My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, with a bag in her hand and an expression that changed as soon as she saw us together.
“Oh, you’re early,” she said, trying to sound natural, but her eyes lingered on the bowl I was holding.
The silence became dense, almost palpable, as if the air itself was waiting for what was going to happen next.
“What is this?” I asked, lifting the bowl slightly, without taking my eyes off her.
My mother frowned, as if she didn’t understand why that question was important, as if everything was perfectly normal.
“Food,” he replied coldly. “What else could it be?”
That response ignited something inside me, a mixture of disbelief and rage that I could no longer contain.
“Do you think this is food for someone who just gave birth?” My voice trembled, but not from weakness.
She placed the bag on the table with a curt movement, and her expression changed, becoming harder, more defensive.
“You’re not here every day,” he said. “You don’t know what everything costs, what you have to do to make ends meet.”
His words weren’t an apology, they were a justification, and that threw me off more than I expected.
“I’ll give you enough money,” I replied. “This doesn’t make sense.”
My mother let out a short, humorless laugh, as if I were naive for thinking that everything was so simple.
“Enough?” he repeated. “You think 1.5 million solves everything, but you have no idea about reality.”
I felt the conversation was veering off course, that she was avoiding something, circling around the issue without directly addressing it.
“Then explain it to me,” I said. “Because this isn’t normal, and I’m not going to ignore it.”
