— What happened? — asked Anya, watching her husband’s reaction.
Vitya, clutching the phone tightly in his hand, slowly sank onto the sofa.
“— My mom’s house burned down,” — he managed to say.
“— How?” — Anya said, confused, as she sat down next to him.
“— I don’t know; she just called and said there was a fire, the house burned down,” — after a pause he turned to his wife. “— What should we do?”
“— I really don’t know,” — Anya admitted.
She had never experienced such a tragedy in her family. Once some boys had climbed in through a window at her aunt’s place, but they only stole candy. There’d been a row with the neighbors — they loved to play loud music. And also with the neighbors downstairs — they had dogs. But for a house to burn…
“— And now?” — she asked her husband, though by his look she already sensed he had made up his mind. “— Speak up,” she urged him.
“— My mom and dad will come to us.”
Silence followed. Anya looked out the window at the evening city, where the first streetlights were turning on.
“— Well, what do you say?” — Vitya broke the silence.
The woman turned to her husband:
“— For how long?”
“— About a month, I think. By then my mom and dad will have sorted out their housing problem.”
“— A month…” — Anya repeated thoughtfully.
She would, of course, be able to tolerate her husband’s parents for a month—even though once she had nearly fought with Antonina Pavlovna. The woman nodded silently. Her husband immediately dialed his mother’s number and said that they were waiting for them and would prepare a room right away.
Preparations for the arrival of the unexpected guests began in the apartment.
Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Anya was still lost in thoughts about the fire, unable to imagine what it would be like to experience one herself. Stepan Yuryevich, her father-in-law, was very proud of his house. It was on the outskirts of the city: a small plot of land, a shed, a bathhouse, a garage, and a spacious brick house.
The owner had already opened the door and voices could be heard—Antonina Pavlovna, Stepan Yuryevich, and someone else. Anya hurried into the corridor and froze. Her brother-in-law Alexey stepped over the threshold. He carried large bags, squeezed in ahead, and behind him, like a shadow, entered her sister-in-law carrying a small bundle with a baby.
“— Come here!” — Anya called to her husband.
Vitya dragged a large trunk into the living room and approached his wife.
“— I thought you mentioned only your parents. What are your brother and sister doing here?”
“— Well, my brother lived with my mother. And my sister, well…” — he didn’t finish before Anya raised her finger.
“— No, no, we didn’t agree on that!”
“— Where are they supposed to go?” — the man protested.
“— I have no idea! I only agreed to have your mother and father here!”
Vitya looked at his wife, bewildered.
“— Let’s discuss this later,” — he said, and quickly went into the corridor to haul more trunks into the room for his parents.
The sister-in-law entered the living room, and her baby immediately started crying.
“— Hush, hush, hush,” — whispered Irina as she began rocking the child.
“— Let’s go over here for now,” — said Anya. As the mistress of the house, she knew very well that having a baby in the living room was not a good idea. Opening her bedroom with her husband, she beckoned the sister-in-law over. “— Put him on the bed.”
Alexey placed two large bags in the corner and began looking around.
“— Bear with us,” — Antonina Pavlovna approached the lady of the house.
“— Thank you for taking us in,” — said her father-in-law.
“— It’s nothing,” — Anya replied, flustered.
Immediately, her home turned into a beehive: people walking, talking, taking things, rearranging furniture. She stepped aside and could only watch what was happening in her apartment.
“— We should make something to eat,” — her husband approached.
“— Yes, of course, right away,” — Anya replied, still in a daze.
Finally, little Dima, the sister-in-law’s son, stopped crying. Her father-in-law, without asking for permission, grabbed the TV remote and turned it on. Antonina Pavlovna finally unpacked her things from the trunks and, settling on the sofa, nodded in satisfaction.
“— Just bear with it for a week or two, and we’ll leave,” — her words were addressed to her daughter-in-law.
“‘That would be nice,’” — Anya thought to herself; perhaps that was the only thought that soothed her.
Vitya approached her.
“— Your sister has a baby,” — he hinted.
