«Mom, you’re just a pauper!» Pasha shouted, slamming the door of his room.
Larisa froze in the hallway, clutching her son’s unironed T-shirt to her chest. His words hit harder than a slap. She leaned against the wall, feeling her knees tremble traitorously. Such scenes had become more frequent lately.
«Pash,» she called softly, «let’s talk…»
«There’s nothing to talk about!» came from behind the door. «Everyone has normal parents, only I suffer with you. Look, Dimka’s parents bought him a new iPhone, and you? ‘Let’s wait until the next paycheck’… You never have money!»
Larisa closed her eyes. Sleepless nights over side jobs, the old car she sold to pay for Pasha’s English lessons, sandwiches instead of lunch… All for him. And now he was hurling such words.
«Son,» she tried to speak calmly, though her voice trembled traitorously, «you know I do everything I can…»
«Exactly!» The door flung open so abruptly that Larisa flinched. «All you can is NOTHING! And dad… dad understands what I need. He doesn’t skimp like you!»
Matvey. Her ex-husband, who left eleven years ago, abandoning her with a four-year-old child. Now he suddenly reappeared—a successful businessman, a loving father. Buying his son expensive gifts, taking him to restaurants, inviting him for weekends at his country house. Easy to be the good uncle, showing up once a week with presents. But who was up at night with a sick baby? Who patched torn jeans? Who made soups and checked homework?
«You know what, mom?» Pasha looked at her with some unfamiliar, prickly contempt. «I want to live with dad. He has a normal house, not this dump. And a cool car, not your bus. And at least… he’s achieved something in life!»
Each word struck hard. A hot tear rolled down Larisa’s cheek. She hastily wiped it away with her hand.
«So, that’s how it is,» she said unexpectedly firmly. «Want to go to your father—please. But don’t come running back to me with grievances.»
«And I’m not going to!» Pasha snorted. «Finally, I’ll live like a human.»
He demonstratively pulled out his phone—a gift from his father—and started typing something. Probably a message to Matvey. Larisa silently turned around and went to the kitchen. Her hands moved automatically: turn on the kettle, take out a cup, drop in a tea bag… She tried not to think about what had just happened. Not to think about how her only son, for whom she had lived all these years, had just trampled her heart.
Matvey called in the evening.
«Laris, Pasha said he wants to stay with me,» his voice carried poorly concealed pride. «You don’t mind?»
«I don’t mind,» she replied tiredly. «Take him. Maybe he’ll learn to appreciate you.»
«Come on,» Matvey laughed. «The boy just wants to live in normal conditions. What can you give him on your salary?»
Larisa silently hung up. She sat in the kitchen, looking into the darkening window. Behind the wall, some fuss—Pasha was packing his things. Hurrying. Can’t wait to escape from a ‘pauper’ mother…
«Lord,» she thought, «why? I did everything for him… My whole life—for him…»
In the morning, Pasha left. He packed two huge bags with things, grunted «bye» and slammed the door. Larisa was left alone in the empty apartment. She slowly walked through the rooms, pausing her gaze on the little things that reminded her of her son: socks scattered under the bed, an unfinished cup of cocoa on the table, a poster of a rock band on the wall… She entered his room, sat on the bed. It smelled of his favorite deodorant.
In the corner lay an old plush dog—his favorite toy in childhood. How many times she had patched that dog, sewn on torn ears, washed it… And now it was abandoned. Like her.
Suddenly, Larisa felt a strange relief. No more need to make breakfast he never eats. No need to wash a mountain of dirty socks and T-shirts. No need to endure reproaches and comparisons with «normal» parents…
She stood up, resolutely opened the closet, and took out a beautiful dress she had not worn in a long time—there was nowhere to wear it. Well, now she had time for herself. Maybe go to the cinema? Or to that cozy restaurant she had passed by so many times? Or…
The phone buzzed with a message. From Pasha: «Forgot my tablet charger. Bring it.»
Even no «please.»
«Sorry, son,» she typed in response, «I’m busy today. Ask dad to buy a new one. He can afford it.»
And for the first time in a long time, she smiled.
The first days at his father’s house seemed like a fairy tale to Pasha. A spacious three-story cottage, a huge room with a private bathroom, a brand-new computer… Beautiful furniture, expensive paintings on the walls—everything screamed wealth and success. How different it was from their old apartment with his mom in a panel building!
«Well, how do you like it?» Matvey waved his hand around the living room with pride. «Not like your mom’s dump, right?»
Pasha nodded in agreement, although something scratched at his chest at those words. Maybe a memory of how his mom sewed toys at night to save up for his new bike? But he dismissed these thoughts.
His father’s new wife, Marina, met her stepson coolly. A tall, well-groomed woman with perfect manicure, she seemed to radiate cold.
«Just don’t make a mess in your room,» she threw out instead of a greeting. «We’re not a hostel here.»
Her children—ten-year-old twins Kirill and Karina—looked at Pasha as if he was a curious insect.
