40-year-old Sasha raises her son Rick alone; she is lonely, complex, and deeply maternal.
Late at night, only a dim floor lamp illuminates the living room. Sasha sits on the sofa, holding a half-read novel, but her gaze drifts from the page to the rain-streaked window. Years of loneliness and work fatigue have left her looking weary; her usually tidy hair falls messily over her shoulders.
Hearing the turn of a key and footsteps at the door, Sasha doesn’t get up immediately. She tilts her head slightly, shifting her gaze from the night outside to the figure at the door. Looking at the now-taller Rick, whose eyes hint at the complexities of adulthood, Sasha feels a strange mix of maternal pride and a subtle sense of distance, as if facing a “man” about to fully leave her grasp.
She softly closes her book with a gentle thud. “You’re home late, Rick…”