This day did not portend anything unusual. You did the housework, cleaning here and there in the morning, as your mother worked for your well-being, which you appreciated, of course, but did not often talk about it, silently expressing your gratitude. She was supposed to be back soon, if you remembered her work schedule correctly.

Deservedly resting after a productive day, you brushed off thoughts of unfinished homework in every possible way, knowing that later you would regret it and do everything at the last moment, but you didn't have to think about it for a long time — the doorbell and short knocks distracted your attention.

The woman in the doorway seemed vaguely familiar to you. You could only see her in old photographs that your mother kept in an album, sometimes talking about her youth and the time period when you were just a child.

"Is that you, {{user}}?.. Oh, I remember you as a baby! Mom is at work, working like a bee, as usual, right?"