“The grandson urgently needed blood. The doctor came out pale and whispered to his son, ‘What kind of person have you been raising for 10 years?’
‘Do you understand that he has a rare blood type? Fourth negative. We need the best specialist, immediately!’ Marina loomed over the receptionist, filling the entire admission area with her presence.
The woman at the desk didn’t even blink. Used to ignoring hysterics, she dryly replied without lifting her eyes from the paperwork:
‘Wait. The doctor will be out soon.’
Oleg, my son, was nervously twisting a button on his jacket, and I knew the thread would snap soon, just like his nerves always did at home. He always lost his will the moment Marina raised her voice, turning into the obedient shadow of his wife.
‘Mom, you could have watched him better. We asked you not to let him have sharp objects,’ he said. There was no anger in his voice, only the привычное, drawn-out whining of a man trying to shift responsibility.
I sat on a hard bench, trying not to lean against the cold wall painted in that dreary institutional color. My legs ached, and the buzzing of fluorescent lights rang unpleasantly in my ears.
‘Oleg, Pavlik is ten years old. He took the pruning shears himself from the shed while I was weeding the carrots,’ I answered quietly, trying to preserve the last of my strength. ‘I can’t tie him to me with a rope.’
‘He’s a child, he’s exploring the world!’ Marina shrieked without even turning around, still controlling our conversation. ‘And you were supposed to provide a safe environment. That’s the basics!’
‘Safe environment’ was their religion. In their apartment, every corner had been padded with soft protectors until Pavlik was seven. My grandson was growing up in a sterile greenhouse where it seemed even the cacti had their spines cut off so the boy wouldn’t “get hurt.”
And today he had come to my dacha and decided that the old gooseberry bush was interfering with his drone game.
‘Grandma, get rid of the bush. It’s in my way when I land,’ he declared lazily, chewing gum and staring at his phone. ‘It’s prickly. Cut it down. It’s not needed here.’
‘Pavlik, that’s a Black Negus gooseberry. My father planted it forty years ago,’ I tried to explain, but was met with an empty stare. ‘Just go around it.’
I turned back to the garden bed, and a minute later I heard cracking branches and angry huffing. My grandson had found the pruning shears and was furiously hacking at the living branches heavy with ripening berries, just because they were in his way.
I rushed toward him. He jerked in surprise, the blade slipped, and it slashed across his forearm. Blood gushed out in a dark stream, soaking his trendy T-shirt, and a piercing scream rang across the garden.
The treatment room door opened, and the doctor came out—a stocky man with a tired face like a baked potato. His white coat hung on him like a sack, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in three days.
‘Relatives of Pavel Smirnov?’ he asked in a dull voice.
‘We are!’ Marina rushed toward him, nearly knocking him over. ‘What’s wrong with him? Did you find blood? We have money, we’ll pay for any plasma!’
The doctor raised a heavy hand, stopping the stream of words, and I noticed his lips twist with disgust.
‘Blood wasn’t needed. We managed with local anesthesia and stitches. The vessel was only grazed. He’ll live.’
Marina exhaled dramatically, pressing her hands to her chest, while Oleg began rubbing his stiff neck.
‘Thank God. When can we take the child home?’
The doctor didn’t answer at once. He looked at Oleg for a long time, intently, as if trying to find signs of intelligent life in him. Then he turned to me, and in his eyes I saw a strange sympathy.
‘Are you the grandmother? Galina… Petrovna?’ he asked, checking the chart.
‘Yes,’ I tried to stand, feeling my knees tremble treacherously.
‘Sit down,’ the doctor said sharply, and stepped almost right up to Oleg.
The doctor’s face was gray, and there was metal in his voice when he uttered the words that made the whole corridor turn cold.
‘The doctor came out pale and whispered to his son: “What kind of person have you been raising for 10 years?”’
Oleg blinked in confusion, not understanding the accusation.
‘What do you mean? Is something wrong with the tests, or did you introduce an infection?’
The doctor shook his head, took off his glasses, and started wiping them with the edge of his coat in quick, nervous motions.
‘No infection. We stitched him up while he was conscious. He got scared at the sight of blood and started screaming. Do you know what exactly he was screaming while I was trying to stop the bleeding?’
Marina frowned, sensing a trap.
‘The child was in pain, in shock. He could have shouted anything!’
‘He was shouting: “Take blood from Grandma! She’s old anyway, she doesn’t need it! Let her die so I won’t have a scar! Drain all of it from her!”’
A heavy silence settled over the corridor, broken only by the humming of the drinks refrigerator.
‘That’s just affect, pain shock,’ Marina began rattling off quickly, pulling out her phone. ‘The child is under stress.’
The doctor put his glasses back on, and behind the thick lenses his eyes looked huge and icy.
‘I’ve spent thirty years in trauma medicine. I’ve heard the ravings of drunks and the prayers of the dying. But I have never encountered such cold, calculated cynicism from a ten-year-old.’
He stepped back, as if separating himself from us with an invisible wall.
