З життя
«Спроси меня ещё: заберёшь ли ты меня?» — с горечью сказала мать. Но ответ мне известен уже давно…
«Ты меня к себе не заберёшь?» — спросила мать с обидой. Но я уже знала ответ…
Меня зовут Анастасия. Мне тридцать восемь, и я замужем за Дмитрием уже пятнадцать лет. У нас с ним сын, уютная квартира в Москве и, казалось бы, всё для счастья. Но есть одна незаживающая рана — моя мать. Вернее, её война с Димой, которая длится больше десяти лет.
Дима приехал в столицу из маленького городка в Сибири. Тогда он мечтал поступить в университет, но с первого раза не прошёл и устроился сантехником, чтобы хоть как-то сводить концы с концами. Жил в общаге, трудился, не ныл. Потом всё же поступил. Работу не бросил — стал настоящим профессионалом, клиенты его хвалили. В университете мы и познакомились. Я училась на курс старше, но между нами сразу пробежала искра.
Когда я получила диплом, мы решили пожениться. Но мама была категорически против.
«Сантехник? Ты с ума сошла! Провинциал без жилья, без будущего!» — кричала она.
Я уговорила её пустить нас пожить в её квартире — временно, пока Дима не закончит учёбу. Мама согласилась скрепя сердце, с каменным лицом. С первого дня она его не приняла, сколько бы он ни старался. За первые дни он починил в квартире всё: текущий кран, сломанную плиту, даже балкон, который не открывался годами. В ответ — ледяное молчание и колкости.
«Я тебя, парень, прописывать не собираюсь!» — однажды выпалила она. Дима лишь спокойно ответил: «Я и не прошу».
Он терпел. День за днём. Но я видела, как это его съедает. А потом я забеременела… И случилось то, чего мы боялись.
«Ты рехнулась! Рожать от этого неудачника?! Я его в своём доме терпеть не могу!» — завопила мать.
Дима услышал. Без слов собрал вещи. Подошёл ко мне и сказал:
«Или ты со мной. Или я один. Но под одной крышей с твоей матерью я больше не останусь».
Я ушла. Мы переехали в его крохотную комнату в общаге. Родился сын. Было трудно. Но я ни о чём не жалела. Дима работал, учился, подрабатывал. Через два года мы купили свою первую однушку. Потом — двушку. Сейчас живём в просторной трёшке. Дима — ведущий инженер на крупном предприятии, получает хорошие деньги. И до сих пор берёт подработки — руки у него золотые, клиенты в очередь становятся.
Но с того дня, как мы ушли, Дима ни разу не переступил порог маминой квартиры. Не пришёл ни на один праздник, даже случайно не встретился. Он чётко сказал:
«Я не хочу её видеть. Помогу деньгами, оплачу что нужно. Но ничего больше. Ни общения, ни визитов».
Мама долго не понимала. Да и сейчас, спустя годы, продолжает обижаться:
«Ты так и будешь плясать под дудку мужа? А если я заболею? Если сама не смогу? Ты тоже меня бросишь?»
Я вернулась домой и тихо спросила Димку:
«А если правда… ей станет тяжело одной?»
Он не раздумывал:
«Наняли бы сиделку. Ты бы навещала. Всё было бы достойно, но без неё в нашей жизни. Мой предел — твой порог».
Я задумалась. И поняла — он прав. Он не обязан прощать того, кто его унижал. Не обязан чинить ей краны, если когда-то она высмеивала его за работу сантехника. Он вырос. Он изменился. А она — нет.
Недавно она опять звонила. Кричала, что в ванной потоп, а я даже не попросила Димку приехать.
«Мам, — спокойно ответила я, — Дима перевёл тебе пять тысяч рублей. Вызови любого мастера».
Она бросила трубку. Обиделась. Но мне не жаль.
Иногда я думаю, что тот вечер, когда я ушла с Димой в общагу, стал самым важным выбором в моей жизни. Я выбрала семью. Выбрала человека, который не предал. Который вытянул нас с сыном, построил всё с нуля и не дал сломать себя. И я больше никому не позволю его ломать.
Пусть мама обижается. У неё был шанс. Но она им не воспользовалась.
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