The Counterstrike “Ikat, who is that woman?” Igor whispered, careful not to let other passengers overhear. “What woman?” Katya barely looked up from her phone, busy texting a friend. “That one… look, by the last window. She’s been watching us the entire time. I’d even say, blatantly staring.” Katya straightened up slightly to glance at the woman Igor mentioned, and her face changed instantly—then she shook herself, feigned total indifference, and shrugged for good measure: “No idea.” “Stop lying,” Igor snapped, “I saw your face when you recognised her. Who is she?” “That’s my mother,” Katya replied after a moment’s pause. In a split second, she decided the truth was better—just in case. “Your mother?” Igor looked stunned, “You told me you didn’t have a mother.” “And that’s true…” “I don’t get it,” Igor studied his wife’s face, “are you going to explain?” “Let’s talk at home…” “Aren’t you even going to go up to her? Does she live here? In our town?” “Igor, please, let’s talk at home,” Katya’s voice pled, tears glistening in her eyes. “Fine,” Igor said curtly, turning to the window. He was offended. Katya didn’t try to console him. In truth, she was grateful to be left alone, even for a moment. Except alone wasn’t quite right. Her mind flew back to scenes from her childhood… *** Katya never remembered her father. She only knew from her mother’s words that he was a “terrible” man. And her mother always insisted Katya was lucky to have someone wonderful in her life—her stepfather. Katya had clear memories of him starting from age eight. But she never understood what was so wonderful about him. Rough, spiteful, stingy. “Why does mum love him so much?” little Katya would wonder, huddled in a corner to avoid being found by Uncle Peter. No, he never hit her, never bullied her outright. But he never considered her a person, either. Never used her name. Treated her as invisible. Even when Katya was discussed with his wife, it was always: “The girl doesn’t know how to behave…” “Your daughter’s in the way—I can’t rest…” “Remind her it’s too early to be out with boys.” “Have you seen that school report? Take a look! I’m ashamed to have her living in my house!” “In his house! What about that this is mine and mum’s flat?” Katya thought angrily as a teenager. She clearly recalled moving here with her mother after her gran died. One day, when her stepfather repeated that refrain for the thousandth time, Katya had enough and finally blurted: “It’s not me, it’s YOU living in OUR house! If you don’t like it, leave! No one’s going to cry about it!” He rushed over as if he might clamp a hand over her mouth—but stopped at the last second, spun to his wife, and hissed through clenched teeth: “Make it so I never see her again!” “Mum grabbed my arm and dragged me out, saying: ‘Of course, darling. Everything will be just as you want…’ She always treated him like royalty. Obeyed every word, served him, spoke with syrupy sweetness, tried desperately to please. Why? Katya never understood. But she was sure: if stepdad wished, her mum would kick Katya out without blinking. ‘How dare you?’ Mum hissed that day, ‘Don’t you dare speak to your father like that!’ ‘He’s NOT my father!’ Katya shouted, ‘And never will be!’ ‘Doesn’t matter! He feeds you, dresses you, and this is how you repay us—you brat!’ ‘I never asked to be born!’ Katya cried through tears, ‘I never asked you to raise me! Should’ve given me away and spared yourself the trouble!’ ‘Should have,’ Mum retorted, ‘But no one wanted you! And your real father ran off the moment you were born. You ruined my whole life!’ Hearing that, Katya felt hatred so sharp she shoved her mother as hard as she could and fled the flat. No one followed, and in the whole week she was away, no one called or cared. She was fifteen then… What could she do? Nothing. Friends took turns sheltering her a few days each, but it couldn’t solve her problems. She had to go back. With shaking hands, Katya unlocked the door… ‘Back, are you?’ was all Mum said, ‘Go to your room, and don’t come out till I call you.’ ‘Guess she convinced him,’ Katya thought, and scurried to her room. From that day, her stepfather never spoke of her again. Acted as though she didn’t exist. Mum supported him in this, of course: didn’t call her for dinner, didn’t ask about her life, didn’t try to talk. Katya felt sure: they’d made up their minds about her. Just waiting for her to finish school… She was right. The day Katya got her GCSEs, Mum hinted it was time for her to prepare for independence. ‘The minute you’re eighteen, you’re out on your own,’ she declared, and fell silent again. Katya thought it over and decided she’d try for university. First—she’d spare her family from her presence. Second—she’d get a room in halls. That meant, for the next five years, at least she’d have somewhere to live… She didn’t get a university spot. Or rather, she did, but only on the fee-paying course. She knew no one would cough up for her tuition, but she let them know anyway: ‘Mum—congratulate me, I’m a student now.’ Mum looked at her blankly: ‘And?’ ‘But, I have to pay fees—a small amount…’ ‘Don’t even think of it. Not a penny for your nonsense! Haven’t we and your father put enough into you already? All you ever did was wreck our nerves. And now we should pay for your studying as well?’ ‘Sorry. Of course not,’ Katya replied, realising she’d wasted her breath. ‘Exactly—wasted. Find your own flat.’ ‘Mum, I have no money for rent…’ ‘Get a job—look at her, wanting to study! One month, and then you’re out.’ ‘A month isn’t enough,’ Katya begged, ‘Can I stay another six months?’ ‘Six months? No way. I barely managed to convince your father to tolerate you this long. Besides, we’ve got a renovation planned. Want to turn your room into a bedroom. One month—no more.’ So, Katya found herself a place. Flat was a generous description—a tiny shack in the suburbs. No bathroom. Just a heater. But cheap… When she left home, her mum gave her: a fork, spoon, plate, mug, table knife and a small saucepan. Then, after a pause, added: one towel and an old bedsheet set. ‘Here, take these,’ she said, avoiding Katya’s eyes and handing over a small parcel, ‘Good luck, girl. I hope you’ll grow up and understand me.’ ‘Thank you, Mum,’ Katya replied, ‘Can I collect my winter stuff later?’ ‘Don’t leave it too long, or it might not be here when you come back…’ ‘Will you throw them away?’ ‘Not me, but it might not please Dad. You get how it is…’ ‘I do,’ Katya hugged her mum, ‘Right, I’m off…’ So, aged eighteen, Katya set off into independent life. With her mother’s blessing… The money her mum gave was just enough to last till her first paycheque. Katya saved every penny, even walked to the factory to avoid bus fare. When she finally got paid, she felt rich! Bought rice and pasta, a bottle of oil, a whole sack of spuds. Needed shampoo, soap, toothpaste… After shopping, Katya counted the leftover cash and tucked a little away in a pretty envelope: bit by bit, she’d save for her own home. She visited her mum after a month—to see her (still naively hoping Mum would be happy), and to get her warm clothes: autumn had arrived, it was chilly out. A lad answered the door. ‘Hiya, wrong door?’ he joked. ‘Actually, I’m here for my mum,’ Katya stammered. ‘Oh, you must be Katya! Come in. Mum’s not here but you can wait.’ ‘I will,’ Katya said, heading for the kitchen. He tried to chat but Katya’s stare drove him away. Her mum arrived. Didn’t seem pleased. When Katya asked about the young man: ‘That’s Oleg. Husband’s son from his first marriage.’ ‘Why’s he living with you? Thought you were planning a renovation.’ ‘Just a short stay. Getting used to the city, finding a job, then he’ll get his own place.’ ‘Fine,’ Katya replied, ‘I took my shoes and jacket…’ ‘Take everything. Don’t leave a thing. I’m tired of shifting your stuff for two months.’ ‘It’s only been two months, Mum.’ ‘Don’t get smart,’ Mum snapped back, ‘Take all your things.’ ‘Not even going to ask how I’m doing?’ ‘I’m not interested,’ Mum clearly couldn’t (maybe wouldn’t) talk with Oleg there. ‘No surprise,’ Katya said as she headed to the hallway… ‘Want a hand?’ Oleg popped up, ‘That’s a huge bag.’ ‘I’ll manage,’ Katya replied and left… A couple months later, back again—this time for her parka. Again, Oleg at the door. Mum was home. When Katya asked: ‘He’s still here?’ Mum exploded: ‘None of your business! He’ll live here as long as he wants! After all, he came to visit his dad!’ ‘I used to live here with Mum—but that didn’t save me.’ ‘Don’t you compare yourself! It’s different!’ ‘How’s it different?’ Katya asked calmly. ‘I don’t have to answer to you!’ Mum yelled, ‘This is my house—I decide who lives here.’ ‘Understood.’ ‘What exactly do you understand?!’ ‘Just that a stranger means more to you than your own daughter.’ Katya’s voice was calm and sure, which completely unbalanced her mum. ‘I don’t have a daughter!’ Mum blurted, ‘And Oleg is the son of the man I love! He means more to me than a son!’ ‘Congratulations,’ Katya replied, looking at her as if at a stranger, ‘In that case, I no longer have a mother.’ She left. Convinced it was forever. For four years, Katya gave no sign of life. No calls, no visits. And now, this encounter… *** Katya was lost in memory when her mother came over. Igor stood, offering the woman a seat. ‘Hello,’ the voice Katya tried to forget stabbed her ears. ‘Hi,’ she managed to answer. ‘Who’s this?’ Mum nodded towards Igor. ‘My husband.’ ‘Congratulations.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Everything’s fine with us too. Dad’s working, Oleg’s found a girl—so sweet, so calm. Wedding’s next month. I’ll soon be a grandma! Such happiness! We’ve decided to turn your old room into a nursery. Started the renovations—got the most expensive wallpaper, with kid’s designs. And we’re buying a summer house not far away—got to have fresh air and vitamins for the child. Looking for something affordable—but it must be liveable and have a river or lake nearby…’ Katya listened to all this rambling, bewildered why this woman, who was basically a stranger, bothered telling her any of it. ‘How long have you been married?’ ‘Two years,’ Katya said mechanically. ‘Thinking about kids?’ ‘Our son’s nearly a year old.’ ‘So—I’ve got a grandson?’ ‘You?’ Katya finally looked at her mother. ‘Me,’ Mum hesitated briefly, ‘You’re my daughter.’ ‘You’re mistaken, lady. My mother died four years ago…’ Mum’s face went pale. Mute, she went straight to the door. Katya turned to the window; she felt nothing for… that woman. Igor watched them both, listening in. Suddenly he realised: these two are complete strangers! And he made up his mind: he wouldn’t prod his wife for more of her story. For some reason, the truth seemed far too dreadful to go digging for…