«Is it true that you lived in a Khrushchyovka?» Karina asked at dinner. «And you didn’t even have your own bathroom?»
«I had one,» Pasha grumbled. «Not anymore.»
«Poor thing,» the girl stretched with poorly hidden mockery. «How did you live there?»
«I lived fine,» he snapped back.
«Kids, don’t fight,» Marina drawled lazily. «Pavel, don’t be rude to your sister.»
«What sister is she to me?» Pasha wanted to snap back, but he kept silent. His father was engrossed in his phone, paying no attention to the squabble.
Days dragged on slowly. His father was constantly missing for work, and when he was home, he was busy with the twins or talking to Marina. Pasha wandered through the huge house, feeling out of place. The brand-new computer no longer brought joy. At school, things were getting worse—no one checked his homework, no one made him sit down to study.
«Dad, maybe we could go for a walk?» he asked once.
«Sorry, son, busy,» Matvey brushed him off. «Here, take some pocket money.»
Money. Always just money. Did his father remember what his favorite music was? Did he know that he hated oatmeal? Did he suspect that he had nightmares during storms?
Mom knew. Always knew.
One evening, Pasha accidentally overheard his father’s conversation with Marina.
«How long is he going to stick around here?» his stepmother hissed. «He’s ruining the twins’ mood! And besides… I didn’t sign up to raise someone else’s kid.»
«Sweetheart, he’s my son,» his father hesitated.
«Exactly—YOUR son! You entertain him. He just sits around all day, muttering something under his breath… Maybe we should send him to a boarding school? There are excellent schools in Europe…»
Pasha quietly closed the door and went upstairs. His chest felt empty and cold. He took out his phone, opened the dialogue with his mom. The last message—two weeks ago, about the charger. Mom didn’t bring it. And he didn’t even apologize for being rude…
His finger hovered over the keyboard. What to write? «Sorry»? «I miss you»? «Can I come back»?
Pride wouldn’t allow it. He threw the phone on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. Tears treacherously flowed from his eyes.
A week later, Aunt Svetlana, Mom’s friend, called.
«Pasha… your mom’s in the hospital. Pneumonia. She didn’t want to call, but I think you should know.»
He rushed to the hospital, not even informing his father. Mom lay pale, emaciated, but smiled at her son with that familiar, dear smile.
«Pashenka…» she whispered.
And he couldn’t hold back. He fell to his knees by the bed, burying his face in the blanket: «Forgive me, mom… Forgive me, do you hear? I’m such a fool…»
«There, there, my little one,» her hand rested on his head, as in childhood. «It’s alright.»
«It’s not alright!» he raised his tear-stained face. «I said such things… And you still love me?»
«Silly boy,» she pulled him to her. «I’m your mom. I will always love you.»
After that, Pasha visited the hospital every day. Brought fruits, books, sat beside her, talked about his life—now honestly, without pretense.
«… and those twins, Mom, they’re just unbearable! Always teasing, acting up… And Marina! You know what she said yesterday? ‘Move your sneakers from the hallway, we’re not a dorm here!'»
Mom listened, sometimes smiling, but often frowning. One day she couldn’t hold back: «Pash, are you… are you happy there?»
He paused mid-sentence. Happy? A luxurious home, expensive clothes, the latest iPhone in his pocket… But why then did he feel so melancholy in the evenings? Why did he want to curl up in a corner and howl from loneliness?
«I don’t know, Mom,» he honestly replied. «Everything’s so… not mine. You know, like I’m a guest. A long-term guest.»
«I understand,» she stroked his hand. «You know, when you left… I didn’t know what to do either. At first, I was even relieved—peace, quiet. I started going to the theater, to exhibitions…»
«Really?» he raised his eyebrows in surprise. «I didn’t know you liked that.»
«Imagine, I didn’t know either,» she laughed. «So many years I lived only for the house, work, you… And then I realized: it can’t be like this. A person needs to develop, grow. Otherwise, what will they pass on to their children?»
Pasha was silent, digesting what he had heard. He had never thought of his mom as a… person. With her own dreams, interests, desires. She had always just been Mom—the one who cooks, washes, checks homework. And she, it turns out…
«Mom, let’s go together? Well, to the theater there, or wherever you want? When you get better.»
Her eyes lit up: «Really? You’d go with me?»
«Yeah,» he shrugged. «What’s the big deal?»
In the evening, returning to his father’s house, Pasha sat for a long time in his room. Downstairs, the twins were noisy, dishes clinked—the family was having dinner. They didn’t call him. He was used to it.
There was a knock at the door. His father.
«Pash, where have you been disappearing all day? Marina says you even skip dinner.»
«I was at Mom’s,» Pasha grumbled. «She’s in the hospital.»
«Oh,» his father hesitated in the doorway. «And how is she?»
«What does it matter to you?» Pasha blurted out. «You haven’t cared for eleven years!»
Matvey frowned: «Listen, son, don’t be rude. I, by the way, provide you a decent life. Not like…»
«What ‘not like’?» Pasha jumped up. «Finish it! Not like Mom, right? Who worked three jobs so I could go to a decent school? Who stayed up nights when I was sick? Who… who was JUST THERE?!»
