З життя
Почему я счастлива, что не стала родителем: история семидесятилетней женщины
Я счастлива, что не стала матерью. Мне семьдесят, и я ни о чём не сожалéю.
Меня зовут Галина Морозова, живу в старинном Бежецке, где время будто замедляет ход среди деревянных резных домов. На днях, ожидая приёма у косметолога, я познакомилась с удивительной женщиной. Элегантная, с серебристой строгой косой и платьем в мелкий горошек, она напоминала героиню из советского кино. Наш разговор длился не больше получаса, но перевернул мои представления о старости.
Ей было за семьдесят, но лицо светилось энергией: ни морщин-марионеток у губ, ни потухшего взгляда. «Секрет? Не тратить силы на чужое счастье», — усмехнулась она. Замуж выходила дважды. Первый муж, Алексей Соколов, мечтал о наследнике. Она предупредила сразу: материнство не для неё. Десять лет он терпел, а на сорокалетии взорвался: «Без детей семья — пустышка!» Развелись без скандалов — просто разошлись, как два поезда на перекрёстке судеб.
Второй муж, Вадим Козлов, воспитывал сына от первого брака. «Он искал спутницу, а не няньку», — объяснила она. Жили душа в душу, пока Вадима не забрал инфаркт. «Одиночество? Это роскошь, — сказала она, поправляя брошь в форме совы. — Не надо жертвовать сном ради плачущего младенца или копить на квартиру для взрослого сына».
Её подруги, матери и бабушки, теперь томятся в тишине опустевших квартир. «Дети — как листья: вырастают и улетают. А я собрала гербарий из своих увлечений», — она махнула рукой в сторону сумки с билетами в Большой театр.
«А кто подаст стакан воды?» — спросила я, цитируя бабушкину присказку. «Вода из крана течёт, — рассмеялась она. — А на сиделку копил с тех пор, как другие тратили на курсы английского для внуков».
Её жизнь — вальс без обязательных па: выставки, поездки на Кавказ, вечера с Достоевским. «Дети не гарантия счастья, а лотерея. Я выбрала точный расчёт», — сказала она, вставая на звонок медсестры.
Уходя, я поймала себя на мысли: её свобода — не победа над обществом, а договорённость с самой собой. Пока другие бабушки хвастаются оценками внуков, она перечитывает Ахматову в тишине своей квартиры у реки Мологи. Не пустота, а наполненность. Не жертва, а выбор.
Её история — вызов. Не всем он по душе. Но глядя на её спокойную улыбку, я вдруг поняла: старость бывает разной. Можно доживать, а можно — жить. И порой для этого нужно лишь перестать бояться быть эгоисткой.
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