father

If I ever come back home, how will you greet me? What will you say? Will you open the door, give me a cold look, and say, “Well, come in”? I can’t even picture it. Mom will probably be crying, running around, trying to hug me, wringing a towel in her hands, and saying, “Sasha, are you hungry?” And you, clearly clenching your jaw with a hint of disdain, will probably just gesture toward the kitchen. Maybe just a nod.

“So, did you come alone?”
“No, not alone.”
“Really? And where’s your …friend? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“You already know each other.”
“We do? Well, it looks like I need to get to know you both again.”
“Let’s skip it. I get it.”
“Oh, you get it? How interesting! I didn’t know my son was…”

Mom comes in, offering tea for the hundredth time. I look at Dad, this sad old man who can’t even hug me or make any effort. I see Mom torn between us. What the hell am I doing here? Why is this happening? Why did I come back..?

I follow Mom from the kitchen into the hallway, involuntarily glancing around the apartment where I grew up. Here I played with toy soldiers, and there was my bike… Dad always had a photo of me in a frame on his desk. It’s not there now.

I hug Mom; she seems like she’s about to cry again.
“Oh God, Mom, it’s okay, I’m fine.”

I hear Dad’s voice from the kitchen:
“Look at him, he’s fine. Did you even think about me or Mom at all? And he's my own son!”

“Mom, I’ll call tomorrow. Take care, okay?”
...
I leave the house, and you’re waiting outside next to the car. You look anxious.
“So, how did it go?”
“As expected.”
“I had a feeling… Sasha, I’m so sorry, I…”
“Alright, screw it. Let’s go check out some bridges. Maybe they still open them? Or has everything changed so hopelessly here?”

I open the car door, get behind the wheel, and, while you’re not looking, take a deep breath to steady myself.