Sheet with rings, or All is full of love

I had my first period when my mother was away studying in Moscow; I lived with my father and my grandmother. In those days, I was completely ignorant of the mysteries of the woman’s body. When in the morning I discovered a stain of blood on the sheets, I thought I was mortally ill. It was awfully embarrassing and I did not dear to tell my family about it. The next few days at school were miserable; I was upset and not quite myself. Finally, I sheepishly confided myself in my grandma and was amazed how happy she was. “My dear,” she said, “your best years have just begun, you started blossoming.” In those days I was unable to grasp the meaning of grandmother’s words, or the reason of her joy.

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