З життя
«Мы не дадим ни копейки, пока она не оставит бездельника: жёсткое условие дочери»
С каждым днём стены нашей квартиры содрагаются от криков — не из-за ссор со стариком, а из-за зятя. Этого человека, которого моя дочь назвала мужем, хватило бы на троих лодырей. Он уже год как не работает — подрабатывает где попало, а всё остальное время валяется на диване. Дочь одна тащит семью, растёт двух малышей, ещё и в декрете. А он? Он просто есть.
Я предложила помощь. Но поставила условие — жёсткое и ясное: ни рубля, пока не разведётся с этим дармоедом. Ведь помогать ей — значит кормить и его. А я не собираюсь оплачивать чужую лень.
С самого начала Михаил мне не нравился. Надеялась, что пройдёт, что она одумается. Но нет — сыграли свадьбу. Молодость, страсть, розовые очки — всё это лишило её рассудка. Теперь расхлёбываем.
Мы с мужем отдали им бабушкину квартиру. Раньше там жили квартиранты — это была наша подушка к пенсии. Но молодым негде было жить, и мы пошли навстречу. Только попросила: сделайте ремонт, хотя бы косметику, чтоб детям нормально.
Михаил и тут показал себя:
— Я не штукатур. Я — человек творческий. Пусть этим занимаются профессионалы.
На какие деньги, спрашивается? Он и гвоздь в стену забить не может. Всё, на что способен — рассуждать о судьбах мира и жаловаться на несправедливость. По вечерам работать не хочет, в выходные — «нужен отдых». Привык, что ему всё должны.
Когда я прямо назвала его тунеядцем, он обиделся. «Вы меня не понимаете». А дочь? Вместо того чтобы поднять его с дивана, набросилась на меня:
— Из-за вас опять скандал! Хватит лезть!
Я решила отойти в сторону. Но предупредила: сама налохалась — сама и выкручивайся. Не носи потом слюни. Но когда узнала, что она ждёт двойню, сердце оборвалось. Думала, Михаил очухается, но нет — ноль. Всё легло на нас. Мы и ремонт доделывали, и кроватки собирали, и по врачам возили. А он? Сидел, уткнувшись в телефон.
Алиса хоть и старалась, но видно было — сама начала прозревать. Вместе мы кое-как привели квартиру в порядок. Он, правда, потом купил какие-то скидочные шторы, но разве это в счёт? Когда у тебя семья, ты должен быть мужчиной. А он — просто лишний рот в доме, где все работают за него.
Потом открылось, как они выживают — взяли кредитку. Молчали. Прятали. А потом — звонок:
— Мам, не справляемся… Выручай…
Меня затрясло от злости.
— Алиса! Ты родила детей от человека, который даже табуретку починить не может! Как ты думала тянуть это одна?
— Просто сложный период…
— Какой ещё период?! У тебя есть жильё, есть родители, которые всё на себе тащат. А он даже работу искать не хочет — то зарплата маленькая, то офис далеко, то график не нравится!
— Мам, ты не понимаешь… Он ищет! Просто не хочет за гроши горбатиться!
— А мы за гроши живём! Ты, твои дети, он — всё за наш счёт!
С меня хватит. Больше не буду дойной коровой. Сказала:
— Пока не разведёшься — можешь даже не звонить. Ни копейки. Хочешь жить с ним — живи. Но без нас.
Она разрыдалась.
— Вы хотите, чтобы мои дети росли без отца?
А я высказала то, что давно копилось:
— Лучше без отца, чем с таким. Чтобы не видели, как мужчина живёт за счёт женщины.
Я мать. Но не хочу быть вечной спасательницей. Хочу, чтобы дочь растила детей с мужчиной, а не с обузой. Чтобы уважала себя. А не шла с протянутой рукой, пока он чаёвничает перед телевизором. Я дала всё, что могла. Теперь — хватит.
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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. Come on, let’s have tea. Nina, you look younger somehow—come on, tell me!” “I don’t know—my fifth youth!” Nina laughed as she sliced the tart. “Yesterday I rang Simon Mallory by accident… remember your crush in Year Eleven? We got to reminiscing—I’d forgotten half of it. What’s up, Irene? Not another asthma attack?” Irene sat pale and silent, then whispered: “Nina, you didn’t know? Simon passed away a year ago. He lived in another part of town—he moved from that old place ages ago.” “You must be joking! How? Who was I talking to? He remembered everything about our school days. My mood was terrible before talking to him. But after we spoke, I felt life was carrying on—that I still had strength, and joy for living… How could it be?” Nina couldn’t believe Simon was gone. “But I heard his voice. He said such beautiful things: ‘The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, sceptical of her friend’s story. 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