З життя
Злість свекрухи: Як моя мама була вигнана з палати через «неоплачені рахунки»
На пологовий зал завітала несподівана буря, коли моя свекруха Оксана вигнала мою маму через те, що та “не заплатила за лікарню”.
У той момент, коли мене розривали перейми, Оксана вирішила, що моя мама “не має права” залишатися в пологовому залі, бо “не оплачує рахунки лікарні”. Але доля швидко поставила все на свої місця: тільки-но Оксана розвернулася, щоб піти, вона зрозуміла, що її дріб’язкова гра закінчилася.
Насправді пологи зовсім не такі, як їх описують в яскравих книгах.
Це не просто вправи на дихання і чарівні миті. Це час, коли ти стаєш вразливою, коли твоє тіло і серце буквально відкривається.
Ти виснажена, охоплена болем і повністю залежиш від людей навколо. Тож уявіть мій жах, коли в розпал переймів моя свекруха змусила мою маму вийти з палати.
А її аргумент був таким:
«Вона не платить за народження, значить, їй тут не місце.»
Я хотіла крикнути, обуритися, але була занадто слабка і виснажена. А Оксана… Вона самовдоволено усміхалася — доти, доки не повернулася. У цей момент вона ахнула і зблідла.
Дозвольте розпочати з самого початку.
Я завжди була близька з мамою, Олею. Вона була моєю опорою все життя, і я не сумнівалася, що хочу, щоб вона була поруч під час пологів.
Вона підтримувала мене у найважливіші моменти життя — після першого розриву стосунків, на випускному в університеті, на весіллі з Андрієм, чоловіком, якого я кохаю.
Зараз, коли я готувалася стати матір’ю, мені, як ніколи, була потрібна її спокійна, заспокійлива енергія.
Мій чоловік Андрій повністю підтримував мене. Більше того, саме він першим запропонував:
«Твоя мама має бути там, Ірина, вона найкраще знає, що тобі потрібно.»
У перші години переймів саме мама тримала мене за руку, заспокоюючи ніжним голосом:
«Дихай, дорога, все добре», поки Андрій заповнював папери для госпіталізації.
Але Оксана бачила ситуацію інакше.
Гроші = влада?
Вона завжди мала дивне ставлення до грошей. Хоча вони з моїм свекром Богданом були досить забезпеченими, Оксана чомусь вважала, що гроші дають їй право розпоряджатися життями інших. Ніби її платинова кредитна картка автоматично робить її головною у будь-яких рішеннях.
Ми з Андрієм самі заробляємо і не залежать від його батьків фінансово, але Оксана постійно намагалася втручатися в наше життя, особливо коли розуміла, що не може контролювати нас за допомогою грошей.
Коли вона дізналася, що моя мама буде в пологовій палаті, її це не влаштувало.
За місяць до пологів вона заявила за вечерею:
«Думаю, логічніше, якщо там буду я. Зрештою, Андрій і я оплачуємо медичні рахунки. А твоя мати… що вона вкладає в це?»
Я ледь не захлинулася водою.
«Перепрошую?»
«Я просто кажу, що зазвичай дозволяють тільки одну людину, окрім батька дитини. Це має бути хтось, хто дійсно вклався у народження дитини.»
Моє обличчя спалахнуло від злості.
«Моя мама підтримує мене під час пологів. Я хочу, щоб вона була поруч. Справа не в грошах!»
Вона удавано усміхнулася.
«Побачимо…»
Я тоді не розуміла, що вона не збиралася так просто здаватися.
«Ніхто не посміє вигнати мою маму,» — прошепотіла я Андрію вночі.
«Обіцяй, що підтримаєш мене.»
«Звісно,» — він поцілував мене в лоб. — «Мамі доведеться з цим змиритися.»
Але в день пологів усе пішло інакше.
Коли вона перейшла до дій
Я була на межі — в зморі, з потом заплутаним волоссям, ледве усвідомлюючи те, що відбувається між переймами.
«Ти чудово справляєшся, люба,» — сказала мама, обтираючи мені лоб холодною тканиною.
«Ще кілька годин…»
Я застогнала:
«Кілька ГОДИН? Мамо, я не можу…»
«Ти можеш. Зосередься на кожному вдиху по черзі.»
І ось в цей момент до зали увійшла Оксана — з ідеальною зачіскою, в сукні, ніби йшла на засідання ради директорів. Її погляд відразу ковзнув до мами, яка наливала воду в рушник.
«А що ТИ тут робиш?» — з ядом спитала вона.
Мама спокійно відповіла:
«Я тут, щоб підтримати свою доньку.»
«Підтримати?» — Оксана з презирством фиркнула. — «Вона народжує дитину, а не влаштовує чаєпиття. Якою медичною допомогою ти тут можеш їй допомогти?»
«Я її матір. Я тут заради неї.»
Оксана примружилася і повернулася до медсестри.
«Перепрошую,» — промовила вона ввічливо, але холодно. — «Ця жінка повинна піти. Вона не є близьким родичем і не оплачує лікування.»
Я спробувала заперечити, але нова хвиля болю прошила мене наскрізь.
Коли я змогла знову дихати, мама вже виходила, сльози блистіли в неї на очах.
Оксана сіла на її місце і самовдоволено усміхнулася:
«От так-то краще. Тепер тут тільки рідня.»
Але вона не помітила, як за її спиною прозвучав грізний голос.
«Що тут відбувається?»
У дверях стояли Богдан, Андрій і… моя мама.
«Мама сказала, що її вигнали,» — Андрій дивився на Оксану здивовано.
«Оксано, ти дійсно вигнала матір Ірини… через гроші?» — голос Богдана був холодний, як лід.
«Я просто…» — почала вона.
«Вийди. Зараз же.»
Оксана розгубилася, а потім мовчки пішла за ним.
І в наступний момент мама знову була поруч, а я стиснула її руку.
Через три години ми зустріли нашу доньку — без токсичності Оксани в кімнаті.
Вона була крихітною копією Андрія з його темним волоссям… і, якщо я не помиляюся, з підборіддям моєї мами.
«Ти чудово впоралася, люба,» — мама шепотіла мені, тримаючи онучку на руках.
Наступного дня повернулася Оксана. Без ідеальної зачіски, без зверхності.
Вона мовчки простягнула мені кошик. Всередині лежали:
— крихітний, зшитий вручну комбінезон,
— зв’язаний нею плед,
— трохи сутулиста, але наполегливо вишита подушечка.
А під ними… домашній яблучний пиріг.
Вона подивилася на мене і прошепотіла:
«Пробач…»
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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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