З життя
Ваш внук уже шести лет”: Незнакомка на улице и сын, который всё отрицает
«Это ваш внук, Владик, ему уже шесть»: Незнакомка остановила меня на улице, а сын клянётся, что ни при чём
Возвращался я с работы, уставший, думал о завтрашних отчётах да ужине. Вдруг слышу за спиной:
— Простите! Николай Петрович?
Оборачиваюсь — стоит молодая женщина, а рядом мальчонка лет шести. В голосе её сомнение, но взгляд твёрдый.
— Я Ольга, — говорит. — А это ваш внук, Владик. Шесть лет уже.
Сперва подумал — розыгрыш какой-то. Ни её, ни пацанёнка не узнаю. В ушах гудит от неожиданности.
— Вы, наверное, ошиблись? — выдавливаю из себя.
Но Ольга уверенно продолжает:
— Нет. Ваш сын — его отец. Молчала долго, но решила: вы должны знать. Ничего не прошу. Вот мой номер. Если захотите встретиться — звоните.
Оставив меня в растерянности, уходит. Стою посреди тротуара, скомканный листок в кулаке, а в груди жарко. Сразу звоню Дмитрию — сыну единственному.
— Дима, ты знаком с Ольгой? У тебя есть ребёнок?
— Пап, ну… Было дело. Недолго. Она странно себя вела, потом заявила, что беременна. Не факт, что мой. Потом пропала.
Его слова покоя не дают. С одной стороны, всегда верил сыну. Растил его один, после жениной смерти. Работал на износ, чтобы тот учился, выбился в люди. Хороший инженер, уважаемый человек… Только семью так и не создал. Внуков просил — отмахивался. И вот — на тебе, объявились сами.
Через день всё же набрал Ольгу. Она не удивилась.
— Владику шесть. Родился в мае. Тестов делать не будем. Я знаю, чей он. Мы с Димой разошлись, когда я была беременна. Родители помогали, справлялись. Пришла только потому, что ребёнок имеет право знать деда. Хотите — будьте в его жизни. Нет — пойму.
Положил трубку, сижу в тишине. С одной стороны — сына подводить не хочется. С другой — во Владике что-то родное мелькнуло: ухмылка, нос курносый… Или мерещится?
Вечером у окна курил, вспоминал, как Дима маленьким в школу первый раз шёл, как вдвоём пельмени лепили. Неужели мог бросить женщину с ребёнком? Или это не его кровь?
Но даже если так — тепло на душе от мысли о внуке. И стыдно за свои сомнения. Ведь когда родился Дима, никаких доказательств не требовал. Почему теперь этой девушке не верю?
Пока не решил ничего. Не звоню. Но каждый раз на той улице оглядываюсь — не мелькнёт ли знакомый силуэт. Не знаю, мой ли Владик. Но отпустить мысль не могу. Мечта о внуке не гаснет. Может, скоро и наберу тот номер. Хотя бы просто познакомиться с парнишкой, назвавшим меня дедом.
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