Everything about Olga’s mother suddenly started to annoy her: the brown knitted sweater she wore year-round; the habit of asking the price of everything Olga bought, then shaking her head, “That’s just money thrown out the window.” The way she’d speak loudly on the minibus. The little bags of homemade cookies her mother would stuff into her purse, as if Olga was still a schoolgirl.
* * *
The dark blue off-shoulder dress had been hanging in the closet for three years, worn only twice, wrapped as a promise for a special occasion. That occasion finally arrived at the end of October, while cold rain drizzled for a second week and the maples outside stood wet and rust-colored.
She chose the venue carefully. It needed to be warm, with live music, but without a loud host and silly contests. At last, she found a small restaurant on a quiet street, with wooden beams on the ceiling and garlands of warm lights.
Twenty-two guests. Colleagues, Artem’s sister and her husband, Larisa, neighbors they’d been friends with for fifteen years—and her mother.
Olga spent the most time thinking about her mom.
Oleksandra Pavlivna was turning seventy-three. She lived alone, clear across the city in a nine-story building where the elevator worked only half the time. Every morning she’d call at eight, never a minute later. “Have you eaten? What about Artem? Why does your voice sound like that? Are you coming down with something? Are you wearing a scarf?”
This exhausted Olga, especially the last year. Everything about her mother just grated on her: the brown knitted sweater, her constant questions about money and prices, the loudness in public transport.
The little cookie bags her mother stuffed into her bag, as if Olga were still going to school.
Beside her mom, Olga never felt like the accomplished department head she was—more like a fifteen-year-old about to be scolded for a bad grade.
“Maybe we shouldn’t invite her?” she asked Artem a week before the party as they stood in the kitchen—he was washing cups, she was drying. “We could have a small group, just us. And visit Mom on Sunday with a cake.”
Artem placed a cup on the rack and turned to her.
“Olya. It’s your anniversary. And she’s your mother.”
“You don’t get it. She’ll do something again. She’ll start telling everyone how I fell in a puddle when I was three.”
“So let her tell it. It’s a great story.”
She tossed a towel at him. But she invited her mom anyway.
* * *
The celebration started slowly, like all the best gatherings. At first, guests were shy, talking about the weather, the cost of heating, who’d vacationed where in summer. Then the musicians played something familiar, Larisa pulled Artem’s sister onto the dance floor, and suddenly the room came alive.
Olga collected compliments and felt the dress fit her just right. Colleagues gave her a spa certificate, the neighbors gifted the expensive coffee machine she’d been hinting about for half a year. Artem’s sister read a poem she’d written herself, rhyming “anniversary” with “merry,” and everyone laughed till they cried.
But her mother sat at the end of the table, silent. She nodded occasionally when spoken to. She wore the same sweater, only with a new brooch—a plastic flower Olga hadn’t seen before.
When it was time for family toasts, Oleksandra Pavlivna stood up, holding her glass with both hands as if it were a candle.
“I want to say…” she began. “Olechka was born in October, it was raining that day too. I remember thinking…”
“Mom,” Olga gently touched her elbow. “Let’s do it a bit later, okay? They’re serving the hot food now—it’ll get cold.”
Her mom looked at her. Something flickered out in her eyes for just a second. She nodded, sat down, and started folding her napkin into quarters. Then again. Then unfolded it and folded it once more.
Olga noticed it from the corner of her eye and felt mildly uncomfortable. But they really were serving the hot food, so she turned away.
* * *
Around nine, Artem checked his phone, leaned over and whispered, “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t be sad.”
Olga smiled. Of course. The gift. At home, he’d only given her a card, and she’d wondered—was that it? Twenty years together and just a kitten card? Now it all made sense. He’d saved something special for the big moment.
The musicians stopped playing. Larisa nudged her under the table and winked.
The door opened, and Artem walked in carrying a bouquet. It was huge. Cream roses, eucalyptus branches, tiny white chrysanthemums, all tied with a wide ribbon like melted milk. He held it with both hands, as if it were something precious and heavy.
Someone whistled. Someone said “oooh.” Olga pushed back her chair and started to stand, already reaching out her hands…(to be continued in the comments)
Mom placed a jar of her homemade pickled mushrooms right in the middle of the white tablecloth, between the wine glasses and the plate of thinly sliced ham. She even unscrewed the lid so everyone could enjoy the aroma of garlic and dill.
«Olechka, these are for the meat. I know they won’t serve anything like this here.»
Olga felt heat rush from her collarbones to her cheeks. The waiter—a young guy with his hair slicked back—was just bringing over a bottle and stood still for a moment, unsure where to set it down now.
«Mom,» Olga said quietly, still keeping her smile. «Please take it away. This is a restaurant.»
«Well, I can see it’s a restaurant. So what, mushrooms aren’t allowed anymore?»
Larisa, her friend since college, stifled a laugh into her napkin. Artem silently took the jar, screwed the lid back on, and placed it on the windowsill behind him—as calmly as if that’s what they’d planned from the start.
Olga exhaled and adjusted her strap. Forty-five. She’d been waiting for this evening for so long.
