— Olya, dear, I’ve made a visiting schedule. On Sundays, you will come to my place for lunch. I’ll write down what you need to cook.
Olya just smiled then. It seemed to her that it was temporary, that everything would settle down over time. But the schedule turned into a law.
Tamara Lvovna lived alone in a three-room apartment in an old building on the outskirts of the city. Her husband had died ten years ago, and since then, her whole life had revolved around her son.
— My Kirillushka is special, — she liked to repeat. — He needs support. He’s a creative person, not suited for everyday trifles.
For the first six months, Olya put up with it. She cooked according to her mother-in-law’s lists, listened to lectures on how to properly fry cutlets and iron shirts. Tamara Lvovna would judge every dish, pursing her lips:
— Not enough salt. My mother used to do it differently. Write down the recipe.
Kirill ate in silence and didn’t interfere. Sometimes he even agreed with his mother:
— Mom’s right, Olya, you really should try it differently.
The real trials began when Tamara Lvovna retired. Her pension was small — a couple of thousand. She called Kirill and burst into tears on the phone. Olya heard snippets of the conversation:
— How am I going to live, Kirillushka? I don’t even have enough for food. I raised you all by myself, I gave you everything.
In the evening, Kirill sat down at the table across from Olya. He had a guilty look on his face.
— Olya, Mom is having a hard time. We can’t just abandon her, can we?…
Comments are closed.