З життя
«Вона моя мати… Але як же боляче чути лише докори»
Вона — моя мати… Але як же боляче чути від неї лише докори.
Мені сорок один. І ніби я вже давно доросла, самостійна жінка, у якої є чоловік, діти, робота, дім. Але всередині — та сама дівчинка, що колись дивилася в очі матері, сподіваючись почути щось тепле, ласкаве, підбадьорливе. Хоч раз. Хоч слово. Хоч натяк на те, що вона мною пишається. Але ні… І через усі ці роки я продовжую жити з цією палючою раною — з болем від материнської неприязні.
В нас у родині три дочки. Я старша. З дитинства мені здавалося, що саме я маю бути маминою гордістю, її опорою, її «розумницею-дочкою». Я ж перша — найрозумніша, найстаранніша. Але для мати це було інакше. Вона ніколи цього не приховувала. Середня сестра була «проблемною», грубила, прогулювала школу, влаштовувала скандали, але їй усе пробачалося — «у неї характер». А молодша… та й зовсім була у мами улюбленицею. Тиха, спокійна, акуратна. Мати завжди казала, що лягала спати з тривогою — підходила вночі й перевіряла, чи дихає молодша, така вона була непомітна. А я? Я — ніби зайва.
Ні, я не злюсь на своїх сестер. У них своє життя, і вони ні в чому не винні. Але моя образа не дає мені спокою — не на них, на неї. На матір. Я все життя намагалася заслужити її схвалення. У школі вчилася відмінно, навіть четвірки перездавала. Ніколи не викликали батьків — я була слухняною дівчинкою. Не просила дорогих іграшок, не влаштовувала істерик. Я просто хотіла, щоб мати мною пишалася.
Але кожного разу, коли я приїжджаю до неї в гості, чую одне й те саме. «Ти в мене негарна», «Дурна ти, усе не так робиш», «Та в кого ж ти в мене така невдала вийшла?»… Я намагалася не сприймати це близько до серця, казала собі: «Ну такий у неї характер», «Ну втомилася», «Ну не вміє вона інакше». Але коли за твоєю спиною — роки зусиль, безсонних ночей з дітьми, праця на роботі, боротьба за родину — і знову чуєш: «Ти погано прибираєш», «Ти готувати не вмієш», «Діти в тебе дикі», «Дім — безлад»… Вже не витримуєш.
Коли я народила сина, мати буквально виштовхувала мене на роботу:
— Ти вдома тупієш! Швидше виходь, чого засиділася?
А коли я повернулася до офісу, знову почалися докори:
— Усе, роботу собі знайшла, тепер сім’єю не займаєшся. Кар’єристка ти пуста! І взагалі — ти як працівник нікудишня, нічого толком не вмієш.
А потім — по колу. Порівняння. Знову. Знов. Молодша — красуня. Середня — молодець, чоловіка зачепила, живе непогано. А я — ніби помилка. І кожного разу я мовчу. Я стискаю губи, опускаю очі, ковтаю сльози. Бо якщо скажу хоч слово у відповідь — вона одразу жодно: «Ось ти яка невдячна дочка. Тобі все не так!»
Іноді мені хочеться просто закричати: «Мамо, чому ти мене не любиш? Що я зробила не так? За що ти постійно мене принижуєш?» Але я не можу. У мене не вистачає сил. Я боюся. Боюся, що якщо вискажу все, що накопичилося за ці роки, — вона відвернеться і зникне з мого життя назавжди. А я цього не переживу. Як би не було боляче — я не хочу втрачати останню ниточку, що зв’язує нас.
Чоловік каже: «Пора вже все викласти. Може, зворушиться. Зрозуміє нарешті». Але він не розуміє. Для нього все просто. А для мене мати — це не просто людина. Це як корінь, як повітря. Без неї я — обрубок. Навіть якщо вона робить мені боляче, але вона — моя мати. І я, як дитина, все ще сподіваюся, що одного разу вона скаже:
— Доню, ти в мене хороша. Я пишаюся тобою.
І я продовжую ждати. Чекати ці слова, як чекала їх усе життя…
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