* * *
She bought her dark blue, off-the-shoulder dress three years ago and had only worn it twice. It had hung in her closet in its garment bag, like a promise: one day, there would be an occasion. The occasion finally came at the end of October, with cold drizzle falling outside for the second week in a row and the maples on the boulevard standing wet and rust-colored.
She spent ages picking the venue. She wanted something cozy, with live music, but without a loud host and party games. She found a small restaurant on a quiet street, with wooden beams on the ceiling and strings of warm lights. Twenty-two guests. Colleagues, Artem’s sister and her husband, Larisa, neighbors they’d been friends with for fifteen years. And her mom.
Olga thought about her mom the longest.
Oleksandra Pavlivna was seventy-two. She lived alone on the other side of the city, in a nine-story building where the elevator worked only sometimes. She called every morning at eight on the dot—not a minute later. «Have you had breakfast? And Artem? Why do you sound like that? Are you coming down with something? Are you wearing a scarf?»
This exhausted Olga, especially in the past year. Suddenly, everything about her mom irritated her: the brown knitted cardigan she wore both in winter and summer, her habit of asking the price of everything Olga bought and then shaking her head—»What a waste of money.» The way she spoke loudly on the bus. The packages of homemade cookies she stuffed into Olga’s bag, as if Olga were still in school.
Next to her mom, Olga didn’t feel like a department head, but like a fifteen-year-old about to be scolded over a bad grade.
«Maybe I shouldn’t invite her?» she asked Artem a week before the party. They were standing in the kitchen, he was washing cups and she was drying them. «We could just be with our close circle. We’ll visit Mom on Sunday and bring cake.»
Artem put a cup on the rack and turned to her.
«Olha. It’s your birthday. And she’s your mother.»
«You don’t get it. She’ll do something again. She’ll start telling everyone how I fell into a puddle when I was three.»
«So what? Let her tell it. It’s a cute story.»
She tossed a towel at him. But she invited her mom anyway.
* * *
The celebration took off slowly, like all good gatherings do. At first, the guests were a bit shy, talking about the weather, heating prices, and vacation stories. Then the musicians started playing something familiar, Larisa pulled Artem’s sister onto the dance floor, and suddenly, the whole room came alive.
Olga was basking in compliments and felt that her dress fit her perfectly. Her colleagues gifted her a spa certificate, and her neighbors gave her the expensive coffee maker she’d been hinting at for six months. Artem’s sister read a self-written poem where ‘jubilee’ rhymed with ‘merry,’ and everyone laughed until they cried.
Meanwhile, Olga’s mom sat quietly at the end of the table. She nodded now and then when someone spoke to her. She wore the same sweater as always, but this time with a new brooch—a plastic flower that Olga had never seen before.
When it was time for family to give toasts, Oleksandra Pavlivna stood up. She held her glass in both hands, like she was holding a candle.
‘I want to say something…’ she began. ‘My dear Olechka was born in October, and it was raining then, too. I remember thinking…’
‘Mom,’ Olga gently touched her elbow. ‘Let’s do this a bit later, okay? The hot food is being served now, and it’ll get cold.’
Her mother looked at her. Something in her eyes dimmed for a moment. She nodded, sat down, and started folding her napkin into quarters. Then again. Then she unfolded it and folded it once more.
Olga noticed this out of the corner of her eye and felt a twinge of discomfort. But the hot dishes really were being served, so she turned away.
* * *
Around nine o’clock, Artem glanced at his phone, leaned toward her, and said:
‘I’ll be right back. Don’t miss me.’
Olga smiled. Of course. The gift! At home, he’d only handed her a card, and she’d wondered: is that it? Twenty years together, and all she gets is a card with a kitten? Now it was clear—he’d planned something special for the climax of the evening.
The music stopped. Larisa nudged her under the table with her knee and winked.
The doors opened and Artem came in holding a huge bouquet. Cream roses, eucalyptus branches, tiny white chrysanthemums, all tied with a thick milky-colored ribbon. He carried it with both hands like something precious and heavy.
Someone let out a whistle. Someone else said, ‘Oooh.’ Olga pushed her chair back and began to stand, already reaching out her hands.
But Artem walked past her.
He walked on, without slowing down or looking at her, straight down the table to the very end. There, he stopped in front of Oleksandra Pavlivna.
The room was so quiet you could hear a pot clatter in the kitchen.
Her mom lifted bewildered eyes to her son-in-law. The napkin slipped from her hands.
‘Artem, what are you… These are for Olechka…’
‘No, Oleksandra Pavlivna. They’re for you.’
* * *
Olga remained standing by her chair, half-risen, her hands still outstretched. She slowly lowered them, felt all the guests looking at her, and didn’t know how to arrange her face.
Artem placed the bouquet on her mother’s lap since she couldn’t bring herself to take it. Then he straightened up and glanced around the room.
‘Sorry to do it this way,’ he said. ‘I just want to say a few words. It won’t take long.’