“— And so what?” — his wife asked, as if not understanding him.
“— She needs a separate room.”
“— So then,” — Anya looked discontentedly at her father-in-law—who was pressing buttons on the remote like a little boy, while the TV screen flashed—“we have three rooms: one pass-through room (the living room), one for us, and one we’ve set aside for your parents. Are you suggesting that Irina should take our bedroom?”
“— We can’t have her with the baby…”
Logically, Anya understood. But on the other hand, why the hell should she give up her own bedroom?
“— So are we to live with you in the living room with your brother?” — she asked indignantly.
“— Alexey will sleep in the kitchen.”
“— Bear with it a little,” — Antonina Pavlovna said, upon hearing what was being suggested.
And what else was there to do but to bear it? She couldn’t kick them out. Maybe they did have somewhere to go, but now it would seem unwise—and surely lead to a fight with her in-laws.
Biting her lip, Anya silently nodded. Vitya immediately went off to inform his sister that his wife had agreed to give up the bedroom for her.
Half an hour later, the door rang again. Meanwhile, the lady of the house was standing by the stove when her husband approached.
“— There’s your sister-in-law, your little sister,” — he said, nodding toward the corridor.
“— Keep stirring the potatoes,” — Anya said, stepping away from the stove.
Olya entered the living room and looked at the guests in surprise. Stepan Yuryevich and Alexey greeted her. Antonina Pavlovna didn’t even come out of her room—and Irina was nowhere to be seen.
“— Wow!” — Olya exclaimed upon seeing her sister.
“— Yes, that’s how it is,” — Anya replied with a heavy sigh. “— They’ve had a tragedy; their house burned down.”
“— Holy crap,” — Olya added immediately, “— I’m so sorry. And are they staying long?” — she meant the guests.
“— Antonina Pavlovna says a week or two.”
“— Yes, a week or two!” — another voice from another room confirmed.
Anya was surprised at how sharp her hearing was—her sister was speaking in a whisper.
At that moment, a baby cried from the nursery.
“— Oh my,” — Olya said, “— you really have a little daycare here!”
“— Yes indeed,” — Anya agreed.
“— Listen, if it’s just for a week or two, maybe you could come stay with me? It’s going to be so hard to live like this.”
Hearing the suggestion, Anya sighed with relief. The idea had never even occurred to her.
“— Thank you,” — she said gratefully and kissed her sister on the cheek.
After gathering her things, the mistress of the house bid farewell to the uninvited guests, asked her husband to keep things in order, and to call her if needed. Vitya didn’t even see his wife off, so Anya and Olya had to carry two bags.
The next day, closer to evening after work, Anya stopped by the house. It was now hard to recognize: the sofa had been moved, the TV was in another spot, and there was a smell… the smell of cigarette smoke. Anya entered the kitchen and flung open the windows.
Looking at her brother-in-law, she said disapprovingly: “— In my house, no one smokes!”
“— Then where?” — Alexey wondered, meaning where he should smoke.
“— That’s your problem,” — she replied irritably, “— but no smoking in my house.”
“— Alright, alright, calm down,” — her husband came over.
Taking him by the arm, the wife led him into the corridor: “— By Monday, neither your brother nor your sister is allowed in my house!”
“— Oh, come on,” — Vitya said with a sour expression.
“— I only agreed to have your parents here, not them.”
“— You are so heartless!” — a voice from the living room, that of her mother-in-law, rang out.
“‘Big ears,’” — Anya thought, meaning that Antonina Pavlovna had again been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“— If you had a problem, we would gladly take you in. And now you’re ready to kick us out!”
“— Not you,” — she replied without raising her voice, though she did not specify whose removal she meant. “— Your brother,” — the lady of the house addressed her husband, “— an adult man who can rent an apartment, and Irina has a husband, so what is she doing here?”
“— Well…” — Vitya mumbled uncertainly.
“— They must leave by Monday!” — the woman declared sharply and started getting dressed.
And in that house, there was nothing else she could do—she wasn’t going to ghost around or clean up after the guests.
