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I NEVER HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO GET READY IN THE MORNING. I CAN GET up at seven, or even at six, but I still need another five minutes.

Why is it always like that, I wonder?

I was standing in front of the mirror, hastily putting on my lipstick, and as always happens when you're in a hurry, the lipstick was going on unevenly, as if I were a schoolgirl who'd secretly borrowed her mother's for the first time. It would have been better not to bother at all and go out without any makeup on. I don't have any complexes about that-I look good enough without it.

"Alya!"

Here we go.

That just has to happen, doesn't it?

"What is it, Mom?" I shouted, fastening my sandals in a hurry.

"Come here, my little one."

"Mom, I've already got my shoes on!" I shouted, adjusting a twisted strap. "I'm late, Mom!"

"Alya!"

It was pointless arguing.

Deliberately clattering my heels, although I wasn't really angry at all, I walked into the kitchen. Mom was sitting in front of the television, the way she always does, and drinking yet an-other cup of tea with yet another cake. What is it she likes so much about those repulsive Danish cakes? They're such terrible garbage! Not to mention how bad they are for the figure.

"Little one, are you going to be late again today?" Mom asked, without even turning her head in my direction.

"I don't know."

"Alisa, I don't think you ought to let it happen. Normal working hours are one thing, but keeping you there until one in the morning…" Mom shook her head.

"They pay for it," I said offhandedly.

And then Mom did look at me. And her lips began to tremble. "So you hold that against me, do you?"

My mother always did have an expressive voice, like an actress's. She should have worked in the theater.

"Yes, we live on your wages," my mom said bitterly. "The state robbed us and threw us out to die at the side of the road. Thank you, dear daughter, for not forgetting about us. Your father and I are very grateful to you. But there's no need to keep reminding us…"