“I’ll come in whenever I want—I have the keys,” said my mother-in-law, barging into our bedroom at five in the morning.
The scrape of the lock made me freeze, a damp rag still in my hand. I’d been scrubbing a sticky jam stain off the parquet floor—jam brought by Irina Borisovna—and that sound was all too familiar to me. Pasha was still asleep. Sunday, half past eight in the morning. The door opened, and there stood […]
Продолжение...