«What do you understand!» his father raised his voice. «You think it was easy to drop everything and start from scratch? I had to realize myself, become successful…»
«For whom?» Pasha quietly asked. «For your new family? For these twins? And me, just an add-on? ‘Here’s some pocket money’—and leave me alone?»
Matvey turned red: «You know what… if you don’t like it here—there’s the door!»
«Then I’ll leave!»
«Go back to your pauper!»
Dead silence hung in the air. Pasha slowly raised his eyes to his father: «What did you say?»
«I…» Matvey faltered, but it was too late.
«So, that’s how it is,» Pasha said very calmly. «I understand everything. Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the lesson.»
He began packing his things. His hands trembled, but his movements were clear, decisive. He threw the essentials into a bag, the rest—forget it. Computer? Don’t need it. iPhone? Let him choke on it.
«Pash, what are you doing…» his father paced nearby. «We got heated, it happens to everyone…»
«It happens, Dad. Everything happens. Only you know… Mom would never call you a pauper. Because she’s a person. And you… you’re just a wallet on legs.»
He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out, carefully closing the door behind him. In the hallway, he bumped into Marina.
«Where are you going?» she squinted at him.
«Home,» he replied. «To Mom.»
And for the first time in a long time, he felt… right. As if a huge stone had fallen from his soul.
Pasha reached home after dark. He opened the door with his old, worn key, which he had carried in his pocket all these months. He stood in the dark hallway, inhaling the familiar smell: Mom’s perfume, cinnamon (she always loved to bake cinnamon rolls), some flowers on the windowsill…
He turned on the light, looked around. The apartment was unusually clean and… cozy? He hadn’t noticed it before. New paintings hung on the walls—small, but nice landscapes. On the coffee table—a stack of psychology books. Mom hadn’t wasted her time.
His room was untouched. Only neatly tidied and aired—Mom had checked in, making sure no dust had settled. On the desk—a photo in a frame: him as a little boy, laughing, sitting on Mom’s shoulders. Both so happy…
Pasha took out his phone, called Aunt Svetlana: «And Mom… when will they discharge her?»
«In a couple of days,» she replied. «You came back?»
«Yes. For good.»
They were silent on the phone, then Aunt Svetlana softly said: «Well done, Pasha. You did the right thing.»
The next few days he spent bustling around. Cleaned the apartment, laundered the curtains, fixed the kitchen faucet (he had been meaning to, but never got around to it). Went to the store, stocked up on groceries—Mom loves homemade food, no semi-finished products. Even started cooking, remembering Mom’s lessons.
When she returned from the hospital—thinner, but already stronger—he greeted her with a laid table and a pie. True, slightly burnt, but that’s details.
«Pash,» was all she said, looking around the apartment. «You…»
«Mom,» he interrupted. «Let’s agree: I’ll never leave again, and you’ll never cry again. Deal?»
She nodded, blinking rapidly.
Life began to improve. Pasha tackled his studies—turned out, he had fallen far behind while living with his father. But no matter, he’d catch up. Mom helped, explained the unclear. And on weekends, they now often went out together: to the theater, to the park, just walking around the city. Talked about everything under the sun.
«You know, Mom,» he said once, «I just realized: you always tried to make me better. And Dad… he just bought his way out.»
Mom stroked his hand: «Don’t judge him harshly. He just… doesn’t know any other way.»
Dad tried calling, invited him back. Promised a new computer, a trip abroad… Pasha politely declined. Returned the pocket money by transfer—didn’t need it.
A year later, a miracle happened: Mom was promoted at work. Now she became the head of the department, the salary increased. They even managed to renovate the apartment—small, but tasteful. Pasha himself chose the wallpaper for his room.
Five years passed. Pasha graduated from high school, enrolled in university. Met Alyonka—a funny redhead girl with freckles. Fell in love so hard his head spun. Introduced her to Mom first thing.
«Just look at them,» Alyonka whispered once, watching Pasha and his mom cook dinner together. «They’re so… family.»
And at the wedding—small, but very warm—Mom danced and laughed like a girl. She had blossomed over the years, bloomed. Even got remarried—to a good man, Pasha’s university teacher.
Dad came to the wedding with his latest wife (he and Marina had divorced) and lingered at the entrance, unsure how to act. Eventually, he approached his ex: «Laris… you… well done. Raised the boy.»
«We raised him,» she corrected softly. «Together. Just each in our own way.»
… A year later, Pasha’s daughter was born. When he first held her, so tiny, defenseless, he suddenly understood: this is what matters. Not money, not status, not expensive toys. But love. Simple, pure, selfless. Just like Mom’s.
«Mom,» he said when they brought the baby home, «thank you. For everything.»
«For what, son?»
«For teaching me the most important thing,» he hugged his daughter close. «To love.»
Mom smiled and stroked his cheek—just like in childhood: «I’m just your mom. And I’ll always be there.»
