З життя
На схилі літ мої сини забули про мене…
Мені випало народити трьох синів, а на старість зрозуміла, що їм вже не потрібна…
Я подарувала життя п’ятьом дітям. Віддала їм усе, не жаліючи ні зусиль, ні здоров’я, не зважаючи на власні бажання. Це було тридцять років тому, в маленькому селищі біля Чернігова, де кожен день був боротьбою за їхнє щастя. Зараз мої сини та доньки розлетілися світом, завели свої сім’ї, а я залишилася одна, дивлячись у пустоту, що вони залишили за собою.
З доньками в мене зв’язок міцний, як сталь. Вони приїжджають до мене, привозять подарунки, допомагають в господарстві, наповнюють дім теплом і сміхом. Всі свята ми проводимо разом — вони знають, як сильно я сумую наодинці, як мене обтяжує тиша. У мене великий будинок, місця вистачає всім, і я завжди чекаю їх з розпростертими обіймами. Але сини… Вони ніби чужі. Наче я не мати їм, а випадкова тінь з минулого. Я розумію, у них свої дружини, діти, турботи. Але чи можна так просто викреслити ту, що дала тобі життя?
Коли мій чоловік, Іван, подзвонив їм і попросив приїхати полагодити дах, вони відмахувалися, як від нав’язливої мухи. Дім затоплювало дощем, вода капала прямо на підлогу, а ми з чоловіком віддали останні копійки пенсії стороннім робітникам, щоб врятувати своє гніздо. Сини навіть не спитали, як ми впоралися. Вони не дзвонять, не пишуть. Навіть у день народження, коли чекаєш хоч слова, хоч краплі поваги до старості, від них — мертва тиша.
Не думаю, що їхні дружини налаштовують їх проти нас. Здається, це їхній власний вибір — забути про старих, відмахнутися від нас, як від непотрібного вантажу. Я придивлялася до невісток — всі троє начебто добрі, розумні жінки. Але сини вічно посилаються на роботу, на справи, на вічну зайнятість. А що, дочкам нереально працювати? У них немає сімей? Чому ж вони знаходять час, щоб приїхати, обійняти, привезти продукти, а сини з їхніми жінками навіть онуків не покажуть, не дадуть порадіти їхнім дзвінким голосам?
Зараз нам з Іваном потрібна допомога як ніколи. Здоров’я розвалюється, ніби старий дім під вітром, а сини відвернулися, неначе ми для них померли. Дочки з зятями возять нас по лікарнях, платять за ліки зі своєї кишені, привозять їжу, гріють душу турботою. А хлопці, яких я виростила, годувала з ложечки, навчала жити — вони залишили нас напризволяще.
Два роки тому середня донька, Оля, потрапила в страшну аварію. Тепер вона прикута до інвалідного візка, і замість того щоб допомагати нам, сама потребує догляду. Старша, Марина, переїхала минулого року до Канади в пошуках кращого життя — її можна зрозуміти, але вона далеко, і я залишилася без її підтримки. Вона пропонувала наняти доглядальницю, але я відмовилася, майже розплакавшись від образи. Я народила п’ятьох дітей, щоб на схилі життя чужа жінка витирала мені сльози і варила суп? Це нагорода за всі мої жертви?
Одна з невісток, дружина молодшого сина, якось обмовилася, що нам слід продати будинок і переїхати в будинок престарілих. «Там вас нагодують, за вами доглянуть, і ніхто не буде в претензії», — сказала вона з холодною усмішкою, ніби мова йшла про старі меблі, а не про живих людей. Як у неї язик повернувся таке сказати? Я ледь не задихнулася від обурення. Так, ми старі, але не безпорадні! Ми ходимо, думаємо, живемо — просто сил вже немає, і здоров’я підводить кожного дня. Ми не вимагаємо багато — лише крихти уваги, трохи тепла від тих, кого виховували з любов’ю.
В черговий раз я переконалася: ближчих за дочок немає нікого. Вони — моя опора, мої ангели, що не дають мені зірватися в прірву самотності. А сини… Хай їх Бог судить. Я віддала їм усе — здоров’я, молодість, безсонні ночі, а у відповідь отримала лише пустоту і байдужість. Невже я заслужила, щоб на старість мене забули ті, заради кого я жила?
