З життя
За кордоном: наші діти далеко, бачимося лише на свята
В горлі ком: наші діти за кордоном, бачимося тільки на свята
Як же мені їх не вистачає
Люди навколо часто кажуть мені: «Ти маєш радіти! Син влаштував своє життя в Канаді, у нього сім’я, стабільність. Це ж щастя, чи не так?»
Так, я радію. Звісно, радію. Як інакше? Адже що ще може хотіти батько для своєї дитини, окрім як бачити її щасливою?
Але чому ж тоді ночами я не можу заснути? Чому кожного вечора дивлюсь у вікно, надіючись, що дивом почую знайомі кроки біля дверей? Чому серце стискається від болю, коли бачу сусідських онуків, які граються у дворі, а мій – десь там, далеко за океаном?
Я не бачив, як мій онук зробив перший крок. Я не чув його перших слів. Мені не дають його обійняти монітори та екрани, я не можу взяти його за руку та піти гуляти по осінньому парку, не можу навчити його кататися на велосипеді. Все, що у мене є — це кілька пікселів на екрані та голос, який з кожним тижнем стає все більш віддаленим і чужим.
«Всі ми в одному човні»
Недавно я вийшов до парку, сів на стару дерев’яну лаву, де вже зібралися такі ж, як я. Літні люди, які пережили багато, але не звикли до найстрашнішого – самотності.
Завели розмову. Кожному було що сказати, адже у всіх однакова історія.
— У мене дві доньки, — заговорила сухорлява жінка з сивим волоссям. — Старша вже п’ятнадцять років живе в Польщі, молодша сім років тому поїхала до Італії. Раніше хоч приїжджали, а тепер… Усе справи, турботи. На літо обіцяють приїхати, але щоразу щось заважає.
Інша, трохи повніша жінка з добрим обличчям, усміхаючись, розповідала:
— Моя внучка вже в першому класі, німецьку знає краще, ніж українську. Син з дружиною будинок у Лейпцигу купили, у них там все добре. Цього року в Німеччині вже десять років, як живуть. А я їжджу до них взимку, а влітку вони до мене… Ну як до мене? На пару днів у село заїдуть — і назад.
Слухаю, мовчу, тільки ковтаю ком у горлі.
Третя жінка зітхнула, дивлячись кудись у далечінь:
— А я вже три роки не бачила своїх онуків. Вони в Норвегії. Все рідше й рідше приїжджають. Кажуть, дорого, далеко… Я вже й літати не можу, ноги не витримують. В’яжу їм светри, шкарпетки, шарфи – знаю, що там холодно. А вони посміхаються через екран: «Дякуємо, бабусю, ти у нас золота». Тільки от мої речі так і лежать у мене в шафі – ніхто їх не носить, не гріють вони нікого.
Життя на відстані
Хтось отримує дорогі ліки від дітей, хтось — жменю гривень на місяць в допомогу. У когось син не отримує відпустку на свята, і він не зможе приїхати на Різдво, а хтось з сумом в очах чекає, коли невістка привезе онуків хоч на пару тижнів.
— А я от заздрю вам, — несподівано сказала худорлява жінка років шістдесяти. — У вас хоч діти влаштувалися. А мій син — без роботи, невістка копійки отримує. Вони нікуди не поїхали, але живуть так, що краще б вони поїхали… Вся їхня надія — на мої консервації, за літо закупорюю близько трьохсот банок компотів, огірків, варень. А що робити? Без цього не виживуть.
І ось я сиджу, слухаю і відчуваю, як всередині все стискається. Чому так? Чому доля наших дітей – це життя далеко від нас?
Ми радіємо їхнім успіхам, пишаємося ними, але не можемо притиснути їх до себе, коли важко. Ми не можемо дати їм батьківської поради за чашкою чаю на кухні, не можемо просто посидіти поруч, мовчки, але так, щоб відчути одне одного.
А що далі?
Ми старіємо. Наші діти стають чужими, їхні світи нам невідомі. Вони не знають, як ми живемо. А ми не знаємо, якими вони стали.
І ось настане день, коли вже не буде дзвінків по скайпу, не буде тих рідкісних зустрічей на свята. Пройде ще трохи часу – і вони прилетять, але вже не до мене, а на мій прощальний день.
Але так хочеться ще хоч раз міцно обійняти сина, заглянути в очі онукові і сказати: «Запам’ятай, дід тебе любить».
