З життя
Весть, изменившая судьбу…
Запись в дневнике, которая перевернула всё…
Светлана уехала в командировку в Тверь, оставив в родной Уфе своего жениха Дмитрия. Закончив дела раньше, она решила вернуться без предупреждения, чтобы устроить сюрприз. Дмитрий никогда не давал поводов для ревности, но пока поезд нёс её домой, в голове крутились назойливые мысли: вдруг застанет его с другой? Она отгоняла их, но сердце колотилось чаще. Мечтала о его удивлённых глазах, но сюрприз пришлось отложить. Только включив телефон на вокзале, она получила сообщение, от которого похолодела.
Светлана прижалась лбом к холодному стеклу такси. Зачем эти дурацкие фантазии? Их жизнь с Дмитрием была спокойной, даже рутинной, и, возможно, оттого ей хотелось драмы. В салоне пахло дешёвым одеколоном, как у её отца. Водитель, мужчина лет шестидесяти с седыми висками и морщинистой шеей, зевал и потирал ухо — точь-в-точь как папа, когда уставал. Он резко тормозил, и Светлана вцепилась в подлокотник.
«Девушка, как вас зовут?» — спросил водитель. «Светлана», — ответила она. «А я Владимир. Света, у вас поезд скоро? Можно заправиться?» Поезд был не раньше чем через три часа, и она кивнула: «Ещё успеем, я люблю приезжать заранее». Владимир усмехнулся: «Женщины все такие! Моя супруга тоже: в аэропорт за пять часов, вдруг пробка!» Светлана пожала плечами — она терпеть не могла опаздывать. «Кстати, Светлана Владимировна», — добавила она просто так. «Вот те на! Мою дочку тоже Светой звали. И бабушку мою», — оживился он.
Он заговорил о своей жизни, и Светлана слушала, поражённая. Владимир вырос в бедной многодетной семье, с четырнадцати лет работал, образования не получил, здоровье подвело, а ипотека едва выплачивалась. Сыновья от первого брака с ним не общались — не простили, что ушёл от их матери. Единственная радость — дочь, за учёбу которой он платил, надеясь, что она выберется из нищеты. Светлана невольно подумала: если бы он был её отцом? Она, дочь успешного предпринимателя, вряд ли бы встретила Дмитрия — он при знакомстве сразу спросил, кто её родители и где она училась.
«Ну как вам наш город?» — спросил Владимир, подъезжая к вокзалу. «Красивый», — улыбнулась Светлана. «А сами откуда?» — «Из Уфы». — «Ого, далековато! Был там когда-то, на свадьбе друга. По работе приехали?» — «Да, по работе». — «Приезжайте ещё! Вот, возьмите визитку — я таксист с опытом, возраст не помеха!» Он протянул карточку, и Светлана, глядя на него, снова подумала: так похож на папу — жестами, голосом. Как будто где-то живёт его двойник.
В поезде она, как в детстве, придумывала истории. Мечтала стать писательницей, но отец настоял на экономическом — чтобы она продолжила его дело. Жалела ли? Наверное, нет. Её жизнь была предсказуемой, и это грело. Дмитрию она не сказала о возвращении, представляя его радость. Но всё изменилось, когда телефон ожил, и на экране всплыло сообщение от матери: «Папа в больнице. Инфаркт».
Она никогда не видела отца слабым. Он был крепким, нерушимым. А теперь лежал на больничной койке, бледный, с проводами на груди. Мать вышла поговорить с врачом, и они остались вдвоём. «Как ты?» — спросила она, сжимая его руку. «Ничего, дочка», — тихо ответил он. Чтобы не расплакаться, она заговорила о командировке: «Город хороший, а таксист, представь, твой тёзка, Владимир…» Отец вдруг перебил: «Я родился там».
Светлана замерла. Отец никогда не рассказывал о детстве. «И зовут меня не Владимир», — добавил он, и слова повисли в воздухе, как начало её выдуманных историй. Он продолжил: «Молчал всю жизнь. Знает только мама. Даже те, кто меня вырастил, не в курсе. Мне было три года, когда всё случилось. Я родился в Твери, но моё настоящее имя — Андрей. Владимиром звали старшего брата, он меня растил. Семья была большая, отец пил, мать… не помню. Помню только хлеб с маслом и сахаром».
Он рассказал, как мать оставила его одного в старом доме, пахнущем сыростью. Брат умолял её не бросать его, но она ушла. Испуганный, маленький Андрей сбежал, затерялся среди детей, сел в автобус и оказался в деревне. Там его нашли, спросили имя. Почему назвался Владимиром — не знал. Родных не искали, или они не заявили о пропаже. В деревне его приютила женщина, кормившая его пирогами. Она стала его матерью. «Я ничего не помню, Света, — закончил он. — Только брата. Хотел бы узнать, что с ним».
