Minutes of Feelings

Niv — Daughter, go outside, take a walk. You’re always sitting with your books. You’ll end up like those women writers — without a husband and without a family. — Mom, oh my God, I’m only fourteen! — And what? Soon you’ll be fourteen, then a teenager, then twenty… and you’ll be left alone — no boyfriend, no home. — You’re always thinking only about property and money! — My sunshine, try to understand… I won’t live forever. And this world is cruel — it will make you work like a horse if you don’t have support by your side. I don’t want that fate for you. — Mom, I’ll work myself! I don’t need boys or men to provide for me. — But you don’t have to be alone. — I want to be alone! That’s it, Mom, end of discussion. — Just like him… — I’m not him! He’s a horned goat who abandoned you while you were pregnant. And I’m not his daughter. I don’t need a father like that, and I don’t want to know him! — My God… this girl is like thunder on a clear day. I wasn’t angry at my mother — she wanted only the best for me. But her worn-out sneakers told the truth: we were simply surviving in England. I don’t remember the move, and I don’t even know what Scotland looks like. Only from my mother’s stories did I hear that it was beautiful, that Scotland is an independent land where strength lives. That feeling was exactly what drew me to my homeland. Sometimes I secretly took my mother’s phone and searched for pictures of Scotland. Later, I decided to learn the language — to be closer to the land I had never once touched. I wanted to know everything about it, to absorb every fragment. School remained somewhere in the background, while books always came first. And another passion of mine — running around the stadium. My mother always changed the subject when I asked why we ended up in England and not Scotland. What could have happened that she, pregnant with me, simply packed her things and decided to leave her home and family behind? Under pressure from my stubbornness, my mother eventually told me about my father. Supposedly, he was some kind of sailor she had met through mutual acquaintances. They were connected through buying fish — my grandfather allegedly sent my mother to buy it from that fisherman. Then they found common ground, became friends… and soon my mother got pregnant. When her family found out, they supposedly kicked her out of the house. She told it all as if she were retelling the script of a cheap Brazilian soap opera. But the more I listened, the more I understood: there was no truth in her words. She was lying. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she nervously looked away whenever the conversation touched her life before my birth. The story was completely different. I knew it. I felt it. Leaving for my room, I always knew one thing: I was not a mistake. Every time, my mother quietly cried in the kitchen when she was alone. She sat at the table, poured herself tea with lemon, and in the silence, unnoticed by anyone, tears rolled down her cheeks. A minute later, she wiped them with her sleeve, took a deep breath, and went back to washing dishes, as if nothing had happened. And I only watched her from afar, then ran to my room, took out a book about Scotland, and once again searched for pictures — castles, ancient stone walls, green hills, and places where history lives. I dreamed of seeing all of it with my own eyes, of touching the land I considered my homeland. In the mornings, after breakfast, my mother went to work — to clean someone else’s house. I could never understand the meaning of it. Cleaning your own place and then going into чужие walls to scrub the dirt of the rich? It made me angry. She could have found another job, but she chose this one. And I stayed alone. I wandered the streets, looking for adventures for my soul or simply enjoying solitude. My mother was gone from morning till night, and I watched sunsets without her. Then she returned, exhausted, bringing food — or rather, what was left from someone else’s table. I knew how to cook myself, though most of the time it turned into some kind of mess made from whatever I could find. For that, my mother scolded me: “Dogs eat that, not people.” But I only grew more stubborn. In moments like those, I felt like I wasn’t a girl at all, but a scruffy little boy in love with freedom and with my sunsets. Everything changed one summer day when I was walking down our street and noticed that someone had moved into the neighbors’ house. It made me especially sad — just recently, Grandma Nene had lived there. She was almost ninety-one and had lived a long life. A few months ago, she passed away, and her son, without much thought, sold the house. I sighed: if Nene had known, she would have “risen from her grave and buried her son right next to her.” She often said she would leave the house to him and would never allow any strangers to live there. After all, she had lived half her life with her old man — raising children, working, living modestly but happily. And then — bang! The house was sold, and her will was not fulfilled. I felt sorry for Grandma Nene. May her soul be in heaven… She almost always treated me to delicious food, knowing how much I loved to eat. And my mother, as usual, thought I went to the neighbor’s on purpose to beg for food. But that wasn’t true. Nene and I had become like friends. After her death, I thought for a long time that I would never have another companion.