All about..

.

Even though her name was Irena, they always called her Renia, Renata, or Renatka. Although she always meant well and never wished anyone harm, things didn't always work out. I don't know why, after all, she tried so hard. I

suspect she was happy a few times in her life, but on the other hand, I realize that most of her life was a series of misfortunes.

She had six sisters and one brother, who died at the age of forty because he drank the borygo that Grandpa used for his tractor. He drank the borygo because he was an alcoholic, and since he didn't have money for better alcohol, he drank whatever he could get his hands on. He left behind four children – two sons and two daughters. A year later, his father died. Irena took it all very hard; after all, he was her only brother and father – two men she loved very much.

By then, she was already an unhappily married woman. She had four children and a fabulously wealthy husband, along with every material thing she could desire. Despite this, she was unhappy.

I don't know if she loved her husband, I don't know if he loved her. I know her children loved her, but they couldn't show it. Besides, no one in that house knew how to express love; not one member of that six-person family ever said "I love you."

I often saw Irena talking to invisible beings. She would talk to them for hours, laughing, screaming, crying, explaining her reasons. She always gesticulated loudly and made strange faces. She didn't care if anyone was watching her or speaking to her. In those moments, the "invisible" people consumed her entire attention.

One day, she was driving her sons to school. She was talking to someone or to herself. She wasn't paying attention to the road, even though it was winter and the road was icy. She skidded and crashed her car. Miraculously, no one was hurt. After this accident, Irena temporarily withdrew from the company of her invisible "friends."

She was a terrible cook. Although she always followed the recipe exactly, the dishes she prepared were, to put it mildly, inedible. Because of this, her husband, and later her children, would make a fuss over her. She would cry and withdraw into her own world. I felt sorry for her, but unfortunately, I couldn't comfort her.

One day, I discovered that her husband was cheating on her. I didn't know what to think, what to do—so I did nothing.

Irena's husband wasn't really a bad man. No! I don't want to defend him. I simply don't want to judge him. It's true that he tyrannized his family. Irena and her children were often afraid of him, but the rare moments of happiness that graced their home were mostly his doing. He was a businessman. He surrounded himself with cold, hard, and calculating people. In their presence, he couldn't show weakness, so he often took out all his anger on his family. It's true that he always apologized for this, but his remorse couldn't undo the harsh words he uttered in anger. In truth, I think he was a good man. He was always "fine" with strangers. Unfortunately, it often happens that we can be kinder to strangers than to those closest to us.

As I mentioned earlier, Irena had four children: one daughter and three sons. I won't write about my daughter because I know her too well and don't want to judge her, or perhaps I can't do it objectively...

Each of her three sons was handsome, kind, and helpful. They differed greatly not only in appearance but also in personality, but despite this, they were very close. They loved their mother, but because of her "quirks," they preferred to approach her with reserve. I suspect they were a bit afraid of her, and perhaps that's why they couldn't talk to each other. In fact, no one in this family could talk to each other except about trivial matters.

The children never invited their friends or acquaintances to their home. They were ashamed that their mother would start behaving strangely and they would have to explain things for her. They preferred to avoid such situations.

Today, unfortunately, too late, I know that such a conversation, a kind word, a "thank you," a "sorry," could have saved her.

One early morning, I walked into her bedroom. She was still in bed. On the table, I found a note written in her handwriting. I couldn't resist reading it.

It was a farewell letter. She wrote that she felt unappreciated, useless, unloved. She wrote that she felt the whole world was her enemy.

I approached her and noticed she was pale. I touched her. She was icy. She wasn't breathing...

Sorrow, despair, guilt... Everything at once. I couldn't even shed a tear to quench this suffering. Me! Me, who cried for no reason. Tears burned my eyes, but none fell. For the first time in my life, I knew what to do. It's just a shame it happened so late.

I kissed her on the cheek and said, "

I love you, Mom...

" ***

Be careful not to let it be too late for you.