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The entryway greeted them with dampness and the dim glow of a single working bulb. Mark looked up and suddenly remembered the first time he had crossed the threshold of this building. Back then, he had come holding a bouquet, feeling shy but happy, while Monica laughed, breathlessly recounting stories about her neighbors. This entryway had smelled of something warm, something homely. That memory, so sweet and comforting, flared brightly in his mind, filling his heart with an unexpected warmth. But it vanished as soon as they stepped into the apartment, where a loud crash startled Mark, yanking him back into reality.
Monica shut the door behind her abruptly, let go of Emma’s hand, and silently headed toward the kitchen. Mark froze in the hallway, nervously watching her rigid back. Monica’s expression was stern, but the silence was worse than anything else. She didn’t yell, didn’t launch into a lecture. She simply took off her jacket, hung it neatly over the back of a chair, and finally turned to him.
— Sit down, — she said curtly, pointing to the chair by the table.
Mark crossed his arms over his chest, deciding that at least here, he wouldn’t give in. But Monica kept staring at him in such a way that he couldn’t help but feel like a child about to be scolded for stealing a cookie.
— Emma, I said sit down, — her voice grew colder, and Mark, unable to withstand the pressure, reluctantly obeyed. His chest churned with resentment and anger, but he held it in, not saying a word.
Monica sat down across from him, leaning her elbows on the table and clasping her fingers together. Her eyes studied the face of her "daughter" as she spoke, emphasizing every phrase with sharp clarity.
— I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove, — she began, her voice sharp but not loud, which only made it more terrifying. — You get into fights at school, skip classes, and try to act like you’re an adult who can do whatever they want. But you’re not an adult, Emma.
“Not an adult?!” Mark felt crushed at that moment. It was as if his entire experience, his past, his life, had been erased with a single stroke. Sitting before him was a woman who had once built her life around him. Who had accepted his help, his money, his time, only to leave when it was more convenient to live without him. And now she had the audacity to tell him how to behave, as if he were a worthless child.
— What’s with that strange smile? — Monica asked sharply, her eyes narrowing.
Mark suddenly realized his face was betraying far more than he intended. His lips had twisted into a bitter smirk, too obvious to go unnoticed.
— It’s just funny how things turned out, — he replied quietly, lowering his gaze.
— Turned out? — Monica snapped, her tone demanding. — Look at me, — she said sharply.
Mark lifted his eyes, but the usual teenage defiance she expected wasn’t there. Instead, she saw something else — a heavy mix of exhaustion and irritation. It felt unnatural for her “daughter,” and Monica’s frown deepened.
— Are you trying to say something with that look of yours? — her voice grew prickly.
— I’ve already told you everything a hundred times, — Mark snapped, unable to hold back. — But you don’t believe me.
Monica’s eyes narrowed, her face turning cautious.
— Told me? About what? That those girls are provoking you? Or something else?
Mark squinted, feeling his anger flare up.
— No, not about them! About myself! I… — he blurted out, his voice trembling with tension. — I’m not Emma!
Monica stared at him, her expression both confused and stern.
— Are we back to this again? — she said coldly, though doubt flickered in her voice. — You’re starting with this nonsense again? Do you really think I’ll believe it?
Mark leapt from the chair, his thin hands trembling.
— It’s not nonsense! I’m a man! And I’m Mark! — he shouted, his voice breaking. His fists clenched, small but taut with emotion. — I know you liked it when I kissed you on the back of your neck because you said it reminded you of your youth. Or how you got turned on when I grabbed your hair.
Monica clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening.
— You… — she exhaled, her voice trembling.
— I know how once you asked me to turn off the music because it distracted you when you were on top and… — He stopped abruptly, seeing her eyes glisten with tears.
Monica stared at "Emma" with a piercing gaze. Her look was strict, but then her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. That expression… That mix of stubbornness, irritation, and despair. She had seen it before.
— Stop, — she said sharply, raising her hand. — Say it again. Say… that you’re Mark.
Mark exhaled heavily, feeling as though the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders.
— I’m Mark, Monica. I’m your ex.
She stared at him for several seconds, then let out a nervous, deliberate laugh. The sound grew louder, spiraling into something strange, almost hysterical. Finally, Monica clutched her head and exhaled deeply, as if trying to pull herself together.
— My God, what a bastard… — she whispered, her voice hoarse. — I should have known this was because of him, — she said, suddenly spinning toward Mark. — You talked to him, didn’t you?
Monica abruptly turned away, her breathing quickened. She paced the kitchen, grabbing cups and opening cabinets as if trying to distract herself from the conversation.
— What does he want, huh? — she asked without looking at Mark. — He had no right to do this!
She slammed a cabinet door so hard that Mark flinched. Turning to him, she ran a hand down her face, as if trying to erase her thoughts, but her gaze hardened.
— I know what he’s trying to do, — she said, staring at Emma. — He’s trying to turn you against me. You don’t even realize he’s using you to hurt me.
Mark frowned, his voice desperate:
— It’s not him. I… It’s really me, Monica.
— You don’t even understand what he’s doing, — she shook her head, her voice trembling. — You’re a child, and he’s using that to strike me where it hurts most.
She grabbed his frail shoulders and began shaking him so hard that his body flopped like a rag doll.
— You don’t understand what he’s doing! — she screamed, gripping "Emma’s" shoulders so tightly that Mark winced in pain. — He’s using you, Emma! And you’re too stupid and small to see his manipulations, turning my life into hell.
— You’re hurting me, — Mark croaked, tears threatening to spill.
Monica released him so abruptly that he stumbled. Her expression grew distant, as if she no longer saw “Emma” in front of her.
— Go to your room, — she said quietly, but her tone carried a chilling menace. — I need to think.
— Monica, I really… — he started, but she cut him off, sharply pointing to the door.
— And don’t you dare call me by my name again! — she snapped, clenching her fists. — I’m not your friend, Emma. I’m your mother.
Her eyes burned with fury, and Mark felt something inside him collapse. He opened his mouth to say something else, but her cold glare silenced him.
— You want to play at being an adult? Fine. You’ll do the dishes, take out the trash, cook, clean, do laundry, and tidy up wherever I say. And if I hear this circus again, — her voice turned icy, — I’ll take away your phone, your computer, and you won’t leave the apartment. School, chores, and not a single distraction.
A chill ran down Mark’s spine at her words. Without a word, he turned and walked to his room, feeling her searing gaze on his back. Slowly closing the door behind him, he sat on the bed, staring blankly ahead.
— This is complete fucking bullshit... — he whispered to himself, rubbing his neck. His gaze fell on the textbooks, and something tightened inside him. — So this is my life now, huh?
"I’m still me. Still a man? Or… a girl who…" flashed through his mind as he lowered his gaze to his hands. They were trembling, so thin they looked like they could break with the slightest effort.
Monica’s recent words flashed through his mind again — "do the dishes, take out the trash, cook, clean" — and he closed his eyes as if trying to retreat into his old life.
— It’s temporary. — He tried to take a deep breath, but even his own words sounded like a lie. — I’ll figure a way out.
But these hands, this body reminded him that “temporary” had already lasted far too long.