I’m 12 years old. My mother yells that I poisoned my porridge, which just went sour, and shakes me by the shoulders, demanding a confession, because the day before I had stuttered that I liked chemistry.
At 14, I fell in love with a classmate. The first feelings, modest bouquets and chaste kisses. My mother yells into the phone to my boyfriend’s parents to send me away. I roar, my classmate begins to shun me, and I begin to understand the cruelty of the outside world.
Adulthood. My mother puts conditions on where I must go to school. My desire to go to university is commented without words – a slap with a wet towel after washing.
I run away to my grandmother, who gives me money from her modest savings and blesses me for university. That same evening, I disappear from town with a small sum in my pocket and the documents that I had thoughtfully brought from home, running away to my grandmother.
Studying at the university. Infrequent calls home. I learn that my grandmother is in the hospital. Another call announces an ultimatum: either leave university (in fourth year) and go home, or don’t go back at all. When asked about her grandmother’s health, the ultimatum is repeated.
My husband-to-be brings my grandmother to our wedding. Mom, learning that we did not invite her, sends me curses and insults. To interrupt this “fountain”, I say that the conversation recorded on the built-in recorder. After a pause, I add that it’s a long time I do not feel to her, not even love, but just any kindred feelings. Finally, we explained ourselves.