He hesitated, as if gathering courage. Artem had never liked public speaking. At his friend’s wedding, he forgot half his toast and finished awkwardly with, ‘well, anyway, happiness to you.’
Twenty years ago, Olya and I bought our first apartment. It was a one-bedroom on the fifth floor, with windows facing the tram depot. If you visited us back then, you’d remember. We spent two years saving for that first payment. We gave up everything. Olya wore the same winter boots for three seasons, I took on evening jobs fixing other people’s washing machines. And still, it wasn’t enough. The developer offered installment payments, but the deposit was due by the end of March, or the apartment would go to someone else.
Olga remembered that March well. She remembered how they sat in the kitchen of their rented place and counted the dollar bills, carefully stacked on the plastic tablecloth, for the tenth time. She remembered crying in the bathroom so Artem wouldn’t hear.
«And a week before the deadline,» Artem continued, «Oleksandra Pavlivna came to us and placed an envelope on the table. She said it was her savings. That she’d set it aside from every paycheck for many years. We didn’t even ask too many questions. We took it, thanked her. And that was it.»
He turned to his mother-in-law.
«A month ago, I was hanging new curtains at your place. Do you remember? You asked me to get a screwdriver from the cabinet, from the bottom drawer. I moved your papers aside, and there were receipts. Folded in half, already yellowed. Ruby earrings. A wedding ring. A chain with a pendant. A brooch. And the same date on all of them, March 2006. That same week. And the sum matched exactly what was in the envelope. To the last hryvnia.»
Someone at the table let out a quiet gasp.
«I asked you then,» Artem said. «And you made me promise that Olya would never find out. You said, ‘I sold all my jewelry, mine and my mother’s. Olya doesn’t need to know. Let her live in peace.’ Oleksandra Pavlivna, I let you down. I broke my word. But I have lived twenty years in the apartment you paid for with everything your mother left you. And never once did I thank you for it. So I’m saying it now. In front of everyone. Thank you.»
* * *
Olga looked at her mother as if seeing her for the very first time.
The ruby earrings. She remembered them. Small, deep red, set in an old-fashioned frame. Her grandmother’s. As a child, Olga used to ask to try them on, and her mother allowed her, but only at home, in front of the hallway mirror. Her mother wore them for every holiday: New Year’s, her daughter’s graduation, her wedding day.
And then she stopped wearing them.
Once, about fifteen years ago, Olga asked, «Mom, where are your earrings? You don’t wear them anymore.» Her mom waved a hand, «Oh, I’m tired of them. They’re just not for me anymore.» And Olga didn’t think twice. Tired of them, so what.
She remembered something else too. How after that March, her mother didn’t visit her sister in another region for several years, even though she always went every summer. She said she didn’t want to deal with bus rides. How she switched to cheaper tea. How she gave her coat to someone but never bought a new one, just kept wearing her jacket.
And then she remembered a thought that made her feel even worse. When her mother laid the envelope on the table that March, Olga thought—but thankfully didn’t say out loud—»If you saved all this money, why didn’t you help sooner?»
She felt her throat tighten. Her eyes sting. Just not here. Not in front of everyone. Not in this dress, not with this makeup, not in front of colleagues.
Olga turned toward the window. There was a jar of honey mushrooms on the windowsill, and raindrops slowly rolled down the glass behind it.
* * *
The guests didn’t know what to do with themselves. Someone started clapping quietly, hesitantly, and then the rest joined in. Mom sat with a bouquet on her lap, stroking the ribbon with her fingers as if it was something alive instead of just a ribbon.
Olga walked all the way across the hall. Her legs carried her on their own. She knelt down beside her mother’s chair, right on the floor, and her dress spread around her like a blue puddle.
“Mom,” she said. And that was all she could manage.
Oleksandra Pavlivna looked at her daughter. Then at her son-in-law. Then back at her daughter. And she spoke softly, so only Olga could hear:
“Why are you upset? I didn’t buy you an apartment. I just wanted you two to have a home.”
Olga laid her head in her mother’s lap, next to the roses. Her mother’s sweater smelled of laundry detergent and a touch of cinnamon. Just like it did thirty years ago when Olga came home from school and her mom was baking rolls in the kitchen.
“Forgive me,” she whispered into her mother’s lap.
“What for, silly girl?”
“For everything. For the mushrooms. For the toast. For the sweater.”
“What about the sweater?” her mom asked, genuinely surprised. “It’s a nice sweater. Warm.”
Olga laughed through tears she could no longer hold back. And she wasn’t embarrassed anymore.
* * *
Oleksandra Pavlivna did end up making her toast. Later, when dessert was served. She spoke about how it rained in October forty-five years ago too, and how she held a tiny bundle in her arms and thought, ‘I have no idea how to be a mom.’ And how even now, she probably still doesn’t. But she’s trying.
This time, no one interrupted her.
And it was Olga herself who took the jar of honey mushrooms off the windowsill. She unscrewed the lid, put the mushrooms on a plate, and sent them around the table.
“These are my mom’s,” she told the guests. “You won’t get mushrooms like these anywhere else.”
That evening, the plate was the first to be emptied.
