Valentina's life was no different from many others. She grew up in a happy, close-knit family, graduated from college, worked as an accountant at a factory, got married, and a few years later gave birth to a daughter, Anastasia. It seemed like what else could you want—live and be happy...
At two, Nastya was diagnosed with a serious illness. I don't remember the exact diagnosis, something related to cancer. And the diagnosis was grim. Her dad put on a brave face—he said he didn't need a sick child, packed his things, left, and never showed up in their lives again. Valentina was left alone with her misfortune, even though her parents and friends helped as much as they could. And Nastya slowly withered away. Two years of hospital stays, surgery, various medications, trips to consult with luminaries of science and "grandmothers." Nothing... No results. Her daughter was slowly dying before her eyes. And, of course, there were church visits and prayers. Valentina prayed with all her heart to God and all the saints for her child's salvation. She cried her eyes out in church before the icon of the Mother of God, begging for her daughter's healing.
The most critical moment had arrived: Nastya lay in the hospital, covered in tubes and IVs, unable to get up, and the doctors had already firmly declared it was the end, these were the last weeks, there was no chance. Another operation was an option, but the chance was one in a million that it would help, not delay the inevitable for a couple of weeks, or that Nastya wouldn't die in the operating room. Valentina still cherished hope for this one chance, begging the doctors to perform the operation. The entire night before the operation, she sat awake at her daughter's bedside, calling out again and again to the Blessed Virgin Mary, asking for help to give Nastyushka the strength to endure the operation. Utterly broken and devastated, she dozed off, sitting in a chair, just before dawn. And she had a dream that the Virgin Mary appeared to her, looked at her sternly, almost irritably, and said, "I will help your daughter. She will get better. But NEVER ask me for ANYTHING again."
The operation was a success. Nastya slowly, little by little, began to recover. The entire medical staff in the department beamed with joy, along with her mother—a miracle... Of course, it wasn't a miraculous cure, as if by magic, but a miracle nonetheless, since the child had been hopeless. It took another six months of treatment and rehabilitation to completely overcome the disease.
Nastya went to school with her peers. Imagine what a joy that was for her mother. Nastya grew up a pretty, smart, and mischievous girl. A true ray of sunshine for her mother, who devoted herself entirely to raising her daughter. Valentina completely forgot about herself, didn't try to start a new family, and had only one purpose in life—Nastya.
Nastya grew up, graduated from high school, entered her first year, and wanted to be a translator. Over time, Valentina began to notice her daughter's strange behavior: she neglected her studies, became irritable, and would scream and throw tantrums at the slightest provocation, her eyes wandering. She didn't immediately understand what was going on. Or maybe she didn't want to understand that after everything they'd been through, this misfortune would befall them on top of everything else—drugs.
What happened next is hard to describe. Nastya dropped out of school, wandered around drug dens, stole valuables from the house, and screamed at her mother, demanding money for another fix. When she didn't get what she wanted, she beat her mother, tore out her hair, shoved her into the bathroom, locked the door, and searched the house, taking everything she could find. She turned to prostitution because her "mother is greedy," doesn't give her any money, and what she does give or finds is meager. It's hard to say which part of Valentina's life suffered more: the sick child or the adult drug addict.
Of course, she begged, pleaded, and scolded her daughter. Three times she sent her to drug treatment centers. It was no use. Each time, after a course of treatment, Nastya was already stoned within a couple of days of returning. Drug addiction is such a thing—until you want it, no one and nothing will help you. And apparently, there was no desire... And, of course, Valentina prayed for her child again. But her prayers, just like that time, were unanswered. One day, when Nastya, in yet another bout of withdrawal, beat her mother again and, having ripped out her gold earrings, ran off to get another "fix," Valentina, overcome with despair, sobbed on the couch. She lay there, her face buried in the pillow, simultaneously praying and cursing God and the Virgin Mary for everything she had been through. It seemed as if her soul was leaving her with these prayers and curses.
Then she fell asleep, and the dream returned. It seemed as if the Virgin Mary was sitting in the chair opposite the sofa, pensive and sad. And she said, looking at the ceiling, as if addressing herself: "I told you: don't ask me for anything else. I shouldn't have interfered and helped you back then. Your daughter wasn't destined to survive. That was her fate. That was your test in this life. You should have had a family later, two children, whom you would have raised to be wonderful, meaningful people. But you clung to your daughter so much, so unwilling to let her go,"We realized that if we took her away from you, you wouldn't be able to fulfill your destiny—that you would follow your daughter. And so we left you Anastasia, destined for nothing. You can see for yourself what came of it. Soon she will leave you. Hang in there. And forgive me. I shouldn't have listened to you, but your prayers touched me deeply."
A month later, Nastya died of an overdose. She lay dead for two days in a drug den among drug addicts, who, high as they were, didn't even realize that one of them had already finished their high. Valentina found her herself. Worried by her prolonged absence, she went to check all the locations she knew. When she arrived at the house, only its owner, a stoned man, was there, leaning his back against the door and, barely able to speak, trying to persuade her not to go in: "Don't go in... It's scary there! "Nastka's dead... It stinks..."
Five years have passed since then. Valentina is terrifying to look at—not a person, but a ghost, some kind of zombie. She walks and talks, but her eyes are completely empty, and her face shows no emotion. She's completely gray at just over 50. She leaves the apartment only to go to the store, to church, and to visit her daughter's grave. She asks me to pick her up as soon as possible...
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