My father is an apple
One day, when I woke up in someone else's house, I felt a familiar apple aroma. I hadn't met it a lot of years.
Until I was 18, every autumn I would get a bag of dried apples from the closed city of Sarov - it was "hello" from my father's side. My father and mother broke up when I was 4 years old, he left after the divorce. All I remembered about them and my grandmother was dried apples in a white sack.
When I turned 18, something stopped. And the apples and our painful five-minute phone calls. Nine years later, he said I was a one-off and asked for my new telephone number. That night, I pulled all the apples out of the fridge, put them in my bed, and fell asleep without telling my number. In my dream, for the first time, I felt how much I love my mother.