Але час іде. І хто знає, чи встигнемо ми…
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew admitted, fidgeting with his empty espresso cup. His voice cracked and wavered so convincingly that Kate found herself leaning closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, you lose a part of yourself. She left me with wounds I thought would never heal… I honestly didn’t think I’d survive.” Andrew’s stories poured out for a long time: about his wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t let go, the fear of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm little stone. She imagined herself as the woman who could restore his faith in love—how they’d heal his scars together, how he’d realize true happiness was possible with her by his side. He first mentioned Max on their second date, casually dropped in between dessert and coffee… — “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but stays with me every weekend. The court said so.” — “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She started daydreaming: Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, TV evenings together. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She could become a second mum—not a replacement, but someone close, someone family… — “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Andrew watched her with a crooked smile she mistook for wariness at the time. “A lot of women run when they hear about a kid.” — “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Her first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his absolute favourite, as Andrew had tipped her off. Patiently, she helped him through his maths homework. She washed his dinosaur T-shirt, pressed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine sharp. — “You should have a rest,” she told Andrew after he’d sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this covered.” Andrew nodded—or so it seemed then, gratefully. But now she realized it was the nod of a man taking his due. Time marched on. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out by eight, home after seven. Decent salary by London standards—enough for two. But there were three. — “Hold-up on site again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a hurricane, “Client’s pulled out. But there’s a big contract coming, I promise.” The “big contract” hovered on the horizon for a year and a half, sometimes getting closer, mostly never arriving. But the bills always came—rent, utilities, internet, groceries, child support for Marina, new trainers for Max, school contributions. Kate paid all of them, quietly. She skimped on lunches, brought in tupperware pasta, walked home in the rain to save on cabs. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—did her own nails and tried not to remember the luxury of professional treatments. Three years, and Andrew had given her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each bouquet—cheap roses from the convenience kiosk near their tube stop, droopy and with snapped-off thorns. Probably on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second came after an argument about a friend who visited unannounced. The third, when he missed her birthday because he lingered with mates—simply forgot. — “Andrew, I don’t want expensive gifts,” she tried to keep her voice gentle. “Just… sometimes I’d like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face contorted instantly. — “So it’s all about money for you, is it? Presents? Don’t you care about love? Or what I’ve been through?” — “That’s not what—” — “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After all I do for you, you still complain.” She fell silent. She always did—it made things easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Yet, for mates’ nights, Andrew always found cash. Pubs, football at the local, café Thursdays. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, flop onto the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She convinced herself this was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change, surely. She just had to be even more attentive, love even harder—after all, look at what he’d suffered… Talk of marriage became a minefield. — “We’re happy as we are, why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew waved the question away like a pesky fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” — “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” — “Now you’re pressuring me—always pressuring!” He stormed off, ending the conversation. Kate longed for children of her own. She was twenty-eight, the ticking biological clock growing louder each month. But Andrew wasn’t interested in a second round of fatherhood—he had a son, and that was enough for him. Then came that Saturday—she asked for just one day. One day. — “The girls are inviting me over. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as though she’d announced she was emigrating. — “And Max?” — “He’s your son, Andrew. Spend the day with him.” — “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I’m expecting to relax?” She blinked. In three years she’d never left them alone. Never asked for a day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, tutored homework, washed, ironed—while holding a full-time job. — “I just want to see my friends. It’s only a few hours… And he’s your son. Can’t you spend a day with him on your own?” — “You’re supposed to love my child as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to make demands?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food. Three years supporting a man who yelled at her for wanting to spend a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—twisted face, throbbing temples, fists clenched—and saw him for the first time. Not as a wounded soul, not a helpless victim in need of rescue, but an adult who had learned to expertly exploit kindness. Kate, to him, was not a beloved partner, not a future wife. She was a walking wallet and a live-in maid. That was all. When Andrew left to drop Max back to Marina, Kate took out her suitcase. Her hands moved calmly, no shakes, no doubts. Passport. Mobile. Charger. A couple of shirts and jeans. The rest could be bought later. The rest didn’t matter. She left no note. What could she explain to a man who never valued her? The door closed behind her quietly, no fuss, no drama. The calls started within an hour—one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, endless trill that made her phone quiver. — “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! You’ve gone, there’s no dinner! Am I supposed to go hungry now? What the hell?!” She listened—his voice angry, demanding, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, as she’d left, Andrew thought only of himself. How inconvenient this was. Who would make his tea? No “sorry”. No “what happened”. Just “how dare you”. Kate blocked his number. Blocked him on Messenger. On every social platform—brick by brick, she built herself a wall. Three years. Three years with someone who never loved her. Who used her empathy as a disposable resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But that’s not love. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t reduce someone to a servant. Kate walked through the twilight streets of London and for the first time in ages, she could breathe. She vowed she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again give herself away to those who prey on pity. And always, always choose herself. Just herself.
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