“I Gave Birth to Your Son, But We Don’t Want Anything from You” – The Mistress Called Lera’s husband looked at her like a chastened dog. “That’s right, you didn’t mishear me, Lera. I… I had someone else, half a year ago. Just a few times—nothing serious, just a fling. And now, she’s given birth to my son. Recently…” Lera’s head was spinning. Talk about earth-shattering news! Her steady, loving husband, a child on the side! The meaning of what he said barely penetrated. For a moment, she simply stared. He sat across from her, shoulders hunched, hands squeezed tight between his knees. He seemed smaller than usual—deflated somehow. “A son, then,” repeated Lera. “So, you, a married man, now have a son. And it wasn’t your wife who gave birth. Not me…” “Lera, honestly, I didn’t even know. I swear.” “You didn’t know how babies are made? You’re forty, Nick.” “I didn’t know she’d… well, that she’d choose to keep it. We broke up long ago, she’s with her husband now. I thought that was it.” He fumbled with his words. “Then, yesterday, a call: ‘You’ve got a son. Seven pounds, healthy.’ And then she hung up…” Lera stood, legs unsteady, knees like jelly as if she’d just run a marathon. Outside, autumn raged. Lera found herself distracted by the view—beautiful, even now. “So what now?” she asked, her back to him. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Oh, great answer. A real man’s answer. You don’t know.” She spun around. “Are you going over there? To see him?” Nick, panic in his eyes, managed to mumble, “Lera, she gave me the hospital’s address, said discharge is in two days. She said: ‘Come if you want, don’t if you don’t. We don’t want anything from you.’” “Very noble of her…” Lera echoed. “‘We don’t want anything.’ How naive…” The front door slammed—her two eldest had returned. Instantly, Lera slipped on a smile. Years in business had taught her to keep her head up, even when a deal was falling apart. Their older son poked his head into the kitchen—a tall, broad-shouldered lad, twenty. “Hey, Mum, Dad. You both look glum! Mum, is there any food? We’re starving after training.” “Manty in the fridge, heat it up,” she replied automatically. “Dad, you promised to look at the carburettor on my rust-bucket,” called out her younger son, clapping Nick’s shoulder. The family scene stabbed at Lera’s heart. They called him Dad. Their real father had faded into the background years ago—now just money transfers and the occasional postcard. Nick had raised them: taught them to drive, patched scraped knees, handled school issues. He was their real dad. “I’ll take a look, Alex,” Nick smiled. “Give Mum and me a minute.” They left, clattering plates. Lera turned to him. “They love you,” she whispered. “And yet you…” “Lera, stop it. I love them too. They’re my boys. And I’m not leaving. I’ve told you—it was a mistake, an error in judgment. Nothing serious.” “Nothing serious—just the kind of mistake that leads to changing nappies,” she shot back. Their six-year-old daughter, Maisie, then burst in, and Lera’s composure cracked. Maisie leapt into her dad’s lap. “Daddy! Why are you sad? Did Mum scold you?” Nick pulled her close, burying his face in her pale hair. For her, Lera knew, he would do anything. “No, princess. Just adult stuff. Go pop on cartoons, I’ll be in soon.” With Maisie gone, silence fell again. “Everything’s changed, you know,” Lera said quietly, sitting again. “There’s a son out there, and he needs a dad. That woman says ‘nothing now’, but give it time—when there’s winter coats to buy or doctor’s bills, she’ll ring. And you’ll go. You’re kind-hearted, Nick—you always have been.” He said nothing. “And the money, Nick? Where are you going to get that?” Lera’s words hit their mark. His business collapsed two years ago—their debts paid from her earnings. He scraped by now, but everything important—home, cars, holidays, the kids’ education—came from her. Even his bank card was one attached to her account. “I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Driving Ubers at night? Or dipping into my purse to support your lovechild? I bankroll us, and now you’ll bankroll them—with my money?” “She’s not my mistress!” Nick barked. “It was over six months ago!” “Children have a way of binding people closer than any marriage certificate. Will you go to the hospital when they discharge her?” The question