A minute later, Anya left.
A week passed. The lady of the house visited several times and spoke with her husband, who always promised that his brother would leave soon and that his sister had a conflict with her husband. After the 20th of each month, when Anya entered the utility bill data, she noticed that the rent hadn’t been paid. She immediately confronted her husband:
“— Why didn’t you pay the rent?”
“— I have no money now,” — Vitya replied.
“— And where did it all go?” — Anya asked curiously.
“— It all goes to food.”
“— Wait, wait,” — the woman paused for a moment, then asked, “— And why don’t your mother and father buy groceries? They receive a pension. And why doesn’t your brother buy? After all, someone used to feed them. And what about your sister?”
Vitya began to say something in his characteristically uncertain way.
Irritated, Anya walked over to the kitchen window and flung it open: “— I asked you not to smoke. Is that so hard to understand?”
Alexey merely shrugged, offering no reply. “— If you live in my house, then please respect it.”
A voice from a TV announcer resounded in the living room.
At least once a day, the lady of the house would visit to see if everything was alright and to greet the relatives, and as long as she could remember, her father-in-law had always sat in front of the TV. And then she wondered: “What is happening to this house?”
“— You’ve promised me for the tenth time that your brother and sister would leave,” — Anya said resentfully.
“— They will leave, they will leave,” — Vitya replied discontentedly.
“— Let me remind you: this is my house.”
The man lowered his head, shook it a couple of times, and then replied,
“— Yes, they will leave.”
“— When?” — his wife pressed, but Vitya did not answer.
Habitually, the woman took a sponge and began washing the dishes, not noticing how the kitchen was gradually being tidied.
“— I’m thinking,” — she said to Vitya, “— then why do I need such a husband?”
When Anya had moved into this apartment (this was before she was married), she had rejoiced in this house—but now that joy had evaporated.
“— I’m leaving,” — she told her husband. “— Pay the rent, and settle the utilities too. I don’t know where you’ll get the money—maybe shake down your brother or sister.”
After bidding farewell to her in-laws, who wouldn’t even look away from the TV, the lady of the house left.
At the end of the second month, her husband’s relatives were still living in her house. Every day she called to ask when his brother and sister would leave. In the end, she couldn’t live with them forever—she had her own family. And each time, Vitya said that Alexey was now living in the living room, and Irina was still in their bedroom.
A couple of times Anya quarreled with her husband, but she couldn’t find a way out of the situation. She didn’t dare to simply kick them out, although, to be honest, thoughts like “go in and throw them out” had begun to surface. Let them fight, be hurt, shout, curse—even if they did, in the end, this was her house. Once, she even considered kicking out her husband—to show him what it felt like to not live in his own home.
One Saturday, Anya decided to go to her mother-in-law’s house to personally inspect the supposedly burned house. However, when she arrived, she was surprised—the house was standing. She approached the gate, opened it, and stepped into the yard. Nearby stood a burned shed, and the entrance to the house was also damaged. It appeared that the firefighters had removed part of the roof, but the house itself looked perfectly normal: the windows were intact, and even the walls hadn’t blackened.
At that moment, a woman approached her. “— Hello,” — Anya greeted. “— And who are you?” — the woman asked. “— I’m the daughter-in-law of Antonina Pavlovna.” “— Ah, so that’s it,” — the woman shook her head. “— I’m a neighbor; Antonina asked me to keep an eye on things.” “— So, is it really that bad?” — Anya inquired about the state of the house. “— No, it’s normal. Come on, let’s go,” — the neighbor said, producing some keys and, stepping over the charred beams near the entrance, opened a perfectly normal door.
They entered the house. Yes, it smelled of something burnt, but the floor was intact; the ceiling was only slightly scorched. In the rooms everything was as it should be: the TV was there, the refrigerator, the beds, the sofa—everything in place.
