She burst in without ringing the bell—as always, abruptly, loudly, as if the door were her own, not mine. I flinched at the bang and didn’t immediately grasp what was happening. I had a mug of hot tea in my hands and a to-do list in my head. A moment ago, the apartment had been peacefully quiet, and now the air itself felt like it had been shattered.
“Where’s the money?” she yelled from the doorway, without even taking off her shoes. “My son said you got two hundred thousand. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice echoed off the walls. I slowly put the mug on the table, trying not to spill the tea, and only then did I raise my eyes to her. My mother-in-law’s face was contorted with indignation, her eyes darting around the room as if she expected to see stacks of cash in every corner.
“Could you lower your voice?”
“Calm down,” I said, “and anyway, what makes you think you’re supposed to know?”
“Don’t dodge the question,” she interrupted, taking a step forward. “I know everything. My son told me. Two hundred thousand. And you’re just sitting here quietly, as if nothing happened.”
Something unpleasant clenched inside me. So, he had told her. He didn’t ask, didn’t warn me, he just went and blurted it out. I felt a familiar sensation: as if I had been discussed behind my back again, as if I weren’t a person, but a convenient wallet.
“This is my bonus,” I said, more firmly now. “For my work…”
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