Tired of Being Convenient
The envelope with the invitation lay on the table. Snow-white, with golden flourishes, it seemed to mock the woman who was afraid to open it.
Tamara Ivanovna ran her finger over its smooth surface. She knew—inside was a text that would hurt. Her daughter was getting married, and the mother was the last to find out.
The phone rang sharply, piercingly.
— Mom, did you get it? — Ira’s voice was tense, like a taut string.
— I got it.
— Listen, there’s a small problem. I told everyone you’re very ill. Really bad. Practically on your deathbed.
Her hands began to tremble. The envelope slipped out and fell to the floor.
— Why?
— What do you mean why! — the irritation in her voice sharpened. — Andrei works at a serious company; there will be influential people there. They’re used to a certain standard. And you… well, you understand.
I understand. Forty years working as an accountant — not the right “standard.”
Three shifts in a row to pay for tutors — not the right standard.
Loans for her daughter’s internships abroad — also not the right standard.
— So I’m not coming?
— Of course you’re not coming! How could you, if you’re sick? — Irina gave a little snort. — People will ask why the bride’s mother got out of bed. That would be awkward.
Awkward. Forty years of motherhood — convenient, but a seat at the wedding table — inconvenient.
— Ira, darling…
— That’s it, Mom, it’s decided. You understand, this is important for my future. For Andrei’s and my future. Don’t make me choose between you and my husband.
The line went dead. Her daughter hung up.
Tamara Ivanovna picked up the envelope and finally opened it.
A pretty card, golden letters:
“Irina and Andrei invite you to share their joy…” The date — tomorrow. Time — seven in the evening. Restaurant “Golden Star.”
She walked to the window. In the courtyard, her neighbor Valentina Petrovna was fussing with her flowers. She had a daughter too — called every day, came with the grandkids, asked for advice about everything.
Tamara Ivanovna immediately felt ashamed of the envy.
The phone rang again.
— Tamara Ivanovna? It’s Lucy from work. How are you? Irochka said you’re really unwell. Should we call a doctor?
Her heart clenched. Her daughter was already calling everyone, covering her bases. So no one would accidentally see the healthy mother of the bride.
— Thank you, Lucy. I’ll lie down for now.
— Well, hang in there. And give Irochka our congratulations, if you can.
After the call she sat for a long time, looking at an old photograph.
Ira — a student, in a dress her mother had sewn at night.
Back then her daughter hugged her tight, whispering, “Mommy, I love you so much.”
She loved her. Until she became successful.
— Mom, why do you need these get-togethers and parties? — Ira had said in recent years. — You’ll be bored.
Modern people, current topics. You’d better rest at home.
At home. Alone. So as not to embarrass the successful daughter.
The next morning, Tamara Ivanovna got a good night’s sleep and had breakfast. Then she sat a while, thought it all through again, got up, and went to the wardrobe.
Her one dressy outfit hung on a hanger — dark blue, strict.
She ran her hand over the fabric. Why is she worse than the others? Not dressed cheaper than Ira’s friends, not dumber than they are. Just — not fashionable.
She pictured the evening. The restaurant, the guests, the ceremonial toasts. The newlyweds — beautiful, happy.
And no one would ask where the bride’s mother was. Everyone knew — she was ill. At death’s door.
Tamara Ivanovna picked up the phone and called a taxi.
— I need to go to the center. To the “Elegy” salon.
— We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
She changed and put on some makeup. In the mirror — a different woman. Not tired, not downtrodden. Dignified.
At the salon they showed her several dresses. She chose an emerald one — the color made her look younger and brought out her eyes.
— An excellent choice, — the saleswoman smiled. — For a special occasion?
— For a wedding. My daughter’s.
— How wonderful! She must be very nervous.
Nervous. That her mother might show up by accident.
The next stop — the hairdresser’s. The stylist turned out to be a chatty young man who, as he worked, talked incessantly about life.
— And my mom — she’s a saint! — he said, setting her hair. — Raised me alone, worked two jobs like a mule. Now she lives like a queen with me. I bought her a separate apartment, and I call her every day. I’m taking her to the sea in August. You can’t just abandon your mom!
You can’t. But they do.
— You’re doing the right thing, — Tamara Ivanovna said quietly.
— Of course! If we don’t take care of our mothers, who will? She spent her whole life on me.
