З життя
Мне 67 лет, я одна и прошу о помощи детей, но они отказываются: как жить дальше?
В своем дневнике.
Мне 67, и я одна. Снова звонила детям, снова услышала: «Нет».
Варвара Петровна сидела в своей хрущёвке в Нижнем Новгороде, уставившись в потрёпанный телевизор — тот бубнил что-то под нос, но тишину не нарушал. В руках дрожал телефон, экран пуст. Только что говорила с сыном, Дмитрием, и дочерью, Татьяной. Просила одно: «Заберите меня, тяжело одной». В ответ — привычное: «Мама, у нас негде», «Мама, сейчас неудобно». Телефон упал на колени, а по щекам потекли слёзы. В 67 лет жизнь кажется бесконечным коридором, по которому идёшь в полной темноте.
Когда-то она тащила всё на себе. После смерти мужа (инфаркт, дети ещё малы — Диме десять, Тане восемь) работала швеёй на фабрике. Ночами строчила на машинке, чтобы у них были тёплые пальто и тетради в линейку. Отказывала себе во всём — в новом платье, в поездке на юг, в лишнем часе сна. Дмитрий стал инженером, Татьяна — врачом. Гордилась ими, будто это её собственные ордена. А теперь? Теперь она — старая бабушка, которой «некуда приткнуться».
Она не лентяйка! Варила борщи, ползала с сумками из «Пятёрочки» (колени кричат от боли), вытирала пыль, хоть руки уже плохо слушались. Но каждый день — как восхождение на Эльбрус. Боялась упасть, заболеть, умереть в тишине — так, что соседи узнают только по запаху. Мечтала жить с ними, нянчить внуков, чувствовать себя нужной. Но её просьбы разбивались о ледяное: «Не сейчас».
Дмитрий в Екатеринбурге. Жена, двое детей. «Мама, у нас две комнаты, дети орут — тебе хуже будет». Слышала в его голосе досаду: мол, опять со своими причудами. Татьяна в Ярославле мягче, но её «Мы подумаем» резало не меньше. Знала: они говорят о ней за спиной. Наверное, вздыхают: «Опять бабка пристаёт». А ей ведь не дворец нужен — лишь угол, где её голос не будет пустым эхом.
Как-то после очередного «нет» села писать письмо. Хотела выкричать всю боль, но вывела: «Люблю вас. Но если я вам в тягость — скажите прямо». Отправила. Ответа не было. Молчание — страшнее крика. Разглядывала их детские фото на стене и спрашивала: «Где ошиблась?» Вспоминала, как пела им «Баю-баюшки-баю», как отдавала последние копейки на учебники. Как её любовь превратилась в ненужный хлам?
Соседи жалели. Баба Катя с первого этажа носила пирожки с капустой, студент Коля с пятого помогал таскать картошку. Их доброта обжигала: чужие люди — ближе родных. Записалась в клуб ветеранов — пела в хоре, плела корзинки из лозы. Там смеялась, шутила, а дома снова глотала слёзы. Внуки, которых видела раз в год, росли без её сказок. Мечтала печь им оладьи, учить «Во поле берёза стояла»…
Теперь пытается найти радость в мелочах. Записалась на курсы «Компьютер для чайников» — вдруг внуки захотят посидеть в «Скайпе». На подоконнике растит герань — яркие цветы хоть чуть-чуть разгоняют тоску. Но ночью, когда скрипят половицы, снова шепчет: «За что?» Всё ещё ждёт звонка: «Мама, приезжай». Но чем дольше молчат — тем глуше надежда. Не знает, сколько осталось. Хочет встретить старость не в пустой квартире, а среди родных голосов. А пока… Пока учится любить себя. Впервые за всю жизнь.
People Adopt Children from Orphanages, So I Chose to Bring My Grandmother Home from Her Care Facility—Despite All My Friends and Neighbours Disagreeing and Saying Times Are Tough, I Knew in My Heart It Was the Right Thing to Do
There was a time, not so long ago yet distant enough for it to feel like another life, when people...
Recently, I Visited My Daughter-in-Law and Was Shocked to Find a Cleaner Hired for the House—Despite Always Telling My Son His Wife’s Finances Didn’t Matter, I Can’t Understand How They Afford a Housekeeper with Their Modest Means, Especially Since My Husband and I Bought and Renovated Their Home and Still Help Them Out—When I Found Out My Daughter-in-Law Became a ‘Blogger’ During Maternity Leave and Hired Help, I Felt Betrayed and Insisted If Anyone Should Be Paid to Clean, It Should Be Me—But My Son Sees Nothing Wrong—Am I in the Wrong for Feeling Upset?
The other day, I popped round to visit my daughter-in-law, only to find a complete stranger bustling about doing the...
To Remain Human: A December Evening at Bristol Coach Station and the Unexpected Power of Simple Kindness
Remaining Human Mid-December in the city of Nottingham is raw and blustery. A sprinkling of slushy snow only half-shields the...
“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.
Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband. These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed...
Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, thoughtful feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and my sincerest gratitude for all donations from me and my five beloved cats. Please, if you enjoyed the story, share it on social media – authors appreciate it more than you’d think!
Marrying Outside the Lines Thank you all for your support, kind comments, and for following my stories. A special heartfelt...
How to Set Your Husband Straight: A Heartfelt Story of Recovery, Five Feline Friends, and Finding Strength After Illness
Reining In My Husband. A Diary Entry Thank you for your kindness, for every like, comment, and thoughtful response to...
A House Full of Uninvited Guests: Or, How My Husband’s Home Became a Never-Ending Refuge for Distant “Relatives,” Strangers, and the Occasional Professor, Complete With Volleyball Tournaments in December and Auntie Marsha’s Famous Pancakes
A House Overrun with Uninvited Guests – Cant these dear souls go and live somewhere else? asked Alice, raising her...
How My Future Mother-in-Law Ruined Our Holiday: The Story of an English Family Vacation Gone Awkward, Complete with Last-Minute Substitutions, Reluctant Travel Partners, and Lessons Learned Before Saying ‘I Do’
Its just Being alone with my daughter on holiday, its frightening, you know? Margaret swept her hand through the air...