“— They’ve cut off the electricity; we need to rewire,” — the neighbor explained. “— But is it livable?” — Anya asked, curiously. “— Yes, of course. It’ll be just a matter of a couple of days: fix the roof, whitewash the ceiling, and do a few minor repairs. My husband could finish it in a week.” “— A week?” — Anya said in confusion, and in that same second, anger flared in her chest toward her husband, her mother-in-law, and her father-in-law—the man who was always sitting in front of the TV. “— Thanks for the tour,” — the daughter-in-law said, and as she stepped outside she almost called her husband, but then reconsidered.
An hour later, Anya returned to her own house and immediately noticed that Stepan Yuryevich was once again sitting in front of the TV, and there was the odor of tobacco in the kitchen. Opening the window, the lady of the house addressed her mother-in-law: “— No smoking in my house!” “— And where then?” — Alexey wondered, meaning where he should smoke. “— That’s your problem,” — she replied irritably, “— but no smoking in my house.” “— Alright, alright, calm down,” — her husband came over. Taking his arm, she led him into the corridor: “— By Monday, neither your brother nor your sister is allowed in my house!” “— Oh, come on,” — Vitya said with a sour look. “— I only agreed to have your parents here.” “— You are so heartless!” — a voice from the living room, that of her mother-in-law, thundered.
“‘Big ears,’” — Anya thought, noting that Antonina Pavlovna had again been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“— If you had a problem, we would gladly take you in. And now you’re ready to kick us out!” “— Not you,” — she replied quietly, without specifying whom she meant. “— Your brother,” — the lady of the house addressed her husband, “— an adult man who can rent an apartment, and Irina has a husband, so what is she doing here?” “— Well…” — Vitya mumbled uncertainly. “— They must leave by Monday!” — the woman declared firmly and began getting dressed.
And in that house, there was nothing left for her to do—she wasn’t going to become a ghost or clean up after the guests.
A minute later, Anya left.
Three months passed. Anya visited her mother-in-law’s house several times and learned from the neighbor that no repairs were planned at all. From her talks with her husband, she understood only one thing: her father-in-law would begin repairs not in the spring, but in the summer. It was time for drastic measures.
One morning, Vitya went outside to drive to work. He walked across the parking lot, then turned around and walked back, shaking his head, but couldn’t find his car. “What the hell?!” he thought, straining his memory, wondering if he’d left it somewhere else—but no, he always left it here, and yesterday he had parked it here too. “— It’s been stolen!” — the cold thought flashed through his mind. “— Stolen,” — he said aloud. He had never heard of anything being stolen around here. Yes, before boys might have come by, scratched or even broken a mirror, but to have a car stolen—that was a first. With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and called the police. To his surprise, they arrived quickly, took a few photographs, and asked for his documents. “— Here,” — he handed over his passport. “— And the car documents?” — the inspector asked. “— They’re in the car.” “— Both your passport and the insurance?”
“— Everything’s there.” The officer didn’t ask further questions. He returned to his car, where his partner was already checking data on a display, and then showed his screen to his partner. “— Are you familiar with Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna?” — the inspector asked Vitya. “— Yes,” — he replied immediately and approached the police car. “— The car wasn’t stolen,” — the inspector said promptly, “— it was sold today.” “What?!” — Vitya’s eyes widened in surprise and his face paled. “— Yes, and this Anya Nikolaevna is listed as the owner in the database, and you…” “— I’m her husband.” The inspector, who had been sitting in the car, smirked. “— Well, I can only say one thing: she must have punished you,” — he murmured to his partner. At that moment, Vitya’s phone rang. He didn’t immediately notice it—only feeling the vibration in his pocket. He took the phone to his ear and heard his mother’s angry shout. “— We’re on our way, good luck,” — the inspector said, and the police car drove off.
“— Don’t shout!” — Vitya said angrily into the phone. “— What happened?”