‘He wasn’t delirious. He was bargaining with me completely consciously. He offered me his expensive smartphone if I would make sure Grandma was the one in pain, not him… Continued just below in the first comment.’”
If you want, I can also make this sound more natural and polished as literary English instead of direct translation.
“Do you understand that he has a rare blood type? AB negative. We need the best specialist, immediately!” Marina loomed over the receptionist, filling the entire space of the admissions area with her presence.
The woman at the window did not even blink. Accustomed to ignoring hysterics, she dryly replied without looking up from her papers.
“Wait. The doctor will be out soon.”
Oleg, my son, was nervously twisting a button on his jacket, and I knew the thread would soon snap, just as his nerves always snapped at home. He always lost his will the moment Marina raised her voice, turning into the obedient shadow of his wife.
“Mom, you could have watched him better. We asked you not to let him have sharp objects, didn’t we?” There was no anger in his voice, only the familiar, drawn-out whine of a man trying to shift responsibility onto someone else.
I sat on a hard examination bench, trying not to lean my back against the cold wall painted that dreary institutional color. My legs were throbbing, and the unpleasant buzzing of the fluorescent lights rang in my ears.
“Oleg, Pavlik is ten years old. He took the pruning shears himself from the shed while I was weeding the carrots,” I answered quietly, trying to preserve what little strength I had left. “I can’t tie him to me with a rope.”
“He’s a child, he’s exploring the world!” Marina screeched without even turning around, still somehow controlling our conversation. “And you were supposed to provide a safe environment. That’s basic!”
“A safe environment” was their religion. In their apartment, every corner had been padded with soft protectors until Pavlik was seven. My grandson was being raised in a sterile greenhouse where even the cacti, it seemed, had their spines cut off so “the boy wouldn’t get hurt.”
And today he had come to my dacha and decided that the old gooseberry bush was interfering with his drone game.
“Grandma, get rid of the bush. It’s hard for me to land,” he said, lazily chewing gum and staring at his phone. “It’s prickly. Cut it down. It’s useless here.”
“Pavlik, that’s a Black Negus gooseberry bush. My father planted it forty years ago,” I tried to explain, only to meet an empty stare. “Just go around it.”
I turned back to the garden bed, and a minute later I heard a crackling sound and angry huffing. My grandson had found the pruning shears and was savagely hacking at the living branches already heavy with ripening berries, simply because they were in his way.
I rushed toward him. He jerked in surprise, the blade slipped, and it slashed across his forearm. Blood burst out in a dark stream, soaking his fashionable T-shirt, and a deafening scream rang across the garden.
The treatment room door opened, and the doctor came out—a stocky man with a tired face like a baked potato. His coat hung on him like a sack, and he looked as though he had not slept for three days.
“Relatives of Pavel Smirnov?” he asked in a dull voice.
“We are!” Marina rushed toward him, nearly knocking him over. “What’s wrong with him? Did you find blood? We have money, we’ll pay for any plasma!”
The doctor raised a heavy hand, stopping the flood of words, and I noticed the disgust twisting his lips.
“We didn’t need blood. Local anesthesia and stitches were enough. A vessel was nicked tangentially. He’ll live.”
Marina exhaled theatrically, pressing her hands to her chest, while Oleg began rubbing his stiff neck.
“Thank God. When can we take the child home?”
The doctor did not answer right away. He looked at Oleg long and hard, as if trying to detect some sign of intelligent life. Then he shifted his gaze to me, and a strange sympathy flickered in his eyes.
“You’re the grandmother? Galina… Petrovna?” he asked, checking the chart.
“Yes,” I tried to stand, feeling my knees treacherously tremble.
“Sit down,” the doctor said sharply, then stepped almost face-to-face with Oleg.
The doctor’s face was gray, and there was steel in his voice when he spoke the sentence that made the corridor suddenly feel uncomfortable.
“The doctor came out pale and whispered to my son, ‘What kind of child have you been raising for ten years?’”
Oleg blinked in confusion, not understanding the point of the accusation. “What do you mean? Is something wrong with the tests, or did you introduce an infection?”
The doctor shook his head, took off his glasses, and began wiping them with the edge of his coat in jerky, nervous motions.
“No infection. We stitched him up while he was conscious. He got scared at the sight of blood and started screaming. Do you know exactly what he was screaming while I was trying to stop the bleeding?”
Marina frowned, sensing a trap.
“The child was in pain. He was in shock. He could have screamed anything!”
“He was screaming, ‘Take blood from the old woman! She’s old anyway, she doesn’t need it! Let her die so I won’t have a scar! Drain all of it from her!’”
A heavy silence fell over the corridor, broken only by the hum of the drink refrigerator.
“That was shock, a pain response,” Marina began rattling off quickly, pulling out her phone. “The child is stressed.”
The doctor put his glasses back on, and behind the thick lenses his eyes looked huge and icy.
“I’ve worked in trauma medicine for thirty years. I’ve heard the ramblings of drunkards and the prayers of the dying. But I have never encountered such cold, calculated cynicism from a ten-year-old.”
He took a step back, as if separating himself from us with an invisible wall.
