Mom, you’re just a pauper!” Pashka yelled, 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 treacherously. Such scenes had been happening more frequently lately.
“Pash,” she called quietly, “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 what about you? ‘Let’s wait until the next paycheck’… You never have any money!”
Larisa closed her eyes. Sleepless nights over side jobs, the old car she sold to pay for Pashka’s English lessons, sandwiches instead of lunch… All for him. And now he was throwing such words.
“Son,” she tried to speak calmly, although her voice trembled traitorously, “you know I’m doing everything I can…”
“Exactly!” The door burst open so suddenly that Larisa flinched. “All you can do is NOTHING! And dad… dad understands what I need. He doesn’t skimp like you!”
Matvey. Her ex-husband, who had simply left eleven years ago, leaving her with a four-year-old child. And now he suddenly reappeared—a successful businessman, a loving father. He buys his son expensive gifts, takes him to restaurants, invites him to spend weekends at his country house. It’s easy to be a kind uncle, appearing once a week with gifts. But who got up at night to a sick baby? Who mended jeans torn at the knees? Who cooked soups and checked homework?
“You know what, mom?” Pashka 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 with full force. Larisa felt a hot tear roll down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away with her hand.
“So be it,” she said unexpectedly firmly. “You want to go to your father—please do. I won’t stand in your way. Just don’t come running to me with grievances later.”
“And I don’t plan to!” Pashka snorted. “Finally, I’ll live like a person.”
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 teabag… 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 on her heart.
Matvey called in the evening.
“Larisa, Pasha said he wants to live with me,” his voice contained 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 at the darkening window. Behind the wall, there was some fuss—Pashka was packing his things. Hurrying. Can’t wait to escape from his ‘pauper’ mother…
“Lord,” she thought, “why? I’ve done everything for him… My whole life—for him…”
In the morning, Pashka left. He packed two huge bags with his things, muttered “bye,” and slammed the door. Larisa was left alone in the empty apartment. She slowly walked through the rooms, pausing to look at the little things that reminded her of her son: socks scattered under the bed, a half-finished 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 had she mended that dog, sewn back its torn-off ears, washed it… And now here it was—discarded. Just like she was herself.
Suddenly, Larisa felt a strange relief. No more need to prepare breakfast that he never eats. No need to wash a mountain of dirty socks and T-shirts. No need to listen to reproaches and comparisons with ‘normal’ parents…
She stood up, resolutely opened the wardrobe, and took out a beautiful dress she hadn’t worn in a long time—there was nowhere to wear it. Well, now she had time for herself. Maybe go to the movies? Or that cozy restaurant she had passed by so many times? Or…
Her phone buzzed with a message. From Pashka: “Forgot my tablet charger. Bring it.”
He didn’t even write ‘please.’
Sorry, son,” she texted back, “I’m busy today. Ask your dad to buy a new one. He can afford it.”
And for the first time in a long time, she smiled.
The first days in his father’s house seemed like a fairy tale to Pashka. A spacious three-story cottage, a huge room with its own bathroom, a brand-new computer… Beautiful furniture, expensive paintings on the walls—it all screamed affluence and success. How different it was from their small two-room apartment in an old panel building with his mom!
“How do you like it?” Matvey proudly gestured around the living room. “Not like your hovel with your mom, huh?”
Pashka nodded in agreement, although something scratched at his chest at those words. Maybe the memory of how his mom used to sew toys at night to save up for his new bicycle? But he pushed those thoughts away.
His father’s new wife, Marina, greeted her stepson coolly. A tall, well-groomed woman with perfect nails, she seemed to radiate cold.
“Just don’t make a mess in your room,” she said instead of a greeting. “This isn’t a hotel.”
Her children—ten-year-old twins Kirill and Karina—looked at Pashka as if he were a curious insect.
“Is it true that you lived in a Khrushchev-era apartment? And you didn’t even have your own bathroom?” Karina asked during dinner.
“I used to,” Pashka muttered. “Not anymore.”
