In the 1990s, the Union collapsed and our family collapsed – the father did not withstand the difficulties and fled. I contacted, but I did not help financially. My mother raised her two children alone. She was cut off at work, interrupted as much as she could, no one helped. Now my dad loves to teach me life and talk about something my mom doesn’t understand. And here I usually say the magical word “cake.”

Cake was the end of my life. I don’t remember how many days we only ate flour and water cakes, my mom had been delaying her salary for a long time. One day, she got a treasure box with her treasures - grandmother's bracelets for her 18th birthday, a wedding ring, a grandmother's ring, a bracelet and a suspension. and left.

I returned with a package of foods and the magic began – a couple of hours later the house filled with a wonderful smell of cakes. Oh my gods! The two kids were almost mad. We only got one cake. And my mom wore a fucka and left in the cold winter with these dreams of our hungry stomachs. When she came back, she hugged us, kissed us, cried and laughed. She was lucky — her mother approached the cars standing at the intersection and offered to buy cakes. In one of the cars was the manager of the restaurant. He bought a couple of cakes, left, and after a while returned and offered his mother at home to cook her wonderful cakes for his restaurant.

Many years have passed, but still in front of my eyes this picture - a mother in a fucka, in her hands full of pads of cakes carefully wrapped in a towel, and my sister and I with hungry eyes accompany her. Mother’s face is sad and sad, because she has food in her hands, but she can’t give us it, because then she won’t be able to make money — again — on food to feed us a little longer. Love your mothers.