At 3 a.m., my son sent me a message: “Mom, I know you paid 12 million for this house. But my mother-in-law doesn’t want to see you at our grandson’s birthday.” I replied, “Okay.” That night, I decided I’d had enough. And then I made my final move; no one was prepared for what happened next.
The silence at 3 a.m. has a special weight. It’s as dense as concrete and just as cold. In my small two-room apartment, where the walls are covered with old blueprints and engravings of Italian cathedrals, this hour usually belongs only to me. I am an architect.
All my life, I have built structures, calculated loads, and sought harmony in lines. Even now, in retirement, I often stay awake, going through old projects, checking if they have stood the test of time. On the table before me lay an unfurled drawing paper—a project for a city library I supervised 20 years ago. The light from my desk lamp snatched the strict lines of the facade from the gloom. I loved this moment: just me, paper, and logic.
Suddenly, a vibration ran across the lacquered surface of the table. The phone screen lit up, cutting through the cozy dimness with a sharp white light. Trofim. My son. My heart skipped a beat—a habit of any mother. A call or message at this time usually means trouble, an accident, or the hospital. I reached for the phone, trying to remain calm.
But there was no plea for help. The message was long. I read it, and the letters seemed to dance before my eyes, forming a sentence. Not for me. Not for me—for our relationship. “Mom, sorry it’s so late. I know you paid 12 million for this house. And I’m truly grateful.”
“But Lukerya said she doesn’t want to see you at Vanechka’s birthday. She says you make the guests tense with your lectures and remarks. The atmosphere gets heavy. Let’s have dinner next week instead, just the two of us. Don’t be offended.”
I reread it twice. Then a third time. 12 million hryvnias. I closed my eyes and saw not numbers. I saw years. I saw frosty mornings on construction sites when the wind chilled to the bone, and I stood there, supervising the pouring of the foundation to secure my son’s future.
I saw my postponed vacations, the old coat I wore for five seasons to save every penny. I saw my dream—a trip to Italy, to Brunelleschi’s domes, which I gave up so Trofim could have a house. Not just a house, but a glass cube. An eco-friendly, smart, perfect house on the edge of a cliff, which I designed myself.
I invested not just money in it, but my soul; every brick was laid under my supervision. And now…
Comments are closed.