Monica was a wonderful girl. She had lived in the city all her life herself, but she loved coming to our village with Mark. She loved the atmosphere of the place and sometimes she would tell me how much fun it would be to live in the countryside for a month or two, when you could gather mushrooms in the autumn and berries in the summer. She also tried to write something for herself and the cottage in the countryside was a great inspiration.
I was glad that my son had such a girl, that she and I were like friends. And I wanted Mark to propose as soon as possible and arrange for us to meet her parents.
For the sake of meeting the matchmakers, we had to go to the city, not them to us. I could tell from the first glance of the apartment building where they lived that they weren’t poor people. The entryway was nothing like my own sister’s, who lived in a khrushovka apartment. Everything here was expensive and rich, and it was scary to breathe in the apartment: paintings on the walls, vases and fancy vases.
Monica’s parents weren’t too happy about our arrival. They wanted to finish everything as soon as possible. But most of all, I didn’t like the way Monica’s mom squinted when we walked on her expensive carpets in our socks.
The meeting was literally half an hour – we got to know each other and that’s it.
Just as we were getting ready, Mark’s future mother-in-law came out to see us off, and she gave my husband and me some kind of package. When I looked in it, I found ten pairs of new socks.
– It’s like charity, we always do that. You can take them, so you don’t have to wear holes,” the woman said.
I do not know how such a good and tactful girl could be born from such people. Matchmakers are just pigs, not people, even though they are rich.
I still want Mark to marry Monica, but I want to see the matchmakers as rarely as possible, and preferably never at all. They are rich, but uncultured people.
