З життя
«Ты мне больше не нужна»: как супруг покинул жену, когда ей дали шанс стать матерью
«Ты мне больше не нужна»: как супруг бросил жену, когда врач разрешил ей родить
В тот пятничный вечер, возвращаясь с работы, Арина даже не подозревала, что этот день изменит всё. Открыв дверь, она привычно крикнула:
— Дорогой, я дома!
Тишина. В квартире было непривычно пусто.
«Странно… Он же должен быть уже здесь», — мелькнуло в голове, и женщина направилась в спальню.
Дверь приоткрылась — и Арина замерла. Её муж, Артём, стоял у кровати, торопливо складывая вещи в чемодан.
— Артём… Что происходит? — прошептала она, чувствуя, как холодеют пальцы.
— Ухожу, — равнодушно бросил он, даже не взглянув.
— Куда?! Почему?!
— Спроси у своего отца, — прошипел Артём.
— При чём тут папа?..
Она не понимала ни слов, ни этой внезапной жестокости. А ведь ещё вчера её мир казался таким прочным.
Познакомились они, когда Арине было двадцать девять. Артём — старше на семь лет, харизматичный, с репутацией «серьёзного мужчины». Тогда ей казалось, что она нашла того самого. Родственники наперебой твердили: «Пора, часики-то тикают!» Арина уже смотрела на каждого ухажёра как на потенциального мужа — и это пугало мужчин.
Но с Артёмом всё сложилось иначе. Знакомство через общих друзей, ужин в ресторане — и он очаровал её галантностью. А когда узнал, что у Арины есть собственная трёхкомнатная в центре Москвы, новенькая Audi и должность в мэрии, да ещё и отец — владелец строительной фирмы, стал особенно нежен.
Через десять месяцев — роскошная свадьба в «Президент-отеле». Отец оплатил всё. Артём лишь ухмылялся: «Твой папаша умеет жить!» Вскоре он с радостью согласился возглавить один из филиалов отцовского бизнеса.
Первые месяцы — словно сказка: отдых в Сочи, рестораны, бриллианты. Но одна деталь резала глаза: Артём никогда не платил. За всё — Арина. Сначала она отмахивалась: «Мужчины не обязаны». Потом начала просить. Потом умолять.
— Почему я всё тяну? — рыдала она в подушку. — Я же тоже хочу чувствовать себя желанной, а не кошелём на ногах!
Артём лишь хохотал:
— Дурочка, не выдумывай. Всё у нас прекрасно.
На работе он появлялся раз в неделю, зарплату клал на отдельный счёт. Арина не знала.
Потом она заболела — воспаление лёгких. Месяц в больнице. Родители дежурили у постели, Артём заглядывал раз в неделю. Когда Арина вернулась домой, её ждал ад: горы посуды, пыль, пол, усыпанный окурками.
— Ты хоть раз убрался? — ахнула она.
— Ну, это не мужское дело, — пожал плечами Артём.
— Но я же еле хожу!
— Ну, теперь-то поправилась. Бери тряпку.
Дрожащими руками она набрала номер клининга. Врачи предупредили: восстановление займёт год. О ребёнке — и речи быть не могло.
Через год, когда доктор наконец разрешил беременность, Арина с дрожью в голосе сообщила мужу:
— Мы можем… Мы станем родителями!
— Не до этого сейчас, — буркнул он, не отрываясь от PlayStation 5. Консоль, купленная на её деньги, стала его новой страстью.
Недели шли. Он отмахивался. А однажды заявил:
— Слушай, Арина… Я уезжаю. И детей от тебя не хочу.
— Ты что несёшь?!
— Я тебя не любил. Ты была удобной. Квартира, деньги, связи. Теперь мне это надоело. Ты мне не нужна.
— Но я ждала… Я лечилась…
— Твои проблемы.
Чемодан захлопнулся. Приставку он сунул под мышку — и вышел, хлопнув дверью.
Три дня Арина не вставала с дивана. Когда приехали родители, отец, Дмитрий Петрович, едва не пробил стену кулаком.
Они забрали её в загородный дом. Артёма уволили в тот же день. Через неделю все его счета были заблокированы — благодаря связям тестя. «Накопления» исчезли.
Артём остался без гроша. С трудом снял каморку на окраине. Что дальше — не знал.
А Арина через два месяца устроилась в архитектурное бюро. Там она встретила Виктора. Не молодого, но честного, с добрыми глазами. Он не давал обещаний — просто приносил по утрам кофе и слушал.
А через полгода тест показал две полоски. Слёзы, звонок родителям — и тихая радость за себя, за то, что хватило сил сказать «хватит».
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” Andrew said, turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke and trembled so convincingly that Ksenia instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when you’ve been betrayed, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left a scar I’ll never get over. I truly believed I wouldn’t survive it…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for a long time—about the wife who never appreciated him, about the pain that wouldn’t let go, about how terrified he was to start over. Every word settled in Ksenia’s heart like a warm pebble, and she already imagined she’d be the woman to restore his faith in love. Together, they would heal his wounds. He’d finally see that real happiness was possible—with her. It wasn’t until their second date, between dessert and coffee, that Andrew mentioned Maxim… “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mother, but spends every weekend with me. The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. The third was brought home after he missed her birthday because he stayed out with his mates (or simply forgot…) “Andrew, I don’t need expensive presents,” she tried to keep her voice gentle, choosing every word. “But sometimes, I’d just like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “Money, it’s always about money with you, isn’t it? Presents, presents. Does love mean anything to you? All I’ve been through, and you complain?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I’ve done for you, you still find something to whinge about.” Ksenia fell silent. She always did—it was just easier that way. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend everything was fine. Strangely, Andrew always managed to find money for nights out with friends. Pubs, watching the football, café meetups every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t turn a living, breathing person into the hired help. Ksenia walked through the London evening—and, for the first time in ages, breathing came easy. She vowed to herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she rescue those who only trade on pity. Always, from now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.
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