hung in the air. Nick covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know, Lera. Human decency says I should—after all, it’s not the child’s fault.” “And what about human decency toward me? Toward Maisie and the boys? You’ll hold that child, and you’ll get attached. Soon it’ll be weekly visits… then weekends away. You’ll start lying—to me, to the kids.” Nick grimaced. “She’s eight years younger than me, Nick. Thirty-two. She gave you a son—your own, flesh and blood. My sons aren’t yours by blood, as much as you raised them. That boy out there—he is.” Nick protested: “Nonsense. The boys are mine. I raised them.” “Men always want a legacy. Their very own.” “We have Maisie!” “She’s a girl, Nick…” Nick stood abruptly. “Enough! Stop pushing me out the door. I said I’m staying. I can’t just ignore the fact that somewhere there’s my own son. If you want me gone, I’ll leave—right now, pack my things and be gone. But don’t try to blackmail me, Lera!” Lera froze. If she said “leave” now, he would go—foolish, prideful, and broke. But he’d go straight to them. There, he’d be a hero, a savior, father—albeit a penniless one, but theirs. And then she’d lose him for good. Despite the pain, she didn’t want that. The children loved him. She did, too. “SIT,” she whispered. “No one’s throwing you out.” He hesitated, breathing heavily, then sat. “Lera, I’m sorry. I’m such a fool…” “A fool,” she agreed. “But MY fool…” That evening, Lera helped Maisie with homework, checked work emails… but her thoughts kept drifting. She pictured the other woman, young and beautiful, probably feeling victorious. “We don’t want anything!”—the most damning move of all. No demands, no drama, just presenting the facts. That pricks a man’s pride—makes him want to be the hero. Nick tossed and turned at night; Lera lay awake, staring into the dark. She was forty-five: gorgeous, stylish, successful—but aware that youth was not forever. The future belonged to that other woman. * The next morning was harder still. The boys ate quickly and left. Maisie cornered her father: “Daddy, braid my hair? Mum doesn’t do it right!” Nick obliged, his large hands strangely gentle. Lera sipped her coffee and watched: here was her husband—warm, familiar, hers. And out there was another child, who had the same claim. How was this fair? “Nick,” she said, as Maisie rushed off to dress. “We need to decide—now.” He set the brush aside. “I thought about it all night.” “And?” “I’m not going to the hospital.” Lera felt something tighten in her chest, but hid it. “Why?” “Because if I go, I’ll give hope—to her, to myself, to that child. I can’t be a part-time dad, split between two homes. I don’t want to lie to you, Lera. I don’t want to steal time from Maisie or the boys.” He looked at her, exhausted. “I chose you eleven years ago. You’re my wife. This—this is my family.” “And the boy?” Even she was surprised to hear herself ask it. “I’ll pay support. Through the courts or with a bank account—whatever’s needed. But visits? No. Better he grows up never knowing me, than waiting for a father who’s just watching the clock, desperate to get home to his real family. That’s fairer.” Lera was silent, rolling her wedding ring around her finger. “You’re sure you won’t regret this?” “I probably will,” Nick admitted. “I’ll worry, I’m sure. But if I go, I lose you—and you won’t stand for that. You’re strong, but not made of stone. You’ll start to hate me, and I can’t let that happen.” He crossed the kitchen, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want another life. I want you—and the kids. The rest is the price for my mistake. I’ll pay in money, and only in money. No time. No attention. That’s all I’ve got to give.” She placed her hand over his. “Your own money?” she smirked. “I’ll earn it. I’ll find a way. I’ll never ask for your help with this.” And with that, she was at peace. Her husband may not have behaved honourably toward her, but these were exactly the words she had needed. No sharing. The other woman could deal with her choices. Nick never went to the hospital. The mistress soon flooded his phone with angry voicemails. He told her bluntly: she could expect financial support, nothing more. She hung up, and for half a year—there wasn’t another word from her. Lera was more than satisfied with that.
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