"Hello, I'm Maxim's mom. Are you his girlfriend?" I force out the words with a smile that almost makes me sick. The smile—fake as a plastic flower—is stretched so tightly across my face it looks more like a grimace. But I have to seem polite. For now.
She looks at me with a slight smirk. Without a trace of embarrassment. Without trying to look nice.
"Yes. And you… so you're the mom, then," says this misfit, crossing her arms over her chest.
"The mom," as if I am some urban legend or a curse from a scary story. Her voice is cold, almost mocking. Confident. Too confident for a girl I meet for the first time.
Maxim freezes between us, like a mediator between two warring kingdoms. His gaze darts from me to her and back.
"Maxim, don't keep your mom standing at the door," she says to my son, softly nudging him in the ribs with her elbow. Her voice sounds artificially friendly, like a hostess who always does everything right—by the book.
"Come in," she invites me, smiling artificially, as if fulfilling a social duty rather than genuinely glad to see me.
She walks further into the apartment, carefully examining every corner. The apartment is… not bad. It even seems cozy. Perfectly tidy. Clean. Cozy. It pisses me off. I expect to see a mess, bottles, cigarettes. But here—it looks like an apartment rental ad: pillows neatly arranged, candles on the shelf, even books—classics, by the way—on the table. Everything is neat, tasteful, without unnecessary luxury, but with a certain chill.
A game. It's all a game. A façade. This can't be real.
I can't get rid of the question: where did she get this? Who paid for it? Did she manage on her own or…?
"Would you like something? Coffee or tea?" the girl tries to sound sweet, playing the role of the perfect, caring, friendly girlfriend.
But I want only one thing—for her to leave my son's life. Forever.
"No, thank you. Could you leave us alone? I missed my son and want to spend some time with him alone," I ask as calmly and politely as I can. I smile. The smile is fake, like everything that hovers between us.
"Of course. I… I'm going to the store for a bit," she nods and, approaching Maxim, kisses him gently on the cheek. That touch is like a brand on his skin—mine. She grabs her wallet and jacket, throws on a hat, and leaves, quietly closing the door behind her.
I sit down on the couch—still warm from someone's recent presence—and slap it with my palm, inviting Maxim to join me. He obeys with the same distant indifference, as if he is not my son but a stranger, just an acquaintance.
I look at him—and my heart clenches painfully. He is pale, gaunt, with a dull gaze. His cheeks are hollowed, his skin looks too pale, almost translucent. What does she do to you, my boy? Where is your spark?
My son is silent. His gaze fixes on emptiness as if I weren't even there. Of course. With her, he laughs, smiles, his eyes sparkle. With me—shadow, silence, detachment.
"Why are you here?" he finally speaks. His voice is even, cold, as if we are strangers. As if I am an intrusion, an unwelcome guest.
"I came to visit. Just for two nights, then I'll leave. Will you accept me?" I gently stroke his hair, trying to put all my love, all my longing, all my motherly pain into that gesture. I hope he feels it, remembers.
"There are many hotels in this city, you know that," his voice is cold and detached.
My heart squeezes painfully, as if someone clenches it tightly in a fist. Like a sharp stone, his words devoid of any warmth pierce me through. Inside, a cold, merciless void grows.
"But I traveled all this way to spend these days with you, not to compare hotel rooms," I control my hurt. I will not show how painful it is. Not to her, not to him.
"This isn't my apartment. Ask Katrin for permission," his voice is dry, detached, as if a wall has grown between us.
Damn it…! Anger fills my chest, flaring up hotly, but I clench my teeth, suppressing my emotions.
I decide not to argue. It's pointless. He seems shut tight, like a house with curtains drawn firmly. Better to try to reach him—quietly, carefully—not to destroy the fragile balance between us.
"All right, I'll ask as soon as she's back," I exhale calmly, hiding the storm inside behind a mask of patience. "How are you?"
The words come out with difficulty, as if I have to pull each sound from a lump of pain stuck in my throat.
"Fine."
How I hate that word. It always sounds not just indifferent—it carries a cold wall behind which I am not awaited. It always means: "Don't bother," "Leave me alone," "I don't care." Every time, like a whip strike, it throws me back, leaving a bitter taste of hurt and helplessness inside. I clench my fists so as not to show the trembling in my fingers, swallow the lump in my throat so as not to break down in a scream. It hurts to feel like a stranger again, like an extra—as if trying to warm up by a fire long extinguished.
"You have a beautiful girlfriend," I lie, knowing every word sounds fake. Brazen, shameless. The words cut the soul, but I force them out with a strained smile.
On the surface—maybe, not bad. But the soul? I see right through her—cold, empty, like an icy statue. Not for him. She doesn't feel as she should have. She doesn't love him as he deserves.
"Yes. She's the best," his eyes suddenly brighten, a soft light flickers in them. A slight, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips—the one I love to see… and now hate.
That smile makes me especially melancholy. It doesn't belong to me. He is smiling… because of her.
"Where did you meet?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, not to tremble, not to reveal the emptiness rapidly growing inside. I want to hear his voice. Anything. About something.
"At university. We study together," he answers easily, as if talking about something ordinary, unaware how each word leaves new scars in me.
"That's wonderful. So you share common goals in life," I say, struggling to hold back the tremor.