THE COUNTERSTROKE

Claire, whos that woman? Oliver murmurs quietly, so the other passengers cant overhear.

What woman? Claire glances up from her phone; shes messaging her friend.

That one look, by the last window, just there. Shes been staring at us the whole time. Honestly, Id say shes outright gawping.

Claire straightens up ever so slightly to see the woman Oliver is talking about. For a moment, her face changes completely. Then, catching herself, she feigns indifference and gives a little shrug for good measure.

No idea, she replies.

Dont lie to me, Olivers voice sharpens. I saw how you froze the second you recognised her. Who is she?

Shes shes my mother, Claire answers after a pause. She decides, on the spot, that its safer to tell the truth, just in case.

Your mother? Oliver looks baffled. You told me you dont have a mother.

Thats true

Well, I dont get it, Oliver squints at Claires face, curiosity burning. Can you explain?

Lets talk about it at home

So youre not even going to speak to her? Does she live here? In our town?

Oliver, please, lets talk at home, Claires voice is pleading, her eyes swimming with tears.

Fine, he says curtly, turning his back to the window, offended.

Claire doesnt try to comfort him. Shes actually relieved shes been left alone for the moment.

Though, in truth, her mind is anything but peaceful. Scenes from her childhood rush in

***

Claire barely remembers her father. All she knows is what her mother once told her: he was a horrible man.

But her mum always said Claire was lucky: she had someone wonderful in her life. Her stepdad.

Claire remembers him clearly since she was about eight. But she could never see what was so wonderful about him.

He was coarse, constantly irritable, and tight-fisted. Why does mum love him so much? little Claire used to wonder, hiding in a corner to avoid Uncle Peter.

No, he never exactly hit her or insulted her outright. But he certainly never treated her as a person. He never used her name. His gaze went right through her, as if she were invisible.

