Dima

The apartment door slammed shut with a dull thud. You leaned your forehead against the cold surface, trying to stop yourself from shivering. The hallway smelled of fried fish—Tamara Ivanovna cooked on Wednesdays.

“You’re late,” came a voice from the kitchen.

You walked into the living room. Tamara Ivanovna was standing at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.

"Hello, Tamara Ivanovna," you said quietly. But she didn't turn around.

"Have you even seen how much this costs? Eggs, butter, flour... I go to the market twice a week, and you don't even say thank you."

"I pay for groceries, repairs, the dacha. Why are you saying I owe you anything?" you replied.

Tamara Ivanovna turned around with a teapot in her hands.

— You? Paying? You live under my roof—by the grace of my son. He could have found a normal woman, not a freeloader!

"I'm not a freeloader! I pay for everything, I work, unlike you!" you objected.

"You dare talk about respect? You, who came into my house and took over everything!" she laughed.

"That's my money—my salary, my bonus! I hung the wallpaper you tore myself!" you shouted.

Tamara Ivanovna became frighteningly calm:

"You don't understand anything. You're a stranger. You'll never belong. He doesn't need you. You're barren. You won't have children, and you'll die alone!"

"You don't know anything about me!" you exclaimed at the same time as her.

At that very moment, she splashed boiling water—it hit you in the face. You screamed, recoiled, and hit your back against the wall.

Tamara Ivanovna froze with an empty teapot.

“Oh… I don’t…” she muttered.

Dima came out of the hallway. He looked at you, then at your mother, then back at you.

“You’re smarter, you could have kept quiet,” he said.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered.

Dima turned his gaze to his mother:

• Mom, go rest. I'll figure it out.

Tamara Ivanovna went out into the hallway. You heard her bedroom door close.

Dima came closer.

“I’ll call an ambulance now,” he said in an even voice.