It had 5 rooms for 4 families, a tiny kitchen, and an extension with
a bathroom. One of the rooms was a shared space, called the "smoking room" — but the only one who smoked there was my mom, the neighbors used it to store things and dry their laundry. They obviously didn’t like it, but no one could do anything about it. Complaints were pointless.

Then there’s my grandma, who screamed "Abortion!" — and an elderly neighbor who was like my nanny. There was also a daycare, but that came later.

If I dig into my memories, I could pull out a lot.

Great-grandma smelled like cabbage pies, and she was my partner in watching Brazilian soap operas, which I didn’t understand at all, but I liked them. Grandma often called my mom a "prostitute."

Grandpa was the king of our room. And he had his special spot — a chair in front of the TV. Don’t touch the TV, don’t change the channels, there was no remote back then. I loved being around grandpa — he’d carry me on his shoulders. But the best part was his signature dish: he’d take a piece of black bread, rub it with garlic on both sides, slather it with butter, and top it with more sliced garlic, then add salt. He’d pair it with beer — which he also salted. But he never let me have any.

Grandma who screamed "Abortion!" was kind of a stranger to me back then. I didn’t get that she was also my grandma until later. After all, I already had a grandma — Great-grandma — so why would I need another one? And can that even happen? I had one grandpa, one mom, one dad, so why the hell would there be two grandmas? My brain couldn’t wrap around it. I was stuck on the idea that a grandma could only be one — and she had to be the main one. If there was another one, she felt kind of secondary, like a stranger.

My elderly neighbor was Aunt Galya. She was the one who made the best pancakes, took me to the playground, played Cinderella with me, and acted as my personal Barbie, singer, and teacher. Aunt Galya was my friend, I could be a little brat with her, and I could always just walk into her room without knocking.

And then, of course, there's her. Mom. Mommy. Mom was cigarette smoke and a blaring tape recorder in the "smoking room." Mom was my tears, the constant source of anxiety, and some almost stranger, but everyone said she was my mom, and I kind of figured I had to love her a lot. That's why every time she left, it hurt more and more, because I had this huge, unconditional love for her inside.

That whole childhood attachment to your parents — it’s like this fundamental, unbreakable structure, living somewhere deep in your settings, where "love" is a given, and "no love" only shows up later, when you get older and start figuring things out.

I mean, think about it. How convenient is it — you have a kid, and they’re just gonna love you and need you. You’re their basic necessity, and as long as you don’t fuck up — they’ll love you. And, by the way, you can fuck up over and over again, which is also really convenient. From love to hate — or indifference — there’s not just one or two steps in these complicated relationships, there’s a whole bunch. So, parents, enjoy it while it lasts.

Now, my childhood. The first feeling that comes to mind when I think back is loneliness. No one’s ever around. Well, technically, yeah, there’s Great-grandma, there’s Grandpa, but they’re kind of not there — they’re off doing their own thing, like cooking, cleaning, or watching TV. I spent a lot of time alone, and I was really bored. No one to play with. Like, no one.

Then Aunt Galya, the neighbor, came along, and things got more fun. I was really sad when she went away. It didn’t happen often, but I hated it when she left for a few days. With her, we had our own little world — we’d go to the playground by the house, play in her room with whatever I wanted. With her, I could just be a kid.

Then, daycare came into my life. I went there because the teacher was the grandma who screamed "Abortion!" At daycare, I finally got friends. I never hung out with the boys.

I was a pretty shy, quiet kid. Honestly, I really wanted to run, jump on trampolines, throw tantrums, play and scream with the other kids. But that wasn’t acceptable in our family. So, when we went outside, I just stood there for two hours, off to the side, and in the group, I played with other girls, just with dolls.

Besides the loneliness, I was constantly anxious. My world wasn’t like the one I secretly saw in other kids at daycare — I didn’t have a mom or dad dropping me off or picking me up. I didn’t bring new toys. I just silently swallowed my tears every morning and went to eat porridge for breakfast.

At home, the source of anxiety was always Mom, or her absence — when she wasn’t there, I didn’t know where she was, or if she was ever coming back. When she did show up, she never stayed the night. The worst part was when she started packing up to go somewhere — that happened all the time. She’d go to the bathroom, and I’d stare at her, watching her put on makeup — always very bright. She knew how to bribe me — she'd let me taste toothpaste, and I’d eat it. My favorite treat. For that, I’d promise not to cry when she left.

But, of course, I still cried. Based on what she wore, I could sort of tell how long she’d be gone — if she wore a sweater, that meant she’d be back the next day. If she wore something really nice, she’d be gone for a while.

A typical scene from our perfect family history:
— Mom, don’t go!
Mommy, please don’t go!
Mommy, when will you be back?
Grandma, why is mom leaving?
Mommy, please take me with you!
Mommy, stay homeee….

— Mom will be back soon! Go to your room, stop crying. I’ll be right there.

Grandma drags me to the room. I press my ear to the door, choking on my sobs.
Tears are streaming down my face, I’m gasping — my world just crashed again, and there’s no mom in it. I’m about 3 years old. It’s heartbreaking.

— Ugh, that prostitute! Where’s she going now? Off to screw around? — Grandma’s scolding mom.

— Ugh, back off, gram. Yeah, screw around. I’m tired of the constant complaints.

— How do you talk like that? Listen to yourself! Who are you leaving your kid with?

I still had hope Grandma would talk her into staying.

— She’ll sit with you, I’ve got things to do.

— What things?

— Work.

— What work? Where do you work? A prostitute?

— Oh, whatever! Bye!

I hear her high heels clicking, the front door slams. Grandma comes back into the room.

— Your mom’s gone.

Everything crashed down. Now I have to wait again. Just sit and listen at the door, wait. My whole little life was about waiting. I’m scared she won’t come back.

Waiting always feels heavy. I still hate waiting more than anything. Back then, I dealt with it like this: in our apartment, in the hallway, there was an old phone.
Someone taught me how to use it — and from that moment on, I became a phone terror. In mom’s address book, no matter how she hid it, I’d always find the numbers of all her friends.

Every time she left, I’d open the book, start calling everyone, and ask them to tell me where she was. People’s hearts would melt — they’d call her. The conversations were short — I’ll be right there, okay? When? Soon. I’d learn that "soon" is a very flexible concept, and adults’ promises were lies.

Sometimes, I knew she was there, but they wouldn’t let me talk to her. I’d hear her voice in the background, something like "I’m not here," and I’d start crying.
Eventually, she’d pick up the phone. But she never came home.

I got used to my parents being absent — like, it was okay without mom or dad. Life is full of disappointments and unfulfilled hopes — every time mom was home, I’d make a wish with all my might, hoping she’d stay.

When she wasn’t there — that I wanted her back.