If he spoke about Claire to her mum, it was in the same vein:

The girl doesnt know how to behave

Your daughter is ruining my peace and quiet

Tell her its much too early to be out with boys.

Have you seen her report card? Shame she lives under my roof!

His roof! What about the fact its our flat, mums and mine? teenage Claire used to fume. She remembers clearly they only moved in here after grandma died.

One day, when her stepdad sounded off about his house for the thousandth time, Claire finally snapped and blurted at him:

No, you live in our home! If youre unhappy, move out! No one will shed a tear!

He stormed over, as if to silence her, but at the last second turned back to her mother, spitting through gritted teeth:

Sort her out. I dont want to see her again!

Mum grabbed Claires arm, bundling her from the room with a sugary voice:

Of course, darling, whatever you wish

She always looked at him like he was a god, obeyed every word, served him, spoke in that cloying voice and never failed to please.

Why? Claire simply couldnt understand.

One thing she was certain of: if her stepdad wanted, her mother would toss her out in a heartbeat.

What do you think youre doing? hissed her mum at Claire that day, Dont you dare talk to your father like that!

Hes not my father! Claire screamed, and he never will be!

Thats not the point! He feeds you, clothes you, puts up with youyou ungrateful little thing!

I never asked to be born! Claire sobbed, You shouldnt have kept me at all! Shouldve given me away and saved yourself the pain!

Should have! her mum snapped back. No one wanted you. And your real dad legged it the moment you were born! You ruined my whole life!

Hearing those words, Claire felt a surge of pure hatred. She shoved her mum aside and bolted out the door.

No one chased her. And for the week she spent away, it seemed no one was bothered. No one asked where she was or if she was okay.

She was fifteen then

What could she do? Nothing.

Her friends let her stay with them for a few nights in turn, but it wasnt a solution. Eventually, she had to go back.

With trembling hands, Claire unlocked her front door

So, youve graced us with your presence? her mum muttered. Go to your room, dont make a sound unless I call you.

She must have begged him to let me back, Claire thought, slipping quickly into her room.

From that day, her stepdad never spoke of Claire again. He acted as though she didnt exist.

Her mum followed suit: didnt call her for meals, took no interest in her life, avoided conversation entirely.

Claire realised: theyd made up their minds about her already. Clearly, just waiting for her to finish school

She was right. As soon as Claire received her results, her mum hinted it was high time she prepared for independence.

When you turn eighteen, her mum declared, youre out on your own.

So, Claire considered her options and decided to apply to university. First, shed be out of her parents hair. Second, she could get a room in a hall of residence, which meant at least five years with a roof over her head

Claire didnt get into uninot a free spot anyway. She was offered a place but only if she paid the fees herself. She knew neither parent would shell out a penny, but told them the news anyway:

Mum, congratulationsIm a student now.

Her mum looked at her flatly.

And?

I do need to pay for my studies but its not much

Dont even think about it. Youre not getting a single quid from me! Have we not spent enough on you already? All you’ve ever done is cause us grief. Now I should pay for your education too?

Sorry. It was silly to ask, Claire replied. Forget it.

Exactly. Youd best start looking for your own place.

Mum, I cant afford rent

Then get a job! You want to learn, you pay for yourself. Ill give you a monthafter that, youre gone.

A month isnt really enough, Claire tried to appeal to her mums empathy. Can I stay a few more months? Maybe half a year, just until I find my feet?

How long? Half a year? No way. It took all my effort to get Peter to tolerate you this long. Besides, were planning to redecorateturn your room into our bedroom. So, a month. Thats final.

Claire rented a place. Flat was perhaps overstating it. A tiny bedsit behind someones house, no mod cons, just a little stove. But it was cheap

When she left home, her mum handed her a fork, spoon, plate, mug, table knife, and a small pan. Then, after a moments thought, added a towel and an old set of bedding.

Take these as well, she said, avoiding Claires eyes and passing her the little carrier bag. Good luck, love. I hope you grow up and understand me one day.

Thanks, Mum, Claire replied, Can I collect my winter things a bit later?

Dont leave it too long or they might not be here when you come

You wouldnt throw them out, would you?

