вже іншій дитині.
— Бабусі треба відпочити, — підморгував він, збираючи рибальські снасті й забираючи онука з нашим сином до ставка.
— Бабусі треба відпочити, — м’яко говорив, передаючи внукові навушники, щоб той зменшив гучність на планшеті.
Він не встиг побачити онучку. Пішов занадто рано, занадто тихо. Діти забрали мене до себе — не хотіли, щоб я залишалася сама в нашому спорожнілому домі.
І ось, уперше взявши на руки крихітну Софійку, я не витримала — розридалася. Мені здавалося, що я чую його голос, ніби він стоїть позаду й промовляє:
— Бабусі треба відпочити…
Я навіть обернулася. Дурна надія… Раптом?
Пізніше, коли над домом спустився вечір, і я вже ледве дрімала, з вітальні донісся шепіт. Голос мого дорослого сина Данила:
— Спи, рибко, спи. Мама має відпочити…
Я підвелася, привідчинила двері й побачила, як він колихає свою донечку, наспівуючи ту саму колискову. Ту, що колись співав йому його батько.
Його вже нема поряд. Але слова “мама має відпочити” живуть далі. Вони в нас. В нашому синові. В його дітях. І в пам’яті, яку не забере навіть час.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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