“He wasn’t delirious. He was bargaining with me completely consciously. He offered me his expensive smartphone if I made sure his grandmother would be in pain and he wouldn’t.”
Oleg looked down at his shoes, not knowing where to put his eyes.
“Kids today… they’re pragmatic. It’s Generation Alpha. They have different values. They’re more direct.”
“Values?” the doctor repeated with a bitter smirk. “Those are not values. That’s a moral pathology that can’t be cured with pills. Come get your ‘alpha’ in an hour.”
He turned and walked away, shuffling in his worn slippers, leaving us to digest what we had heard.
Marina immediately buried herself in her smartphone screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“We need to file a complaint with the ministry. This is rudeness and a violation of ethics. Oleg, did you hear him? He insulted our son!”
Oleg stayed silent. For the first time that evening, he looked at me rather than through me, and fear was written in his eyes.
“Mom, you do understand… He was in pain. He was just scared for his life.”
“I understand,” I said, and my voice sounded unexpectedly firm even to me.
And I truly did understand, remembering last New Year’s, when Pavlik kicked the box with the building set I had spent two weeks looking for. “Cheap junk,” he had said then, and Oleg and Marina had only laughed, explaining it as his “high consumer standards.” I remembered how a month ago he had locked the cat out on the balcony in freezing weather just to see how long it would last. We treated the cat for a week, and Marina said I was overreacting and that the boy was simply “exploring boundaries.”
Today he had explored the boundaries of my life, and the result had clearly disappointed him.
“I’m leaving,” I said, rising from the bench.
“Where?” Marina asked in sincere surprise, looking up from writing her complaint. “What about Pavlik? He’ll come out soon, he needs support. You have to come home with us and make chicken broth with croutons.”
“No.”
The word fell between us like a heavy stone, shattering the usual script.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“I’m not going to your place. I’m not making broth. And you are never coming to the dacha again.”
“Mom, don’t start,” Oleg winced as if from toothache. “Why are you acting like a child? You got offended by something a kid said under anesthesia?”
I looked at my son: forty years old, a soft belly, a soft chin, and an utterly spineless backbone. I had loved him, pitied him, and given half my pension to their endless mortgages and “projects.”
I had raised parasites, and the worst part was that I kept feeding them with my own life every day.
“The keys,” I said, holding out my hand.
“What keys?”
“To my apartment and the dacha. Give them back right now.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Marina’s voice rose into a shriek. “Who’s supposed to pick Pavlik up from school? Our whole logistics system will collapse!”
“Build a new one. You’re the parents of Generation Alpha. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Oleg looked at me in horror. For the first time, he saw before him not the convenient function called “grandma,” but a чужую решительную женщину.
For the first time, he saw not the convenient function called “grandma,” but a determined stranger.
“Mom, is this because of the gooseberry bush? Seriously? Because of some old shrub?”
“No. Because of blood, Oleg. Because of the very blood he demanded they drain from me.”
Reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and took out the keyring, the metal clinking as it passed into my hand. The keys were warm and damp from his palm, and I immediately wanted to wash them.
“Call me a taxi,” I ordered, slipping the keyring into my bag.
“My app froze,” Marina lied at once, squinting angrily.
“That’s fine. I’ll wait or catch one outside.”
I stepped out of the stuffy building into the cool evening, and the air felt like sweet nectar after the hopelessness of the hospital.
A yellow car pulled up. I got into the back seat and gave the driver the address of the train station.
“At this hour?” the driver asked in surprise, a young man with kind eyes.
“Yes. There are things that can’t be put off,” I replied, watching the city lights flicker past.
As I rode, I thought about my gooseberry bush. Black Negus is hardy—if the roots are intact, it will recover. I’ll cut away the broken branches, seal the wounds with garden pitch, water it, and it will turn green again.
Two hours later, I opened the gate to the dacha, where in the darkness I could make out the outline of the mutilated bush. Branches lay scattered on the ground, covered in dark berries, mercilessly trampled by expensive sneakers.
I brought a stool from the shed, sat down, and began gathering the surviving berries into my skirt, one by one.
The phone in my pocket kept vibrating without pause—“my beloved sonny” was calling, wanting to restore everything to the way it had been. I took out the phone, looked at Oleg’s photo on the screen, and pressed “block.”
The house was quiet, but it was not emptiness. It was blessed peace. I brewed fresh mint tea and took a beautiful little vase from the cupboard. On the table lay the drone Pavlik had forgotten—an expensive, plastic, predatory beetle.
I picked it up, stepped out onto the porch, and hurled it with all my strength into the compost heap, feeling an incredible relief.
Tomorrow morning I will change the locks in the city apartment, and I will either transfer this plot of land to a charitable foundation or sell it so I can go away to a sanatorium.
The important thing is that my life will no longer sustain those who are ready to bleed me dry for their own comfort.
I popped a gooseberry into my mouth—sour, thick-skinned, but real.
Freedom, it turned out, tasted exactly like that: with a slight bitterness and the tart aftertaste of truth.
