— “I can handle a child. Everything will be fine!”
Alena came closer. She smelled of expensive perfume and something sterile, medical. A habit left over from her previous job. She had once worked as a caregiver for many years—fifteen, as she liked to repeat, as if it were a mark of quality.
— “Lyudmila Sergeevna, I’ve prepared some tea for you,” she said softly, placing a box on the table.
A neat inscription on the lid read: “For Mom.”
— “Chamomile. It will make you feel better. Your sleep will be calmer, your blood pressure lower.”
Lyudmila Sergeevna thanked her. Because it was the polite thing to do. Because Alena always did everything right: called on time, made doctor’s appointments, brought food in containers, smiled at the neighbors. She wanted to believe that her son had a reliable woman by his side, and that she, in turn, was safe.
— “And one more thing,” Alena placed her hand on her shoulder. Her fingers were cold. “Kirill’s routine is important. Bedtime at eight. Any deviation causes him severe anxiety.”
Lyudmila Sergeevna nodded. She knew: restless nights, sharp reactions, fear. It was all explained by the files from the orphanage: diagnoses, recommendations, signatures. Alena often showed these documents as proof of her words.
The door closed. The car drove away. The apartment filled with silence. Even the air felt softer. Kirill was playing in the living room, arranging figurines in neat rows. Lyudmila Sergeevna was solving a crossword puzzle and suddenly felt: it was easier to breathe without Alena.
The kitchen. The kettle. The box with tea bags. She grabbed the first one she saw. Tore it open. Chamomile, yes. And something else. A bitter, medicinal scent. She lifted the mug and heard the voice.
Lyudmila Sergeevna looked at her grandson as if the familiar world had cracked.
— “Why did you speak?”
The boy quickly shook his head, as if afraid the walls were listening….
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