“Poor thing,” the girl said with poorly hidden mockery. “How did you even 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?” Pashka wanted to retort, but he remained silent. His father was buried in his phone, ignoring the squabble.
The days dragged on slowly. His father was constantly missing for work, and when he was home, he was occupied with the twins or talking to Marina. Pashka wandered through the huge house, feeling out of place. The brand-new computer no longer brought joy. School was getting worse—no one checked his homework or made him sit down to study.
“Dad, maybe we could go out?” he asked once.
“Sorry, son, busy,” Matvey brushed him off. “Here, take some money for your expenses.”
Money. Always just money. Did his father remember what his favorite music was? Did he know that he hated oatmeal? Did he guess that he had nightmares during thunderstorms?
Mom knew. She always knew.
One evening, Pashka accidentally overheard his father talking to Marina.
“How long is he going to stick around?” his stepmother hissed. “He’s ruining the twins’ mood! And besides… I didn’t sign up to raise someone else’s child.”
“Sweetheart, he’s my son,” his father replied uncertainly.
“Exactly—YOUR son! You entertain him. He just sits around all day, muttering to himself… Maybe we should send him to a boarding school? There are excellent schools in Europe…”
Pashka quietly closed the door and went up to his room. He felt empty and cold inside. He pulled out his phone, opened the chat with his mom. The last message—two weeks ago, about the charger. Mom hadn’t brought it. And he hadn’t even apologized for his rudeness…
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 traitorously 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 without even telling his father. Mom lay there pale and gaunt, but she smiled at him with that familiar, warm 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, you hear? I’ve been such a fool…”
“Oh, my little one,” her hand rested on his head, as it did in childhood. “It’s alright.”
“It’s not alright!” he raised his tear-stained face. “I said such horrible things… And you still love me?”
“Silly boy,” she pulled him to her. “I’m your mom. I’ll always love you.”
After that, Pashka started visiting the hospital every day. He brought fruits, books, sat by her side, and talked about his life—now honestly, without embellishments.
“…and those twins, Mom, they’re just unbearable! Always teasing, acting up… And Marina! You know what she said yesterday? ‘Move your sneakers out of the way, this isn’t a dormitory!'”
Mom listened, sometimes smiling, but often frowning. One day she couldn’t hold back: “Pash, are you… happy there?”
He paused mid-sentence. Happy? A luxurious house, 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 answered honestly. “Everything feels… 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 living just for home, work, you… And then I realized: you can’t live like that. A person needs to grow, develop. Otherwise, what will they pass on to their children?”
Pashka was silent, digesting what he 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, does laundry, checks homework. And she, it turns out…
“Mom, let’s go together? Well, to the theater, or wherever you want? When you get better.”
Her eyes lit up: “Really? You’d go with me?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Why not?”
That evening, returning to his father’s house, Pashka sat long in his room. The twins were noisy downstairs, dishes clinked—the family was having dinner. They hadn’t called him. He was used to it.
There was a knock on the door. His father.
“Pash, where have you been disappearing to all day? Marina says you don’t even come to dinner.”
“I was at Mom’s,” Pashka muttered. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh,” his father lingered in the doorway. “How is she?”
“What do you care?” Pashka burst out. “You haven’t cared for eleven years!”
Matvey frowned: “Listen, son, don’t be rude. I, after all, provide you with a decent life. Not like…”
“What ‘not like’?” Pashka jumped up. “Finish your sentence! Not like Mom, right? Who worked three jobs so I could go to a good school? Who stayed up all night when I was sick? Who… who was just THERE?!”
“What do you understand!” his father raised his voice. “Do you think it was easy to leave everything behind and start from scratch? I had to realize myself, become successful…”
“For whom?” Pashka asked quietly. “For your new family? For these twins? And me, just an afterthought? ‘Here’s some pocket money’—and buzz off?”
Matvey turned red: “You know what… if you don’t like it here—you’re welcome to leave!”
“Then I will!”
“Go back to your pauper!”
