— Klavdiya Gennadyevna looked around pointedly.
— Evelina left, Mom! I told you in the hospital!
— Well, thank goodness! Good riddance to her! — the mother-in-law nodded with satisfaction. — She was never right for you! An egoist! Only thought about her career, not her husband!
Timur remained silent. He wasn’t used to arguing with his mother; he knew from childhood that it was useless.
— Now we’ll really start living, — Klavdiya Gennadyevna continued. — I’ll make your favorite meatballs, just like when you were a child, and borscht, and cabbage pies. You’ve gotten so thin on her sandwiches.
— Mom, I work all day, and I don’t have time for lunch at home.
— It’s fine. I’ll bring you food to the office. Or will you come home for lunch? Your job isn’t far, is it?
Timur sighed. His office was a forty-minute drive away, but explaining that to his mother was pointless.
— Did she at least not damage any of your things? — Klavdiya Gennadyevna critically examined the room.
— No, everything’s fine.
— What about the apartment documents? The money? Did you check?
— Mom, Evelina is not a thief, — Timur found himself defending her. — She only took her own things.
— We’ll see, we’ll see, — his mother-in-law shook her head skeptically. — Time will tell. Now, help me get settled in my room. I need to unpack.
Timur automatically stood up to help, but something inside him resisted. He suddenly realized that “her room” was Evelina’s study, a place he rarely entered without an invitation. Now his mother wanted to make this corner her own.
— And where will she sleep when she comes back? — Timur asked, surprising himself.
Klavdiya Gennadyevna froze halfway to the study.
— Who?
— Evelina. My wife.
— Timur! — his mother’s voice became icy. — What are you talking about? She abandoned you. Left you in the hospital. Filed for divorce.
— I haven’t signed the papers yet.
Klavdiya Gennadyevna slowly turned to her son, leaning on her cane.
— What do you mean ‘haven’t signed’? Do you want to take back that… that…
— Her name is Evelina, Mom. And yes, she is still my wife.
— After she pushed you down the stairs, have you lost your mind?
— We both know she didn’t push anyone, — Timur said quietly.
Klavdiya Gennadyevna’s face twisted with anger.
— So now I’m a liar? Your own mother?! Did she mess with your head? Ungrateful! I’ve given my whole life to you, and you…
Timur wasn’t listening. Memories flooded his mind. Evelina making breakfast, humming to herself. Evelina laughing at his clumsy joke. Evelina hugging him after a long day at work. And how did he let it all collapse?
— Timur, are you listening to me? — his mother’s voice brought him back to reality.
— Sorry, Mom, I was lost in thought.
— What is there to think about when your mother is suffering?! Help me to my room and bring me some tea with lemon!
Timur obediently offered his arm, helping his mother to the study. While she settled on the sofa, he automatically unpacked her bags, placing her things on the shelves. In one of the bags, he found a photo album. Timur idly flipped through the pages: his childhood, youth, student years. In every photo, his mother was next to him — always there, always directing, always deciding for him.
“But where am I?” he suddenly thought. “When did I ever make my own decisions?”
— Timur, where’s my tea? — a demanding voice called from the room.
Three months passed. Timur still hadn’t signed the divorce papers. Not out of principle or hope for reconciliation — he just couldn’t bring himself to take that final step, as if a signature on paper would definitively erase everything that had been between them. Evelina didn’t call; only her lawyer contacted him a few times, reminding him of the need to resolve the property division. Timur kept postponing the conversation, citing his busy schedule.
Life with his mother turned out to be nothing like he had imagined. Klavdiya Gennadyevna, having recovered from her injury, took control of the household. She rearranged the furniture, changed the curtains, threw out some things she considered “tasteless” (mostly chosen by Evelina). Every morning she cooked breakfast — a heavy, greasy meal, not at all what he was used to. Every evening she waited for him from work, demanding a detailed report of his day. “Who did you have lunch with?”, “What did you talk about?”, “Why were you late?” — the questions rained down one after another. Timur answered mechanically, feeling a growing irritation inside. Once, such care had seemed like a manifestation of love; now he saw it as control and disrespect for his personal space.
One evening, returning from work, he found that his mother had thrown out his favorite mug — a gift from Evelina on their first wedding anniversary.
— Why did you do that? — he asked, barely containing his anger.
— It was chipped, — Klavdiya Gennadyevna shrugged, — and ugly, besides. I bought you a new one, look, with your name on it.
Timur looked at the new mug — white, with a gaudy inscription “To the Best Son in the World.” Something inside him snapped.
— That was a gift from Evelina.
— So what?