“— The police came to our house; hurry and come here!” — his mother’s voice rang with strain; he had forgotten the last time she had shouted like that. Cursing under his breath, Vitya headed for the house. He quickly climbed to his floor and saw two men in blue uniforms and a woman in epaulettes. “— Here!” — Antonina Pavlovna ran into the corridor. “— Here’s the owner!” — she pointed at her son. “— Are you Zuyev Viktor Stepanovich?” — the woman asked. “— Yes, what happened?” — he asked, immediately addressing everyone in uniform. The woman opened her folder and produced a piece of paper. “— A court order for eviction.” “What eviction order?” — he took the paper and began reading. “— What eviction?” “— Why aren’t you answering the calls?” — the woman asked coldly. She took out her phone, switched on the loudspeaker, and dialed Vitya’s number. After a few seconds, short beeps were heard. “— You have blocked the call,” — she said, her voice as cold as ice. Vitya took his phone, activated the screen, and saw that the number had indeed been blocked. “— I get a lot of advertising calls,” — he said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “— A letter was sent to you with a notice demanding that you vacate the apartment by the 15th. Today is the 17th; you had five days to leave.” “— I didn’t receive any letter,” — Vitya replied dryly. “— An SMS warning was sent, but you didn’t respond, nor do you answer the calls of the bailiff. You can say a lot to me, but the order has taken effect.” “What order?” — Vitya still couldn’t make sense of it. “— What’s all this about?” — the order seemed to flash before his eyes, and he couldn’t focus. “— Here is the court decision,” — the woman said, pointing to a number written on the paper, “— it clearly states: vacate the apartment of Zuyeva Anna Nikolaevna.” And then it dawned on Vitya. “— Damn!” — he cursed, realizing that his wife had initiated the eviction. He grabbed his phone and quickly dialed his wife’s number, but immediately heard short beeps. “Blocked, bitch!” A man standing aside finally spoke: “— My name is Oleg Yuryevich, I’m a representative of the plaintiff,” — he said, showing a notarized document to the bailiff, then handed it to Vitya. But Vitya only glanced at the paper. “— You never appeared in court.” “— How was I to know about your court? I live here!” “— You are registered,” — the man recited the address of his mother’s house. “— I don’t live there!” Oleg Yuryevich paused for a moment, then opened his folder and handed over a copy of the court decision: “— Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna filed for divorce, but you never appeared in court.” “— Divorce?” — this time Vitya’s voice was clearly surprised. “— Divorced?” “— You should have just come to court. But you ignored it.” The man looked at his mother with a pale face; her face also turned pale upon hearing this. Stepan Yuryevich, his father, swore and went into the living room. “— If you had been in court, you’d know that the apartment rightfully belongs to Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna. And since you refused to leave voluntarily… The letters were sent to this address—I assume you didn’t even check your mailbox. You had time—five days have passed, and now you must vacate the apartment.” “— Are you kidding me?” — Vitya tried to understand the situation. Just half an hour ago he had learned that his wife had sold the car, and now he and his parents were being evicted. Vitya took out his phone again and tried calling his wife, but once more heard short beeps. Antonina Pavlovna realized what he intended and also tried calling her daughter-in-law—but her number was also blocked. “— We’re starting to leave,” — the bailiff said sternly. “— No, no,” — Antonina Pavlovna exclaimed anxiously. A man in uniform stepped away from the wall. “— Then I’m calling for a police unit, or we’ll do it by force,” — his voice promised nothing good. It appeared that he wasn’t just a representative of the law but of the authorities, and he wasn’t going to be gentle with anyone in that house. Vitya realized that he had lost. He squeezed past the people in the corridor and entered the living room. He immediately saw his mother, who glared at him angrily, his father, who was still cursing and pacing about, his brother sitting silently on the sofa, and his sister Irina, clutching her son Dima, standing like a ghost in the back of the bedroom. “— Gather your things,” — Vitya said quietly, “— and leave.” “— Your wife has gone crazy!” — Antonina Pavlovna roared. “— Zuyeva Anna Nikolaevna is divorced,” — Oleg Yuryevich entered the living room and addressed the woman standing near the guest room