З життя
«Свекруха розлучила, а тепер благає повернути сина. Але вже запізно»
Мене звати Олеся, мені тридцять два роки, і нещодавно завершився один із найболючіших періодів мого життя — розлучення з чоловіком. Його звали Максим. Ми були одружені трохи більше трьох років, і, чесно кажучи, це були зовсім не легкі роки. Причина наших свар, образ і, зрештою, повного розриву — зовсім не Максим. А його мати, Надія Степанівна.
Відразу вона мене не полюбила. Навіть коли ми лише почали зустрічатися, вона намагалася переконати Максима, що я йому не пара, що я «не з тієї родини», «занадто вперта» і «погано впливаю на його кар’єру». Її улюблена фраза була:
«Одружуватися треба не по коханню, а з розрахунку, інакше все життя в біді проживеш».
Коли ми все ж таки одружилися, я намагалася налагодити з нею стосунки. Приносила подарунки, запрошувала в гості, підтримувала під час хвороб. Але все було марно. Вона за кожним зручним випадком вставляла шпильки. Казала Максиму, що я не вмію готувати, що діти у нас будуть негарними, бо у моєї бабусі «горб був», і навіть шепотіла йому на вухо, що бачила, як я «підозріло посміхалася» сусідові.
Вона постійно йому капала на мозок. Втручалася в будь-які розмови, була поруч у найнезручніші моменти, з’являлася без попередження й влаштовувала сцени ревнощів. Переконувала Максима, що я йому зраджую, і навіть одного разу привела до дому дівчину, з якою, як виявилося пізніше, мріяла «одружити» сина. Організувала романтичну вечерю при свічках у квартирі, де ми ще жили разом! Сама накрила стіл, сама все підготувала. А я того дня, до речі, працювала до пізньої ночі.
Спочатку Максим сміявся.
«Мама просто трохи дивакувата, не звертай уваги», — казав він.
Але з кожним днем він усе більше мовчав, усе рідше підтримував мене, коли я плакала.
А потім мені стало нестерпно. Я прокидалася вночі від тривоги, почалися проблеми з серцем, я схудла й у якийсь момент зрозуміла: я не живу, а виживаю. Я більше не могла дивитися, як мати мого чоловіка систематично руйнує наш шлюб, а він просто мовчить і спостерігає. Я зібрала речі й пішла. Без істерик. Без скандалів. Просто поставила крапку.
Максим навіть не став мене зупиняти. Через день він повернувся до матері. Та, мабуть, перемогла.
Минуло два місяці. І ось у суботу вранці хтось подзвонив у двері. На порозі стояла вона. Надія Степанівна. Заплакана, з тремтячими руками, з пакетиком цукерок — «до чаю».
«Олесю, — ледве чутно прошепотіла вона, — повернись до Максима… Він зовсім не той. Він звільнився з роботи. Почав пити. Каже, що не хоче жити…»
Я спочатку навіть не зрозуміла, що відбувається. А потім розсміялася.
«Ви ж цього хотіли, пам’ятаєте? Щоб ми розлучилися. Щоб я зникла з його життя. Ну що ж, тепер насолоджуйтеся суспільством свого сина. Він тепер лише ваш. Адже ви так старанно його відвоювали».
Я захлопнула двері. Не тому, що зла. А тому, що боляче.
Відтоді вона пише мені майже щодня. Благає. Каже, що не знала, як добре я вміла тримати Максима в тонусі, що я була чудовою дружиною, господинею й взагалі «світлою людиною». І я читаю її повідомлення й не вірю. Невже це та сама жінка, яка три роки методично руйнувала моє життя?
Я не повернуся до Максима. Я не можу повернутися туди, де мене так довго ламали. Навіть якщо він зміниться, навіть якщо зрозуміє — я вже не та Олеся. Я більше не живу очікуванням чиєїсь любові. Не шукаю схвалення. Я просто хочу спокою. Тиші. Радості. Без вічних докорів і поглядів, сповнених пустки.
Нехай тепер Надія Степанівна радіє своїй перемозі. Адже вона її отримала. Тільки з таким результатом, якого сама собі не бажала. Нехай думає. Якщо, звісно, ще вміє…
Іноді найбільші втрати — це те, чого ми найбільше наполегливо домагалися.
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