З життя
«Минуло два роки без жодного слова: вона зникла з мого життя, а мені вже 70…»
Минуло два роки. З того часу донька не написала мені ж Melissaого слова. Вона просто викреслила мене зі свого життя. А мені незабаром — 70…
Мою сусідку, Надію Гнатівну, знає весь двір. Їй 68 років, живе сама. Часом я заходжу до неї з чимось до чаю — просто так, по-сусідськи. Вона добра, інтелігентна жінка, завжди усміхнена, любить розповідати про подорожі, де бувала з покійним чоловіком. Але про родину говорить рідко. І лише напередодні останніх свят, коли я, як зазвичай, прийшла до неї з гостинцями, вона несподівано відкрила душу. Тоді я в перше почула історію́, від якої досі мороз проймає.
Коли я зайшла до квартири, Надія Гнатівна була не в гуморі. Зазвичай жвава й бадьора, того вечора вона сиділа тихо, дивлячись у одну точку. Я не стала розпитувати, просто заварила чай, поставила печиво й мовчки сіла поруч. Вона довго мовчала, ніби боролася сама з собою. А потім раптом видихнула:
— Минуло два роки… З того часу вона ж разу не подзвонила. Жодної листівки, жодного повідомлення. Я пробувала додзвонитися — номер більше не діє. Адреси її я вже не знаю…
Вона на мить замовкла. Здавалося, перед її очима промайнули роки, десятиліття. І раптом, наче зламалася перепо́на, Надія Гнатівна почала говорити.
— У нас була щаслива родина. Ми з Олексієм одружилися рано, але з дітьми не поспішали — спершу хотіли пожити для себе. Його робота дозволяла нам багато подорожувати. Ми були дружні, багато сміялися, любили наш дім, який облаштували разом. Власними руками він збудував нам гніздо — просто́ру трикімнатну у центрі Львова. Мрія всього його життя…
Коли народилася наша дочка, Олеся, Олексій ніби розквіт заново. Він носив її на руках, читав казки, кожну вільну хвилину проводив з нею. Я дивилася на них і думала, що я найщасливіша жінка на світі. Але десять років тому Олексія не стало. Він довго хворів, ми боролися до останнього, витратили всі заощадження. А потім… тиша. Порожнеча. І серце, наче вирвали з нього шматок.
Після смерті батька Олеся почала віддалятися. Зняла ха́ту, захотіла жити окремо. Я не заперечувала — доросла, нехай будує своє життя. Вона навідувала мене, ми спілкувалися, все було в межах норми. Але два роки тому вона прийшла до мене і прямо заявила, що хоче взяти іпотеку й купити свою квартиру.
Я зітхнула й пояснила: допомогти нічим не зможу. Від заощаджень, що ми складали з Олексієм, майже нічого не лишилося — все пішло на його лікування. Моя пенсія ледве вистачає на комуналку та ліки. Тоді вона запропонувала… продати ха́ту. Мовляв, купимо мені однокімнатну десь на околиці, а решта грошей піде їй на перший внесок.
Я не могла погодитися. Це не про гроші — це про пам’ять. Ці стіни, кожен куточок — Олексій робив своїми руками. Тут пройшло все моє щастя, моє життя. Як я можу все це відда́ти? Вона кричала, що батько все робив заради неї, що хата все одно дістанеться їй, що я егоїстія. Я намагалася пояснити, що хотіла б, аби вона колись просто прийшла сюди й згадала нас… Але вона не чула.
Того дня вона грюкнула дверима й пішла. З того часу — тиша. Жодного дзвінка, жодного візиту, навіть на свята. Потім я випадково дізнала від спільної знайомої, що вона таки взяла іпотеку й тепер працює на знос — два місця, постійна гонитва. Ні родини, ні дітей. Навіть подруга каже, що не бачила її вже півроку.
А я… я просто чекаю. Кожного дня підходжу до телефону, сподіваюся на дзвінок. Але він не лунає. І я більше не можу додзвонитися — номер, мабуть, вона змінила. Напевно, вона не хоче мене бачити. Не хоче чути. Думає, що я зрадива її, не поступившись тоді. Але мені вже майже 70. Я не знаю, скільки ще проживу в цій хаті, скільки вечорів просиджу біля вікна в надії. І не знаю, чим так її образила…
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