Her whole life. Spent.
When the hairstyle was finished, an elegant, rejuvenated lady looked back from the mirror.
Only the crease between her brows betrayed her troubled thoughts. A mother who has the right to be at her daughter’s wedding. Or doesn’t she?
Who should decide? The mother or the daughter?
The “Golden Star” restaurant greeted her with luxury and sparkle. At the entrance a crowd of well-dressed guests milled about. She recognized some — Ira’s friends, colleagues.
— Welcome! — a girl at the desk greeted her. — Are you here for us?
— For the Skripkina wedding.
— I’m sorry… your name?
— Skripkina. Tamara Ivanovna. The bride’s mother.
The girl blinked, flustered.
— But we were told the bride’s mother is… not… available due to her health.
— Available, — Tamara Ivanovna replied calmly. — More than available.
She walked into the banquet hall. The wedding was in full swing — music, laughter, congratulations.
At the head table in the center sat Ira and Andrei. Beautiful, happy.
Only the bride’s mother was missing from the picture.
Tamara Ivanovna stopped at the entrance. Several guests turned, curiously eyeing the stranger.
— Excuse me, — a waiter approached. — I think you’ve got the wrong hall?
— I’m the bride’s mother, — she said loudly. — Tamara Ivanovna Skripkina.
The reaction was immediate. Heads turned; the chatter died. Ira saw her mother and turned pale.
— Mom? — she stood up from the table. — What are you doing here?
— I came to congratulate my daughter.
— But you… you’re sick! Gravely ill!
Tamara Ivanovna stepped into the center of the hall. The music stopped; the guests froze, waiting.
— Dear guests, — she addressed the room. — Allow me to introduce myself. Tamara Ivanovna Skripkina. The bride’s mother. The very one who, as you were told, is on her deathbed.
She spoke calmly, but each word sounded like a verdict.
— Let me reassure you — I am alive and well. I worked as an accountant for forty years and raised my daughter.
It’s just that in recent years I’ve grown a little tired of my daughter being ashamed of me.
— Mom, don’t… — Ira whispered.
— I must. Today I’ll say everything. Do you know what this girl’s education cost me? Three jobs at once.
Giving up everything that makes a woman happy. I scrimped on clothes and shoes to pay tutors. I borrowed money for her internships. And I dreamed of one thing — to hear “thank you.”
Her voice trembled, but she went on:
— Instead of gratitude, I got shame. Being banned from celebrations. Requests “not to embarrass” her in front of friends. And finally — being struck from the guest list at my own daughter’s wedding.
The hall was silent. Some women were crying. The men looked at Ira with condemnation.
— Don’t worry, — Tamara Ivanovna finished. — The “sick” mother won’t trouble you. She’s leaving.
She turned toward the exit. Voices rose anxiously behind her.
— Tamara Ivanovna!
She turned. A distinguished older man in an expensive suit was approaching.
— Vladimir Petrovich Kravets, — he introduced himself. — May I have a word?
They stepped out into the lobby.
— Forgive the intrusion, — he said. — But I couldn’t just walk past. My mother raised me alone, too. I know what it costs a mother. All too well.
— Why are you telling me this?
— Because I’m looking for a deputy chief accountant. An honest, principled person. There are very few of those now.
He handed her a business card:
— Come by tomorrow. Any time. We’ll discuss the terms. I employ people who understand the value of a mother’s love.
A week later, Tamara Ivanovna was sitting in her new office. She liked the work; the salary was three times her previous one. Vladimir Petrovich hadn’t lied — the team turned out to be friendly and understanding.
Ira didn’t call.
From mutual acquaintances she learned — her daughter was going through a crisis. A few months after the wedding, Andrei left, saying he couldn’t live with a woman capable of treating her own mother like that.
Friends turned away for the same reason. Even at work they now looked at her askance.
“Serves her right,” thought Tamara Ivanovna, and then felt ashamed of the thought.
She had no desire to go back to her former life — the role of the convenient, voiceless mother. That page was turned. She was ready to move on. As a woman, not just as a mother.
Maybe it was all for the best. For her and for Ira. Only this way would her daughter learn to value what she has. And perhaps understand what a mother’s work and a mother’s love are. Understand the cost of everything she had been ashamed of.
But that would come later. For now, Tamara Ivanovna simply lived. Her own life. At last.