Part 4 — My Mother Would Not Let Two Old Dogs Into My House, but at the Sight of Them Her Face Suddenly Went Pale

…Mother tore the second sheet from my hand and pressed it to her chest.

“It cannot be read now,” she told me.

“All your life you told me that Father died beside you.”

“That is how it was.”

“Then why was he supposed to return?”

I saw in Mother’s eyes a weariness that does not gather in only one day.

The unfamiliar woman quickly opened the door.

“All this is nonsense. I am leaving.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me and for the first time lost her calm.

“You cannot detain me.”

“But the camera may be able to detain you.”

I had installed a small camera in the corner of the corridor after Father’s death. Mother thought it was broken. But I had checked it the previous week and knew that the recordings were saved.

Blood rushed to the woman’s face.

“Did you plan this in advance?”

“No. You did.”

Mother took out her phone and called the police. Her hand was trembling so much that she dialed the number incorrectly twice.

The woman immediately called someone.

“Everything has failed,” she said. “The son is here too. And they have the recording.”

Those words passed through the room like frozen air.

A few minutes later Mother’s lawyer called. Years ago he had worked with Father, and I rarely spoke to him.

“Mrs. Marine,” he said, “do not sign any documents. That woman is not an employee of our office. She used your old medical papers and prepared a forged contract.”

Mother lowered her eyes.

“I thought she was really helping me.”

“She built everything precisely on the fact that you were ill and frightened.”

The police soon arrived.

They did not handcuff the woman, but when she crossed the door, her steps were no longer confident. One of the police officers asked for the recording. I handed him the recorder.

Her voice sounded in the room again.

“If you do not sign, your son will leave you on the street. He has no time for you.”

Until then I had thought these words were only someone else’s voice. But now they entered me.

I really had told Mother that I had no time.

Not in exactly these words, but every evening I said:

“Mother, I am in a meeting now.”

“Mother, I will come on Saturday.”

“Do not worry, you are fine.”

My voice in the recording sounded calm and convincing. As if problems existed only for those who had time.

Mother stood by the window and was silent.

“I could not protect you,” I told her.

“You did not know.”

“But I should have asked.”

“I should have told you too.”

At that moment Luna placed her head against Mother’s leg, while Bruno lay heavily on the floor. Both were tired, but neither moved even one step away from the other.

We went to the clinic in the evening.

Mother was taken into the room preparing for the operation. I sat in the corridor with Luna on my knees, while Bruno lay at my feet. The copper key hanging from his collar jingled each time he changed his breathing.

The doctor looked in on me at two o’clock at night.

“The condition is difficult, but you came in time.”

These words revolved in my heart all night.

In time.

How many things can change by arriving one day earlier?

How many words can save a person if you tell them in time?

Three days after the operation Mother opened her eyes.

The first thing she asked about was the dogs.

“Are they here?” she asked in a whisper.

“They are in the hospital yard. Bruno is lying by the bench, and Luna is waiting by the door.”

Mother smiled.

“Then we are already home.”

But the truth about Father still remained.

Mother gave me Elene’s second sheet only when we returned home from the hospital. In the same red wooden box where Father’s old watch lay, there was another letter.

Father’s letter.

“Marine, that night I went to Elene because she told me that you needed help and were hiding it. When you saw me, you thought I was leaving the house. In fact, I was coming back to you. If I did not make it, tell Levan that I never abandoned his mother.”

Mother read the letter and began to cry as if tears held back for years had suddenly been released.

“All this time I thought he left because of me,” she said.

I sat down beside her.

“All this time I also thought that he had simply abandoned me.”

Silence fell.

Then Mother extended her hand to me.

“Now we both know how many things silence can hide.”

The documents for the sale of the house were canceled. The forged documents were taken by the investigation. The woman appeared before the court, but Mother did not demand revenge against her.

“She used my fear,” Mother told me. “And I do not want to become her fear.”

Several weeks later Mother began physical therapy.

In the mornings she opened the window. Luna lay in a patch of sunlight, and Bruno beside her, as always.

I switched to part-time work and rented a small apartment in the city, several streets away from Mother’s house. Every morning I went to them.

Mother made tea.

This time, only one cup.

And sometimes the second cup remained for me.

Bruno’s hind legs never fully became strong again, so I built him a small wooden ramp in the yard. Luna climbed it slowly and looked back at every step, as if checking whether Bruno was still following her.

One morning Mother told me:

“Levan, now I am no longer afraid of being left alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I know that if I open the door, someone will be there.”

Months passed.

The first snow came at the end of December. Mother sat beside the armchair, stroking Luna’s ears and straightening a warm blanket for Bruno.

I saw a small child’s drawing on the table. It was my niece’s drawing: four people, two dogs, and a house with a large sun drawn above it.

“Is Father here too?” I asked.

Mother looked at the drawing.

“No,” she said calmly. “Here is everyone who returned home.”

That evening I received a message from an unknown number. It was from that woman.

“You can change your testimony. I will return the money to you. Your family needs peace.”

I told Mother nothing. I wrote the answer myself.

“We already have peace. Do not call us again.”

Then I blocked the number.

Mother saw this.

“Was she trying to come back again?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“I came back too, Mother. Now, truly.”

That night the electricity went out in the house for several minutes. In the darkness, only the light of the snow coming through the window could be seen.

Luna pressed against Bruno.

The small copper key hanging from Bruno’s collar moved silently.

Mother reached toward it and touched it with her fingers.

“Elene left this key because she told me that every house has its own door,” she said. “But the door opens only when someone inside wants to return.”

I looked at Mother.

“Now the door is open.”

It was snowing outside.

Inside, two old dogs breathed peacefully, leaning against each other.

For the first time, the copper key no longer jingled.

The house breathed again.