Светлана слушала, не веря ушам. А вдруг таксист Владимир — тот самый брат? Она вспомнила его лицо, его рассказ о большой семье. «Ты не искал их?» — спросила она. «Зачем? Не помню их. Только имя Света в голове крутится — может, сестра была, может, мать. Но это всё. Я хочу, чтобы внуки меня знали. А их нет. И тебя замуж выдать надо. Пожалей старика, Света, знаю, свадьбы сейчас не в моде, но поженитесь вы с Димой».
Светлана вздохнула. Она не была против брака, но Дмитрий не предлагал. «Выздоравливай, — сказала она. — Будет тебе свадьба». Дома Дмитрий встретил её за компьютером, увлечённый игрой. «Вот это сюрприз! Почему не сказала, я бы встретил!» — обрадовался он. Светлана, измотанная, вдруг расплакалась. Дмитрий обнял её, а она рассказала об отце, умолчав о его тайне. И вдруг выпалила: «Давай поженимся?»
Дмитрий отстранился, нахмурился: «Света, нам и так хорошо. Зачем? Это папа твой надумал, под впечатлением. Остынь». — «То есть ты не хочешь?» — голос её дрогнул. Она догадывалась, но услышать это было больно. «Мы говорили об этом, — мягко сказал он. — Хочешь ребёнка — родим, без печатей. Мы же не ссоримся». Светлана замолчала, но обида засела глубоко.
Когда отец попКогда отец поправился, Светлана тайком вернулась в Тверь, твёрдо решив найти Владимира и раскрыть тайну прошлого своего отца.
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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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“I Gave Birth to Your Son, But We Don’t Want Anything from You” – The Mistress Called Lera’s husband looked at her like a chastened dog. “That’s right, you didn’t mishear me, Lera. I… I had someone else, half a year ago. Just a few times—nothing serious, just a fling. And now, she’s given birth to my son. Recently…” Lera’s head was spinning. Talk about earth-shattering news! Her steady, loving husband, a child on the side! The meaning of what he said barely penetrated. For a moment, she simply stared. He sat across from her, shoulders hunched, hands squeezed tight between his knees. He seemed smaller than usual—deflated somehow. “A son, then,” repeated Lera. “So, you, a married man, now have a son. And it wasn’t your wife who gave birth. Not me…” “Lera, honestly, I didn’t even know. I swear.” “You didn’t know how babies are made? You’re forty, Nick.” “I didn’t know she’d… well, that she’d choose to keep it. We broke up long ago, she’s with her husband now. I thought that was it.” He fumbled with his words. “Then, yesterday, a call: ‘You’ve got a son. Seven pounds, healthy.’ And then she hung up…” Lera stood, legs unsteady, knees like jelly as if she’d just run a marathon. Outside, autumn raged. Lera found herself distracted by the view—beautiful, even now. “So what now?” she asked, her back to him. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Oh, great answer. A real man’s answer. You don’t know.” She spun around. “Are you going over there? To see him?” Nick, panic in his eyes, managed to mumble, “Lera, she gave me the hospital’s address, said discharge is in two days. She said: ‘Come if you want, don’t if you don’t. We don’t want anything from you.’” “Very noble of her…” Lera echoed. “‘We don’t want anything.’ How naive…” The front door slammed—her two eldest had returned. Instantly, Lera slipped on a smile. Years in business had taught her to keep her head up, even when a deal was falling apart. Their older son poked his head into the kitchen—a tall, broad-shouldered lad, twenty. “Hey, Mum, Dad. You both look glum! Mum, is there any food? We’re starving after training.” “Manty in the fridge, heat it up,” she replied automatically. “Dad, you promised to look at the carburettor on my rust-bucket,” called out her younger son, clapping Nick’s shoulder. The family scene stabbed at Lera’s heart. They called him Dad. Their real father had faded into the background years ago—now just money transfers and the occasional postcard. Nick had raised them: taught them to drive, patched scraped knees, handled school issues. He was their real dad. “I’ll take a look, Alex,” Nick smiled. “Give Mum and me a minute.” They left, clattering plates. Lera turned to him. “They love you,” she whispered. “And yet you…” “Lera, stop it. I love them too. They’re my boys. And I’m not leaving. I’ve told you—it was a mistake, an error in judgment. Nothing serious.” “Nothing serious—just the kind of mistake that leads to changing nappies,” she shot back. Their six-year-old daughter, Maisie, then burst in, and Lera’s composure cracked. Maisie leapt into her dad’s lap. “Daddy! Why are you sad? Did Mum scold you?” Nick pulled her close, burying his face in her pale hair. For her, Lera knew, he would do anything. “No, princess. Just adult stuff. Go pop on cartoons, I’ll be in soon.” With Maisie gone, silence fell again. “Everything’s changed, you know,” Lera said quietly, sitting again. “There’s a son out there, and he needs a dad. That woman says ‘nothing now’, but give it time—when there’s winter coats to buy or doctor’s bills, she’ll ring. And you’ll go. You’re kind-hearted, Nick—you always have been.” He said nothing. “And