A deadly silence hung in the air. Pashka 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,” Pashka said very calmly. “I understand everything. Thank you, Dad. Thanks for the lesson.”
He began packing his things. His hands trembled, but his movements were clear and decisive. He threw the essentials into his bag, the rest be damned. The computer? Didn’t need it. The iPhone? Let him choke on it.
“Pash, what are you doing…” his father hesitated nearby. “We both got heated, it happens to everyone…”
“It happens, Dad. Anything can happen. But you know… Mom would never call you a pauper. Because she is a person. And you… you’re just a wallet on legs.”
He slung his bag over his shoulder and left, carefully closing the door behind him. In the hallway, he ran into Marina.
“Where are you going?” she squinted.
“Home,” he replied. “To Mom.”
And for the first time in a long time, he felt… right. As if a huge weight had been lifted from his soul.
Pashka got home after dark. He used his old, worn key that he’d carried in his pocket all these months to open the door. He stood in the dark hallway, inhaling the familiar smell: Mom’s perfume, cinnamon (she always loved to bake cinnamon buns), some flowers on the windowsill…
He turned on the light and looked around. The apartment was unusually clean and… cozy? He hadn’t noticed that before. New paintings hung on the walls—small but pretty landscapes. On the coffee table—a stack of psychology books. Mom hadn’t been wasting her time.
His room was untouched. Just tidied up and aired out—Mom had been checking to make sure no dust had settled. On the desk—a framed photograph: him as a little boy, laughing, sitting on Mom’s shoulders. Both so happy…
Pashka took out his phone and called Aunt Svetlana: “And Mom… when will they discharge her?”
“In a couple of days, they promised,” she replied. “You’re back?”
“Yes. For good.”
They were silent on the line, then Aunt Svetlana quietly said, “Good job, Pashka. You did the right thing.”
He spent the next few days busying himself. He cleaned the apartment, washed the curtains, fixed the kitchen faucet (he’d been meaning to get to it). He went shopping and stocked up on groceries—Mom loves home-cooked meals, no semi-finished products. He even started cooking, remembering lessons from Mom.
When she returned from the hospital—thinner but already stronger—she was greeted by a laid table and a pie. It was slightly burnt, but that’s just a detail.
“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 frequently.
Life began to improve. Pashka took up his studies—he had fallen behind during his time at his father’s. But no matter, he would catch up. Mom helped, explained the incomprehensible. And on weekends, they often went out together: to the theater, to the park, or just for a walk around the city. They talked about everything under the sun.
“You know, Mom,” he said once, “I just realized: you’ve always tried to make me better. And Dad… he just bought his way out.”
“Don’t judge him harshly. He just… doesn’t know any other way.”
Father tried calling, invited him back. Promised a new computer, a trip abroad… Pashka politely declined. He returned the pocket money via transfer—didn’t need it.
A year later, a miracle happened: Mom got a promotion at work. Now she was the head of the department, and her salary increased. They even managed to renovate the apartment—a modest but tasteful update. Pashka chose the wallpaper for his room himself.
Five years passed. Pashka graduated from school, enrolled in university. Met Alyona—a funny redhead girl with freckles. Fell in love so hard he was dizzy. Introduced her to Mom first thing.
“Just look at them,” Alyona whispered once, watching Pashka and his mom cooking dinner together. “So… familial.”
And at the wedding—a small, but very warm one—Mom danced and laughed like a girl. She had blossomed over the years, even remarried—a good man, Pashka’s university professor.
Pashka invited his father to the wedding. He came with his latest wife (he and Marina had divorced) and hesitated at the entrance, unsure how to act. Eventually, he approached his ex-wife: “Larisa… you… did well. Raised the boy.”
“We raised him,” she corrected gently. “Together. Just each in our own way.”
…A year later, Pashka had a daughter. When he first held her, so tiny and defenseless, he suddenly understood: this was what mattered. Not money, not status, not expensive toys. But love. Simple, pure, selfless. Like his mom’s.
“Mom,” he said when they brought the baby home, “thank you. For everything.”
“For what, my 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 here.