I got married at twenty-one. A year later I had a daughter. I really wanted more children, but it didn’t work out. That’s how my daughter remained my only comfort. We loved her very much, refused to deny her anything, dressed her like in the pictures in the fashion magazines.
– My princess! – my husband used to say.
When my husband died, my daughter was seventeen years old. I could no longer dress and dress her in the latest fashions myself. A year later she brought her husband to our cottage. He was as green as she was.
– Since you can’t provide everything I need, my husband will do it,” my daughter said.
But what her husband earned was spent on their own clothes and entertainment. They ate and drank at my expense. That was okay, but they didn’t even want to rinse their own cups. I put up with it for three months. Eventually I got tired of it, and I… kicked them out the door.
My daughter and her husband went to live with his parents. They ran out of patience after a week, they threw the daughter out the door, and she came back to me.
– You’re the reason we broke up! – she blamed me. A year later my daughter remarried. But this time she was smart enough to marry a man instead of a brat.
Another year later she had a daughter, which I found out about by chance from mutual acquaintances. I haven’t heard from my daughter since.
Twenty-three years passed. And then the other day my daughter deigned to appear. Or rather to call.
– Mother, your granddaughter’s wedding is coming up. My husband and I decided to give her your apartment as a wedding present. – she told me.
– Where am I going? – I asked her.
– You want to go to the village, to your sister’s. You want to go to a nursing home…
Of course, I’m not moving out of my apartment. One good thing, my husband doesn’t see this humiliation.
