For twenty years, Larysa Mykolaivna knew more about this company than any of its directors. Which step on the second floor creaked. Whose office window stayed open all winter. Which bosses greeted you first, and which ones looked right through you like through freshly cleaned glass.
Now, all that knowledge meant nothing. She stood in the kitchen with an iron in her hand, while outside, a cold October rain fell, blurring the lights of the neighboring high-rise against the window.
«Don’t slouch, do you hear?» she said as she smoothed the sleeve of a dark blue dress on the ironing board. «And hold your wine glass by the stem, not like it’s a glass of compote.»
«Mom, I’m twenty-six,» Sofia laughed from her stool. «I know how to hold a glass.»
«Sure you do. So, is the ficus in the reception area still alive?»
«It’s alive. Maryana waters it. I showed her how you taught me: once a week and only with settled water.»
Larysa Mykolaivna nodded with satisfaction, as if she’d just been told news about a distant relative’s good health.
She had joined the construction company back when it took up just half a floor and was selling apartments in a single new building on the outskirts. She scrubbed floors, wiped windowsills, emptied paper bins. The firm grew, new housing complexes sprang up, new offices, new bosses appeared, but she’d still leave home every morning at four-thirty, because she had to walk across the whole district just to reach the first minibus.
She left two years ago, when it became too hard to carry buckets up and down four floors. Now she worked at a kiosk by the bus stop, saying at least there people actually talked.
Sofia got into that same company on her own. She sent out her resume, passed two interviews, and landed a job as a sales analyst in the real estate department. She never mentioned her mother. Not because she was ashamed—just that job interviews don’t ask about your mom.
Today, the company was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary. Banquet at a restaurant, live orchestra, speeches. Sofia was given a seat at the main table, just as the owner, Stepan Viktorovych, wanted. A month ago she had brought him an idea: to sell apartments already renovated and with a ready-made design project, so that buyers could move in the day after getting the keys. Stepan Viktorovych called it the best proposal he’d heard all year.
The director, Andriy Maksymovych, found out about it last. And he hated when people went behind his back.
* * *
The hall was decorated with garlands of golden maple leaves, the orchestra played songs our parents once danced to at their weddings, and the waiters barely kept up with changing the plates. Andriy Maksymovych was in his element—tall, loud, with that booming laugh that made people turn at neighboring tables. He made toasts so well that even the waiters stopped to listen.
His wife, Inna, in an emerald dress, sat beside him and mostly stayed quiet.
A week ago, someone from accounting, pouring themselves a cup of coffee, casually told him, “Do you know whose daughter this Sofia is? Larysa’s. You know, the one who used to clean here.” Back then, Andriy Maksymovych just raised an eyebrow. But he remembered.
After the third toast, he walked over to the main table and put his hand on the back of Sofia’s chair.
— Oh, and who do we have sitting here? Sofiya, I think you may have taken the wrong seat. This area is reserved for management.
— Stepan Viktorovych invited me, — she replied quietly.
— Invited you… — he drew out the word, glancing around the table as if searching for an audience. — I remember your mother very well. Larysa. She used to wash the floor under the table while I held meetings here. — Suddenly, he switched to addressing her informally, raising his voice for everyone in the hall to hear: — Your mother was a cleaner, and you think you can sit at the same table as us?!
Someone by the window let out a giggle but quickly fell silent. The drummer lost the rhythm.
Sofiya turned pale. She placed her fork neatly on the edge of her plate, as if that was the most important thing to do right now. But she did not lower her eyes.
— Yes, — she said, her voice shaking only on the first word. — My mother cleaned the floor here. For twenty years. And your office too, Andriy Maksymovych. She woke up at four to catch the first bus. And in the evening, she cleaned the entryways in our building so I could have money to pay for my education.
She took a breath.
— I am proud of her. More than you could possibly imagine. She’s the one who taught me to greet the security guard just the same as the director. It’s a pity no one taught you that.
Andriy Maksymovych smiled, but crookedly, with just one side of his face.
— Well, you know, I was just being friendly, just joking…
At that moment, Stepan Viktorovych stood up.
He had spent the entire evening so quietly that people had almost forgotten about him. Gray-haired, wearing a gray suit, drinking only mineral water, and fidgeting with a paper napkin—folding it in half, then in quarters.
— That’s enough, Andriy, — he said. Not loudly. But for some reason, the orchestra stopped playing.
The room became so silent that you could hear a plate clink in the kitchen.
— Do you know what my mother did for a living?
Andriy Maksymovych gave an uncertain smile, as if expecting a joke.
— She was a cleaner. At the school, and every evening, even at the post office. For thirty years. I did my homework sitting in her storeroom, on an upside-down bucket, because there was no desk. — He paused. — When I signed the documents to start this company twenty-five years ago, she was the first person I called. And you know what she asked? ‘Son, do you need a cleaner? Because I’ve still got energy to spare.’ I laughed back then. But now I think I should have hired her. She could have taught some people here how to talk to others.