I wouldnt, but your father might not be pleased. You know how he is

I do, Claire hugged her mum. Well, thats itIm off.

And so, at eighteen, Claire stepped out into the world on her own.

Her mothers blessing, if it could be called that, went with her.

The money her mum gave lasted until her first paycheque. Claire stretched every penny, even walking to the factory instead of using the bus.

Her first payday felt like winning the lottery! She stocked up on oats, pasta, a bottle of cooking oil, and a sack of potatoes.

She still needed shampoo, soap, toothpaste

After getting all the essentials, Claire counted what was left, tucked a bit away in a pretty envelope and made a resolutionhowever little, shed start saving for her own place.

About a month later, Claire went to visit her mum, optimistic her mum might be pleased to see her, and to collect her warm clothesthe summer was over and autumn was setting in.

A young chap answered the door.

Hi there, got the wrong flat? he smiled.

Um, actually, Im here for my mum, Claire hesitated.

Oh you must be Claire? Come in. Mums not in, but you can wait for her.

Ill wait, Claire strode into the kitchen.

The young man tried to chat, but Claire gave him such a look he quickly left.

Her mum arrived. She wasnt exactly delighted. When Claire asked about the boy, her mum replied,

Thats Sam. Peters son from his first marriage.

Whys he living here if youve got redecorating planned?

Hes only here for a bit. Just needs to settle in town, find a job, then hell get his own place.

I see, Claire said, Anyway, Ive grabbed my shoes and jacket

Take everything. Dont leave a thing. Tired of shifting it around.

When did you get tired, Mum? Ive only been gone two months.

Dont get cheeky, snapped her mum, If youre here, just collect your things.

You dont even want to know how Im getting by?

Im not interested, her mum said, unable or unwilling to talk in front of Sam.

Well, Im not surprised, Claire headed for the hallway

Need help carrying your stuff? Sam popped out. Its a hefty bag.

Ill manage, Claire retorted and left.

A couple of months later, she returned againthis time for her winter coat. Sam answered again, mum was at home. When Claire asked,

Is he still here? her mum exploded:

Thats none of your business! If he wants to stay, hell stay! Hes here for his father!

I used to live here with my mum, Claire murmured. That didnt count for much, did it.

Dont compare! Its not the same!

How isnt it the same? Claire demanded.

I dont have to explain myself to you! her mum shouted, This is my home and Ill decide who stays!

Understood.

What do you mean, understood?!

I mean, you value a complete stranger over your own child, Claire answered levelly, pushing her mum over the edge.

I dont have a daughter! And Sam is my partners sonhes more than a son to me!

Congratulations, Claire replied, looking at her mum as if she were a stranger. In that case, I no longer have a mother.

She left.

Certain it was for good.

For four years, Claire made no contact. Didnt ring, didnt visit.

And now, this chance encounter

***

As Claire is lost in her memories, her mother stands up and comes over.

Oliver gets up, offering her the seat.

Hello, Claire hears that painfully familiar voice shes tried so hard to forget.

Hi, she barely manages.

Whos this? her mum nods at Oliver.

My husband.

Congratulations.

Thank you.

Oh, everythings lovely with us too. Peters working, Sams found himself a girlfriendshes ever so sweet. Weddings next month. Im going to be a grandma soon! Were turning your old room into a nursery, already done the decorating. Got the best, most expensive childrens wallpaper. Were even thinking of buying a holiday cottage nearby for the babygood air and fresh fruit, you know. Looking for something affordable but with a proper house and water closea river, or maybe a lake

Claire listens to this stream of chatter, not remotely understanding why this womanwho feels a strangerwould be sharing it all.

So, when did you marry?

Two years ago, Claire replies, empty of feeling.

Planning children?

Our sons almost one.

So I have a grandson?

You? Claire finally turns to her mother.

Me, her mum falters. Youre my daughter.

I think youre confused, Miss. My mother passed away four years ago

Her mum turns pale. She stands up silently and heads for the exit.

Claire turns away to the window; she feels nothing for this woman.

Oliver, meanwhile, has watched and listened intently.

Suddenly, he understands: they are complete strangers.

He decides not to ask Claire about her past. Something about it feels best left undisturbed.