I sit in silence. But inside me, a storm rages. This is no longer the boy I once raised. Not the quiet, kind, dreamy son who always runs to me with open arms. Now he has become a stranger. Distant. Harsh. And the scariest thing—he is on a path leading to destruction.
I recall the rector's words—his behavior is changing not only with me. He has become aggressive, irritable, rude. He is being drawn into darkness. And beside him—she. His guide into this bleak world. The girl seems like an angel. She speaks properly, looks gentle. But I see right through her. A devil in the flesh.
And Maxim—he is my angel. And she is pulling him down. Into her abyss. Into her world, where there is no place for the future, only smoke, nights, empty conversations, and broken destinies. He needs someone else. Someone who would be light. Someone who would inspire, not destroy. With whom he will walk together toward dreams, not slide into the abyss.
While they sort things out behind the closed door, I slowly, as if following a thread, begin to look around the apartment. I do it silently, carefully, as if afraid to break the delicate web in which I am caught.
I walk through the apartment, and in every corner, every detail, I find evidence. As if fate itself is shouting at me: They must not be together.
Surprisingly, the living room holds many books. Whole shelves filled with classics and contemporary authors. But they stand like props—no broken spines, no bookmarks. They are there for show. Like everything here. Like her.
I move to the kitchen and open the fridge… Almost empty. Lonely eggs lie inside, an opened milk carton, and a couple of containers with unidentifiable contents. The fridge says more than any words. I see—no cooking happens here. They just snack. That's why she is thin as a herring on New Year's, and why my boy begins to wither before my eyes. He isn't just losing weight—he is fading away. With each day, he becomes paler, quieter, more distant.
Two days pass like in a fog. My son barely leaves their bedroom. And when he does, it is with tired eyes and fleeting words. I am left alone—with her. She is extremely polite. Too much. Makes tea, asks how I sleep, tries to make conversation—but it all seems artificial. As if she knows I don't like her and is trying to outplay herself.
Meanwhile, Maxim appears only at lunch and when leaving for university. He has become a stranger. We have nothing to talk about. And I realize—it is time to take action. But not now. I have to act cleverly. Carefully.
The day of "departure" comes. We stand by the front door. Everything inside me boils. I barely restrain myself from shouting at him: Wake up! Snap out of it! This is not your life!
Katrin comes over and hugs me. I do the same—coldly, out of long-standing politeness.
"I am very glad to meet you. Come visit us more often. Have a safe journey," she says with a soft smile.
Our real last meeting, girl. Don't even hope, I think, holding back a fake smile.
"Thank you. Maybe in six months… I can't before then," I lie to her, as if it means nothing. Though I already know—I'll return sooner than she notices.
"Go, see your mom to the taxi," she says to my son. He silently takes my bag and walks ahead.
I ask,
"I wanted to talk to you for a couple of minutes. Can I?"
Maxim nods.
"All right."
We get out of the elevator and stop by the wall in the hall. We are silent. I look at him, and he stares somewhere past me. Into emptiness.
"I'm glad you found someone you love. And I'm sure she loves you too," I say, swallowing my disgust. "As a mother, I wish you happiness."
Suddenly my son smiles. That very smile… the one I once loved so much—warm, sincere, still childlike. There is no resentment or reproach in it, only a bright attachment, as if everything is still the same. He comes over and hugs me. Stronger than usual. Truly. I almost cry. My throat tightens.
You don't understand, baby. You don't know where they are dragging you. Don't feel how they are changing you. How your soul grows dimmer with each day, becoming foreign to me.
But I stay silent. Just stand there, inhaling the scent of his hair, as if wanting to remember him forever. My boy…
We reach the car. I get into the taxi. He stands by the door, still smiling, unsuspecting.
"Bye, Mom," he says through the slightly open door.
"See you, son," I answer, barely squeezing calm into my voice.
See you… though who knows when—and what you will be then.
The door softly closes, and the car moves. I watch out the window until he disappears from view. And only then—slowly, not immediately—I lower my eyes.
After a few blocks, I lean to the driver:
"We're not going to the airport. Go to a different address," I say, giving the location.
My voice doesn't tremble. It is all decided.
Then I take out my phone. My hands tremble slightly. I find his number—my son's—while he is asleep. Just a matter of seconds. A few taps, and that is it. Now—my first, and maybe last, message to her.
"Call me when you're alone. This is Maxim's mum."
Sent. Full stop. Now she has to know: I am close by. And I am not about to give up easily.
A couple of minutes later, the phone rings. Sharp, tense—like a strike to the nerves.
"Are you alone?" No preamble, no greeting—just straight to the point.
"Yes. Maxim's in the other room. Has something happened?" Her voice wavers. She is worried. Funny how quickly a tone can scare someone.
