Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. He called rarely, insisting everything was fine, that work kept him busy. He mentioned they’d gotten a new apartment, needing repairs and furniture, so visiting was too costly and time-consuming.
Clara, sensing trouble, gently asked if he’d started drinking again. Daniel would hang up irritably, unwilling to continue the conversation. Clara sighed heavily.
She didn’t want to dwell on dark thoughts now. Her son was back, and she needed to go to the store to buy groceries to feed him properly. Let him rest after the trip, and she’d prepare everything.
But when Clara returned with heavy grocery bags, the house was empty. She checked Daniel’s room; his duffel bag stood against the wall. A strong urge to peek inside and see what he’d brought, what he’d accumulated over the years, gripped her. But her conscience stopped her—it would be wrong to invade her son’s privacy.
She also excused his arriving without gifts. He must have been struggling. With everything that had happened, gifts were the last thing on his mind.
Clara convinced herself she didn’t need presents. The main thing was that her son was home. Daniel returned late that night, and Clara instantly knew he was drunk.
In the hallway, he fumbled, breathing heavily and dropping things. Maybe he met old friends—perhaps one could help him find a job, she thought anxiously. “I had a few drinks, Mom, don’t scold me!” Daniel slurred, entering the room and swaying unsteadily.
Without waiting for a reply, he waved a hand and stumbled to his room. When loud snoring echoed from inside, Clara couldn’t resist and peeked in. Her son lay across the bed, fully clothed, arms sprawled, like an exhausted child.
A wave of pity and worry for her son surged in her heart. In the morning, as she prepared breakfast, she heard Daniel enter the kitchen. He looked guilty, avoiding her gaze.
He refused food, asking only for a cup of tea, then another. Clara sat across from him, deciding it was time for a serious talk. “What are you going to do next, Daniel?” she asked, studying his face with concern.
“I won’t let you drink here. I’m telling you now.” “Will you kick me out?” He shoved the mug aside and shot his mother a sharp look.
Clara flinched, pain shooting through her hand, reminding her of yesterday’s burn, as if the hot tea scalded her again. “Have you forgotten this house is mine too?” Daniel asked coldly, staring at her with bloodshot eyes from drinking. Clara looked at her son, struggling to hide her growing unease.