З життя
Потерянные надежды: Любовная драма безымянной пары
Разбитые розы: История любви Полины и Виктора
Тамара Ивановна ворвалась в комнату дочери на заре, её шаги гулко разносились в тишине. Увидев Полину у окна, прикрывающую лицо ладонями, с дрожью в плечах, мать застыла.
— Поленька, что случилось? — голос Тамары Ивановны дрогнул, словно подкошенный ветром.
Полина молчала, лишь глухо всхлипывала.
— Дочка, с малышом что-то не так? — прошептала мать, сердце сжалось, будто в ледяных тисках.
— Нет, мама, с ребёнком всё хорошо, — еле слышно прозвучал ответ.
— Тогда почему ты плачешь, будто на поминках? — Тамара Ивановна шагнула ближе, вглядываясь в лицо дочери.
Полина, не в силах говорить, судорожно выдохнула:
— Мама, вот! Смотри! — Она протянула телефон, на экране которого горело сообщение.
Тамара Ивановна взяла его дрожащими пальцами, пробежала глазами строчки и застыла, как будто ударили обухом.
Тем временем Виктор, только вернувшийся из долгого рейса, тихо опустил тяжёлый чемодан у порога их дома в пригороде Твери. В руках он сжимал пышный букет бордовых роз — любимых цветов Полины. Он мечтал удивить жену, не предупредив о приезде. Сердце колотилось в предвкушении: он представлял, как войдёт, обнимет ничего не подозревающую Полину, вдохнёт запах её волос и поцелует так, как не целовал уже полгода. Осторожно ступая, чтобы не спугнуть тишину, Виктор поднялся на крыльцо и замер, услышав голос тёщи, доносившийся из кухни.
— Я тебе тысячу раз говорила, Поленька, ты заслуживаешь большего! Хватит терпеть, пора ставить точку! Сколько можно молчать? Пора решаться! — голос Тамары Ивановны резал, как нож. — Он высосал из тебя все соки, а ты всё терпишь! Такие дела нельзя тянуть, дочка! Поверь мне, так будет лучше!
Виктор почувствовал, будто земля уходит из-под ног. Слова тёщи жгли, словно раскалённый уголь. Полина молчала, не возражала, и это молчание разрывало ему сердце. Неужели она действительно считает его недостойным? Неужели всё это время он мучил её? Букет роз задрожал в его руках. Он не стал входить, тихо надел сапоги, подхватил чемодан и ушёл, бесшумно прикрыв за собой дверь.
На душе у Виктора было пусто и холодно, будто декабрьский ветер продувал насквозь. Он не верил, что тёща, всегда казавшаяся родной, так ненавидит его. А Полина… Если она уже решила, он не даст ей бросить его первой. Он любил её безумно, но если она несчастна — отпустит.
Виктор остановился у друга, где провёл бессонную ночь, прокручивая в голове каждое слово. Утром, с камнем на сердце, он написал Полине: «Я встретил другую. Не жди. Будь счастлива. Прощай». Отправив, ощутил, будто что-то внутри оборвалось. Сев в ближайшую электричку, уехал в Москву, решив забыть прошлое.
В столице Виктор сменил номер, стёр все фотографии, чтобы не мучиться. Устроился водителем автобуса, снял каморку на окраине и погрузился в работу. Возвращался поздно, падал на кровать, чтобы забыться. Так текли дни, недели, месяцы.
Полина, получив сообщение среди ночи, не верила глазам. Она перечитывала его снова и снова, слёзы лились ручьём. Она ждала Виктора, считала дни до возвращения, а он… предал. Утром Тамара Ивановна застала дочь в слезах.
— Поля, что случилось? Малыш?
— Нет, мама, — всхлипнула Полина и протянула телефон.
Тамара Ивановна прочла вслух:
«Я встретил другую. Не жди. Будь счастлива. Прощай».
Она ахнула, прикрыв рот ладонью.
— Мама, за что? — рыдала Полина. — Он нашёл кого-то, пока был в отъезде! А я… одна. Как жить? Наш малыш? Он так мечтал о нём, а теперь бросил нас!
— Не говори так, — твёрдо сказала Тамара Ивановна, обнимая дочь. — У тебя есть ради кого жить. Скоро станешь матерью. Это твоя радость. Мы справимся, я помогу. А он… не стоит твоих слёз.
Слова матери немного успокоили Полину. Она всё ещё любила Виктора, но спрятала чувства глубоко внутри. Вскоре она родила здорового мальчика, назвав его Максимом. Он был вылитый отец: те же глаза, те же тёмные кудри. Полина часто смотрела на сына и шептала:
— Максим Викторович, мой зайка, хочешь кушать?
Максим рос шустрым и смешливым, наполняя её дни светом. Когда ему исполнилось три года, Полина поехала с ним в Москву к подруге Наталье, которая давно звала в гости. Через пару дней они отправились в зоопарк. СеОни сели в автобус, и среди шума пассажиров Полина вдруг увидела за рулём Виктора — его глаза встретились с её взглядом, и время будто остановилось.
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“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.
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