And yet inside, something tightens in silent prayer.
And may they never merge into one… Please, God, let their paths part… Let his heart still be saved…
"Yes."
"How's studying? Do you like the group? Has it become harder or the same?" I can't stop. I cling to his answers like a drowning man to a straw.
"Studying is fine. If I have problems, my girlfriend helps me. She's smarter than me and gets better grades," he says with pride and admiration, and those feelings shine in every word, every glance.
His admiration for her hits me harder than any accusation, than the cruelest truth. I involuntarily shudder, as if slapped. She helps?—the bitter thought flashes in my mind—she's dragging you into the swamp! And you, fool, don't even notice… Like a blinded wanderer, he follows her cold light, mistaking it for warmth. And I can only watch helplessly as he step by step drifts farther, deeper—to where, perhaps, there is no return.
"I don't socialize with the group. Only with Katrin and Dima. He's my dorm neighbor. Though I'm rarely there now."
Dima… Of course. I see that idler. Just like her—frivolous, immature, burning days as if tomorrow will never come. Empty chatter, loud baseless plans, careless laughter—all just to forget, even for a moment. There they are—a pair. Perfect in their emptiness, a reflection of each other. And my son somewhere in between. He's drowning… Slowly, unnoticed, even by himself. Like a man stuck in quicksand: at first it seems easy to get out, just reach out, try hard. But then comes realization—too late. Every wrong step, every wrong word pulls him deeper. And I stand on the shore, shouting, reaching out—knowing he doesn't hear me.
"The main thing is not quantity, but quality," I try to keep a straight face. Pretend I like everything. But it is as far from the truth as Earth from the Moon.
"How's your dad?" suddenly my son asks me.
Max hardly talks to his father at all. Alexander, my ex, never knows how to approach him. He always tries to atone for his guilt with money: then a transfer, then a gift, then a dry "How are you?" message. His pitiful attempts to build a relationship always break against Maxim's icy wall of silence. The father doesn't know what to say, the son doesn't want to hear.
Then Alexander gets a new family. A young wife, two kids, life moves on, and he seems to decide: the past no longer matters. So the son doesn't either.
"Good. The oldest started first grade, and the younger one, despite her age, will start next year," I begin, trying to keep steady so no trace of pain creeps into my voice.
"I wasn't asking about his kids," he interrupts sharply. His voice is firm, almost cold. "Tell me about him."
I freeze for a second, then take a deep breath.
"He's all about business. Deep into it. Because of this, he constantly argues with his wife. She wants him to spend more time with the family, but he… he only sees prospects and fears missing them," I confess honestly, neither excusing nor blaming. Just the truth. The way it is.
"There's nothing more important than family."
I look at him.
"But I don't think he or you understand that… or ever will."
My son says this with such bitter reproach, with such heavy, almost adult disappointment… It feels like a slap in the face. He isn't just speaking—he is judging. And the verdict has already been passed. Maxim accuses us. Not only of being bad parents—but possibly of being bad people altogether. I don't know what to say. I can't find words to defend myself. And I know that his harshness isn't just a whim. It is the trace of pain that has been building up for years. And someone has helped that pain break through. That girl.
As if on cue, at that moment the door opens slightly, and she comes in carrying a bag.
"Am I interrupting?" she asks with a smile.
He immediately gets up, goes to her, hugs her, and kisses her on the cheek. His eyes soften as soon as the girl enters. He completely changes—becomes gentler, lighter, as if he has taken off a mask.
"No, not at all! We just finished talking. I wanted to ask you something," she says again, putting on a mask of politeness.
She approaches and, without a hint of hesitation, sits right where my son has been sitting just a moment ago. As if intentionally. Confidently. She smiles, looks me in the eyes—as if she wants me to like her. Or at least to make the right impression. But I know better. I will never accept her. Neither as my son's girlfriend nor, even more so, as a future daughter-in-law. No matter how much gold she is bathed in, or if she calls me "mom"—I simply won't believe her.
"My son told me to ask you…" I start the conversation, holding back irritation.
She looks at me attentively. Listens to every word. She seems sincere. Maybe she really is trying—but I feel something dangerous lurking beneath that mask of friendliness. Too smooth, too perfect. As if rehearsed for a role.
"May I stay with you for a couple of days? Just two nights. I'll leave afterward," she says in a quiet voice, as if begging for charity.
"No questions, of course you can stay. It would be an insult if my boyfriend's mom had to live in a hotel," she replies to me with excessive warmth.
I almost grimace. Her politeness makes my insides tighten. A sweet, cloying lie. But I nod and smile—the game goes on.
"Thank you."
"Sweetheart, can I talk to you?" Maxim interrupts.
"Sorry, we'll be just a moment," she adds, getting up and leaving with him to another room.
Through the thin wall, I hear their voices—muffled, broken. My son is unhappy, that is immediately obvious. Even without words. The irritation, the tension in his voice pound in my ears like dull heartbeats during moments of anxiety. He barely raises his voice, but every intonation, every short word is stretched tight like a string about to snap. I know—he is angry. At her. Apparently, he is unhappy that she allows me to stay.
Clenching my teeth, I sit on the edge of the sofa, feeling bitterness build in my chest with every whisper of theirs. And fear. Fear for him, for what he is becoming when he is with her.