the money, Nick? Where are you going to get that?” Lera’s words hit their mark. His business collapsed two years ago—their debts paid from her earnings. He scraped by now, but everything important—home, cars, holidays, the kids’ education—came from her. Even his bank card was one attached to her account. “I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Driving Ubers at night? Or dipping into my purse to support your lovechild? I bankroll us, and now you’ll bankroll them—with my money?” “She’s not my mistress!” Nick barked. “It was over six months ago!” “Children have a way of binding people closer than any marriage certificate. Will you go to the hospital when they discharge her?” The question hung in the air. Nick covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know, Lera. Human decency says I should—after all, it’s not the child’s fault.” “And what about human decency toward me? Toward Maisie and the boys? You’ll hold that child, and you’ll get attached. Soon it’ll be weekly visits… then weekends away. You’ll start lying—to me, to the kids.” Nick grimaced. “She’s eight years younger than me, Nick. Thirty-two. She gave you a son—your own, flesh and blood. My sons aren’t yours by blood, as much as you raised them. That boy out there—he is.” Nick protested: “Nonsense. The boys are mine. I raised them.” “Men always want a legacy. Their very own.” “We have Maisie!” “She’s a girl, Nick…” Nick stood abruptly. “Enough! Stop pushing me out the door. I said I’m staying. I can’t just ignore the fact that somewhere there’s my own son. If you want me gone, I’ll leave—right now, pack my things and be gone. But don’t try to blackmail me, Lera!” Lera froze. If she said “leave” now, he would go—foolish, prideful, and broke. But he’d go straight to them. There, he’d be a hero, a savior, father—albeit a penniless one, but theirs. And then she’d lose him for good. Despite the pain, she didn’t want that. The children loved him. She did, too. “SIT,” she whispered. “No one’s throwing you out.” He hesitated, breathing heavily, then sat. “Lera, I’m sorry. I’m such a fool…” “A fool,” she agreed. “But MY fool…” That evening, Lera helped Maisie with homework, checked work emails… but her thoughts kept drifting. She pictured the other woman, young and beautiful, probably feeling victorious. “We don’t want anything!”—the most damning move of all. No demands, no drama, just presenting the facts. That pricks a man’s pride—makes him want to be the hero. Nick tossed and turned at night; Lera lay awake, staring into the dark. She was forty-five: gorgeous, stylish, successful—but aware that youth was not forever. The future belonged to that other woman. * The next morning was harder still. The boys ate quickly and left. Maisie cornered her father: “Daddy, braid my hair? Mum doesn’t do it right!” Nick obliged, his large hands strangely gentle. Lera sipped her coffee and watched: here was her husband—warm, familiar, hers. And out there was another child, who had the same claim. How was this fair? “Nick,” she said, as Maisie rushed off to dress. “We need to decide—now.” He set the brush aside. “I thought about it all night.” “And?” “I’m not going to the hospital.” Lera felt something tighten in her chest, but hid it. “Why?” “Because if I go, I’ll give hope—to her, to myself, to that child. I can’t be a part-time dad, split between two homes. I don’t want to lie to you, Lera. I don’t want to steal time from Maisie or the boys.” He looked at her, exhausted. “I chose you eleven years ago. You’re my wife. This—this is my family.” “And the boy?” Even she was surprised to hear herself ask it. “I’ll pay support. Through the courts or with a bank account—whatever’s needed. But visits? No. Better he grows up never knowing me, than waiting for a father who’s just watching the clock, desperate to get home to his real family. That’s fairer.” Lera was silent, rolling her wedding ring around her finger. “You’re sure you won’t regret this?” “I probably will,” Nick admitted. “I’ll worry, I’m sure. But if I go, I lose you—and you won’t stand for that. You’re strong, but not made of stone. You’ll start to hate me, and I can’t let that happen.” He crossed the kitchen, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want another life. I want you—and the kids. The rest is the price for my mistake. I’ll pay in money, and only in money. No time. No attention. That’s all I’ve got to give.” She placed her hand over his. “Your own money?” she smirked. “I’ll earn it. I’ll find a way. I’ll never ask for your help with this.” And with that, she was at peace. Her husband may not have behaved honourably toward her, but these were exactly the words she had needed. No sharing. The other woman could deal with her choices. Nick never went to the hospital. The mistress soon flooded his phone with angry voicemails. He told her bluntly: she could expect financial support, nothing more. She hung up, and for half a year—there wasn’t another word from her. Lera was more than satisfied with that.
I’ve had a son by you, but we want nothing from you, rang the voice down the phone his mistress....