Vasil and Irina got off the bus and walked past the yellow bus stop sign.
Vasil had strange, conflicting emotions. Beyond Stefan's recent odd behavior—which Vasil had chalked up to the stress and pressure of the exams—now Irina was acting strange too.
He knew his performance had gone well. He was almost certain he would get the scholarship, and he thought his mother realized that too.
But Irina had been completely silent the entire way home.
Vasil replayed the performance over and over in his mind, and aside from the rush of excitement it brought him, he couldn't find a single flaw.
Maybe the problem was with him.
Having your best friend act strangely was one thing. But when your mother did too—it was harder to just blame it all on them.
Vasil looked down at his mother's face. For a while now, he had to look down to see her. It felt less like he was growing and more like the world around him had shrunk.
Cautiously and nervously, he said, "Mom?"
Irina looked up at the sound of his voice. Vasil asked, "Is something on your mind?"
Irina hesitated, then carefully said, "there are few things."
"Do any of them have to do with my performance?"
Irina sighed. "Yes and no."
Vasil hesitated. "...It wasn't good?"
"It was. It was very good."
"Then it wasn't enough…"
Irina shook her head. "That's not it either."
Vasil stayed quiet, giving her space to gather her thoughts.
After a few silent minutes, Irina said, "Your performance was incredible. In every way…"
Vasil stared at her, a question mark in his eyes. Irina continued: "It's honestly a bit embarrassing to admit, but the truth is, I didn't expect much from you."
Vasil stopped walking. "You didn't think I could do it?"
"That's not it—"
"If I didn't believe in myself, why would I even take part in the audition?"
"Well, what people believe about themselves and what's true aren't always the same. And I'd never actually heard you play before."
Vasil looked at his mother, distrustful and hurt.
Irina gave him an apologetic look. "I know it sounds like an excuse, but Sasha was never any good at music either."
Vasil frowned. What did that have to do with his real mother? "Well, I'm not her! I'm not! And it's not like I'm exactly like her in every other way, either!"
Irina looked at him. "Actually, you're more like her than you think."
Vasil paused, then asked, "Are you trying to back out of your promise?"
Irina shouted in surprise, "What? Of course not!"
People walking by stared at them. Irina lowered her voice. "I think you've completely misunderstood."
Vasil crossed his arms. "Then explain it to me."
Irina looked at her stubborn son and sighed. "Until today, I thought you'd lose that bet—and that you'd finally decide to take a different path in life… but you won. And now everything's different."
She turned away from him. "I'm just worried about your future. Making a living through music is hard, and I was wondering how I could make it easier for you."
Vasil's expression softened. "Mom… you don't have to worry about all that. I know what I want to do. The only thing I ask from you is to come to all my performances and cheer louder than everyone else."
Irina looked at him and said, "Of course I will! Even if I'm on the other side of the world, I'll find a way to get to your performances! But you know there's more I need to do than just that."
Vasil shook his head. "Nope. That's enough. I can handle the rest."
Irina looked at her son—this boy who now towered over her, whose hair she could only tousle by raising her hand. She reached up and ruffled his hair.
Vasil pulled away. "Mom!"
Irina laughed. "That's what happens to kids who grow up too fast."
She smiled as she watched him try to fix his messy hair. "I never really understood how you fell in love with music. But now that your path is clear, it's not a bad idea to count on your mom too. You've got a long road ahead."
Vasil looked at her, surprised. All his life, he'd tried to bother her as little as possible—for one reason until age eleven, and for another after that. But now he looked at Irina—no, at his mother—and the long road they'd walked together. He thought maybe, just maybe, he could let go of some of the past.
He gave her the most genuine smile he'd ever smiled. Irina smiled back, then turned toward the path ahead. "Come on now! We've got a guest for dinner."
A question mark appeared again on Vasil's face. "Guest?"
"Uh-huh! And since we're celebrating now, there's more work to do."
"Who's the guest?" he asked as he followed her.
Irina hesitated, then cautiously answered, "Lance."
"Oh."
Irina looked at him. "You don't mind?"
Vasil shook his head. "No, Lance is a good guy."
Irina studied his face. "You're sure?"
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"I just didn't think you liked strangers much."
Vasil nodded. "Yeah, but Lance isn't a stranger. Besides, you like him."
Irina frowned and quickly turned to him. "Who said that?"
Vasil raised an eyebrow as her cheeks turned red. "Okay, maybe a little… but you really don't mind?"
Vasil gave her a reassuring smile. "Mom, I really don't. Do whatever makes you happy."
Irina stared at him in awe, smiling. "When did you get so grown up?"
Vasil rolled his eyes. "Mom!"
Irina picked up her pace. "Come on! We've got dinner to make before Lance gets there!"
***
Lance stepped into their home holding a large dish and wearing a nervous smile. Irina, who had opened the door, looked just as nervous—but Vasil had to admit, his mom had never looked more beautiful.
Once Lance finally tore his eyes away from Irina, he held up the dish. "I made some tiramisu!"
Irina stammered, "Oh, thank you!"
She reached out to take it—then realized she was still wearing her oven mitts and quickly pulled her hands back.
Vasil stepped forward with a smile and took the dish from him. "I'll put this in the fridge. Thanks, Lance!"
Seeing Vasil's calm demeanor and smile, Lance relaxed noticeably.
While Vasil walked off to the kitchen with the tiramisu, Irina guided Lance inside—after quickly removing the bright yellow oven mitts.
Lance looked around the living room. "This place is beautiful."
He spotted the bookshelf by the window and said to Irina, "I didn't know you liked to read!"
Irina hesitated. "Um…"
Vasil, now back from the kitchen, cut in to save her from lying. "They're mine."
Which was true, at least partially.
Lance stepped over to the bookshelf and looked at the books with his greenish-brown eyes. "That's a cool hobby! I can't sit still with a book for more than five minutes without yawning, but I admire people who enjoy reading."
Vasil smiled at that. Lance was a simple man. When he said something, he meant exactly that. Or at least, that's what Vasil believed, after knowing him—though not deeply—for a few years.
Lance turned from the books to Vasil. "I heard you nailed it today! Congrats!"
"Thanks."
"I'd love to hear you play sometime! Maybe you could…"
Just then, a soft chime came from the kitchen. Irina said, "Dinner's ready! How about we set the table first?"