"I need to meet you. Just the two of us. Maxim can't know."
"Don't you have a flight in half an hour?" Naive.
Her voice is politely formal, but beneath it lies a rush of relief—an eager wish to get away, free the space, disappear.
"No. I postponed it," I say calmly.
The lie slips out with ease. No hesitation, no stammering. I don't even blink. As if I have been lying to her my whole life. Maybe I have—lying that she means nothing to me. Lying that I don't feel her pushing me out of my son's world. Lying that it doesn't hurt. But now—I lie coldly. Because leaving means losing. And I am not ready. Not yet.
"Tell me where. I'll come."
I am already rushing there myself, knowing everything is falling into place. My heart beats faster—not from fear, but anticipation. Forty minutes later, she arrives. Quick, with the look of someone who knows this meeting matters. She sits beside me, eyes questioning.
I say nothing—just hand her a sheet of paper.
"What are these numbers?" She doesn't understand—or pretends not to. Her voice trembles, but her gaze stays icy. No surprise, no offense—as if she is simply confirming the total on a receipt.
"This is what I'll pay you if you leave my son," I say, calm. Cold. Even.
As if it were about buying a second-hand car, not a life. Seconds tick by. Silence. I wait for an outburst. Insults. Tears maybe. I want—no, crave—for her to lose it, to scream about "the love of a lifetime," "never," "he is not an object." To resist. To fight. But she is silent. Just studies the numbers. Long and carefully. Like an accountant auditing a report. As if this paper holds more than just money. As if she sees herself in those figures.
"Why are you silent?" I can't hold back. Inside, everything boils like a kettle left on the stove. A dull, heavy blow hits my chest—one after another.
"I'm thinking," she replies.
More silence. Ominous. Piercing. No fear in it. No emotion at all. Only calculation. She sits nearly motionless. Not a blink. As if in front of her lies not an offer, but a chessboard. Love or profit. Risk or gain. What to choose?
More than thirty minutes pass. I manage to order lunch. Hot dish, tea, even dessert. I eat, watching how she clutches the paper as if it might burn her fingers. And still—she won't let it go.
"I agree," she says at last. Quietly. Calmly. As if signing a contract. Or selling her soul. Scarier than any shouting. "But I have one condition," she adds.
Of course. No one leaves that easily. I straighten. My heart pounds, but I keep my icy mask.
"What is it? Is the sum too small?" I tilt my head, feigning curiosity.
Her voice is venomous, her gaze cold. But her lips… her lips tremble. Not with fear. Anticipation. I feel almost victorious.
Yes, she is greedy.
Yes, she gives in.
Yes, I win.
Maxim will never know. Never suspect. And her? She will simply vanish—as if she never existed. That will be better. For everyone. For him.
"A week," she says quietly but clearly. "I want a week to say goodbye. And after that, within the next week, I will do everything to make sure we part."
I stare at her long and hard. No emotion. Inside—a tight coil of tension. As if she just bargains not for time, but for one last breath.
"And if it doesn't work?" I squint. "He's clearly very attached to you."
"I will disappear," her voice hardens, gains strength. "He won't find me. I'll leave the city. We'll never see each other again."
It isn't tragic. Not even tragic—just doomed. As if she knows it's over anyway. And she just wants it to be… softer.
"Why did you agree so quickly?" I have to ask. Want to understand. "Don't you love him?"
She is silent a long while. Her eyes moisten, but no tears fall.
"I love him like no one ever has," she says, voice breaking.
I almost believe her. Almost. She looks away. There is no pretense in her words. Something I fear to hear—sincerity.
"But that's exactly why I have to let him go," she says, barely above a whisper.
I swallow hard. As if hearing a sentence meant for me, not her. Between the lines, a reproach—for me.
"Write me your card number," I say, pulling myself together. "Once I see you've really broken up, I'll transfer the money. If there's a delay—you call me. I keep my word."
I mean to pay her. No deceit.
Not because I think money can buy my son's happiness.
Not because I believe in cash more than love.
But because it's right. Or at least, I convince myself of that.
I don't watch her leave. Don't wonder how she feels.
My goal is clear as a surgical cut—precise, exact, painful. To cut. To remove. To sew. Let it hurt—but never rot. I do what has to be done. No hysteria. No theatrics. My way—with love. My motherly love, anxious, protective... The kind that's ready to be hated—just to save.
She nods. Writes down the number. Silent. No thanks. No glances. Just leaves. Without a word. Without looking back. I stay sitting alone. Inside, cold spreads—snow in my veins.
I feel sorry for them both. Truly. But there is no choice. They would destroy themselves. She—like someone on the edge, balancing on one leg above the abyss. Maxim—too pure to fall with her. She loses a little. But he could lose everything.