He walked around the table, came up to Sofiya and reached out his hand. His palm was dry and warm.
— Tell Larysa Mykolaivna she raised a worthy person. And thank her from me for the ficus. I know who watered it for twenty years.
Then, without looking at the director, he added:
— Looks like I need to seriously reconsider who I put in charge of people.
Andriy Maksymovych turned red all the way to his collar. Inna covered her face with her hands, sat like that for a few seconds, then got up in silence and went to the coatroom.
And for the first time all evening, Sofiya smiled. It wasn’t a victorious smile. Instead, it was uncertain—like the heavy backpack she hadn’t even realized she was carrying had finally been lifted from her shoulders.
* * *
Her mother was still awake. She sat in the kitchen in her knitted vest, the radio murmuring quietly, and two cups of tea sat on the table, long since gone cold.
Sofia told everything. Larisa Mykolaivna listened, absentmindedly wiping the already spotless table over and over. Two years in, she still hadn’t kicked the habit.
«Andriy Maksymovych, you say…» Larisa finally put down the rag. «When he first came to us, he was just a young guy. His jacket hung on him like it was on a hanger. He was scared of everyone. Once, right before a meeting, he tore off a button and stood in the hallway, red-faced, almost in tears. I always kept a needle and thread in my pocket. I sewed it back on for him right there by the window.»
«Did he at least say thank you?»
«He did. Back then, he still thanked people.» Mom smiled. «People, my dear, aren’t born that way. The chair slowly changes them, and they don’t even notice.»
She pushed a cup towards Sofia.
«Just don’t hold any grudge against him. Anger is a burden no one else can carry for you. You’ll end up dragging it around yourself.»
* * *
The next morning at nine, Maryana called.
«Sofia, Andriy Maksymovych wants to see you. Right now.»
Sofia walked up to the fourth floor by foot. The third step on the second floor really did creak, and she thought to herself that mom, as always, was right. She kept her pass in her pocket, sure she’d have to hand it in within half an hour.
In the office, the blinds were half-closed. The same big, sprawling ficus stood by the window, its leaves freshly wiped clean of dust. Andriy Maksymovych sat at his desk, still in yesterday’s shirt. The coffee in front of him had gone cold, untouched.
«Have a seat, Sofia.»
She didn’t sit down.
«If you called me about my resignation letter, I can write it today.»
«What letter?» He looked up, and it seemed like he actually didn’t understand right away. «No. Please, take a seat.»
She sat on the edge of the chair.
«Stepan Viktorovych called me at seven this morning.» He fiddled with his pen, clicking it, unable to stop. «Your turnkey renovation project is being made its own separate division. You’ll lead it, reporting directly to him. I’m the one who gets to announce this at the meeting. Personally. He said it’s to help me remember.» He gave a crooked smile.
Sofia said nothing. She didn’t know how to answer something like that.
«I have no excuses,» he said softly. «They told me who your mother was, and for some reason I thought it was funny. But last night, I lay there and remembered how your mom sewed that button for me. I hadn’t thought of it in twenty years, and now it felt like it was just yesterday. I never even asked her name back then. She was simply… well, here. Always here.»
He looked over at the ficus.
«Can I tell her myself? Not through you.»
«She’s home on Saturdays,» Sofia replied. «Just don’t bring flowers. She doesn’t like cut ones. Says it’s a pity for them.»
«So what should I bring, then?»
Sofia didn’t say anything. She just looked out the window. Andriy Maksymovych followed her gaze, fell quiet, and for the first time that morning, gave a genuinely warm smile.
* * *
On Saturday, the first frost hit. Puddles in the yard froze over with a thin sheet of ice, and children from the neighboring building walked across it, testing to see if it would crack.
When the doorbell rang, Larisa Mykolaivna was just making a pie. She opened the door still wearing her apron, her hands covered in flour.
Andriy Maksymovych stood at the doorstep in a dark coat. In his hands he held a huge pot with a ficus, carefully wrapped in a checkered blanket to protect the leaves from the cold.
«Larysa Mykolayivna,» he said, hesitating, as if all the words he had prepared on the way suddenly vanished. «I brought you your ficus. And there’s something else I need to tell you.»
She looked at him for a long time. Then at the pot. Then back at him again.
«It should have been replanted three years ago,» she finally said. «Come in already, or you’ll freeze the leaves.»
Sofiia put the kettle on the stove. From the hallway, you could hear her mother, brushing flour from her hands, asking:
«Are the buttons at least still holding on?»
And how Andriy Maksymovych laughed. Quietly, nothing like he did at the banquet.