door. Finally, everyone realized that the former daughter-in-law had filed for divorce, and that Vitya, ignoring even the most basic rules, had never come to court and then even managed to block calls from the bailiffs. “— How dare she get divorced!” — Antonina Pavlovna screamed. Zuyev snorted and looked at the woman with contempt. “— All because you behaved like pigs!” — hearing this, Stepan Yuryevich jumped up and almost lunged at the offender, but, seeing the law enforcement officials enter the room, he stepped back. “— We have nowhere to go!” — the elderly woman wailed. “— Our house burned down!” “— Don’t lie,” — Oleg Yuryevich said, retrieving a photograph from his folder and showing it to the bailiffs. “— Your house is intact.” Cursing, Antonina Pavlovna went into a room to gather her things. Stepan Yuryevich followed her. Alexey had no choice but to collect his belongings, pack them into a large bag, and leave. Irina tried for the hundredth time to call her daughter-in-law, but each time she only heard short beeps. “— Fool!” — she scolded herself, realizing her number was blocked. “— Get ready!” — Antonina Pavlovna entered the room and began helping her daughter pack her things. Vitya didn’t know what to do. This was his house; he had come here to live with his wife, but now it turned out he was no longer a husband, and the house was no longer his. He looked at his mother, who, having turned away from him, wouldn’t speak; his father continued cursing, blaming both his daughter-in-law and his son for having to leave. “— I live here!” — Vitya finally found his voice and addressed the bailiff. “— Not anymore,” — Oleg Yuryevich said. “— You have no share in this apartment; you are not registered, the divorce has been finalized, and there is a court decision for eviction. Please,” — and he walked away, making room for Stepan Yuryevich who was dragging a large trunk with his belongings. The bailiffs did not interfere. The woman sat on the sofa, and two men stood aside like a support group. About an hour later, Antonina Pavlovna left the apartment. Alexey drove off without even saying goodbye or thanking his brother for sheltering him. Stepan Yuryevich carried his daughter’s suitcase into the corridor. Irina lingered in the bedroom for a while longer, but there was nothing left for her there. She picked up her child and, glaring at her brother, followed her mother. A few minutes later, only Vitya and the law enforcement officials remained in the apartment, and there was nothing more for him to do. Yes, he could pack his things, but Isakov said he might come for them later when the owner was home. Vitya did just that: he took one last look at the apartment where he had spent a couple of years, and then he left.
Stepping outside, Vitya saw his ex-wife. Anya was standing aside, watching as one by one her former relatives exited the building. None of them greeted her or thanked her for having taken them in. Each of them cursed the daughter-in-law, spat, and berated her. “— Are you upset because my parents lived here?” — Vitya asked Anya. “— No,” — the woman replied calmly. “— I’m upset about your piggish behavior.” A grimace of contempt appeared on the man’s face. “— And you should have come to court. I told you I filed the application, but you laughed. And you laughed at the wrong time.” “— Why didn’t you say a hearing was scheduled?”
“— All documents were sent to your registered address. In my house, you are nobody.” The man stood silently, wanting to shout at his wife but fearing it might only make things worse. “— I’ll come for my things tomorrow.” “— No,” — Anya replied, “— tomorrow we have court at twelve o’clock.” “— What court?” — Vitya’s face paled with fear. “— You hid from me that you bought land and started building a house,” — she said. “— Twenty acres in a pine grove. We’ll split it, since it was bought during the marriage,” — she stated firmly rather than asking. Vitya cursed under his breath; his mother had once offered to have the plot registered in her name, but he didn’t believe her—she was always too eager to favor her daughter Irina, so he feared that one day she might give the land to her. Therefore, at his own risk, he registered the plot in his own name. “— I have an offer,” — Anya said. “— You can sell it to me.” Vitya said nothing. “— You have no money now; your mother won’t let you in; you have to rent an apartment. I’m ready to buy that land from you,” — then, after a pause, she added, “— at a discount. And if not, tomorrow the court will issue a decision and the land will go to auction. Decide.” For a minute, Vitya stood in indecision, and indeed he had almost no money left in his pocket. “— Oh, I forgot to mention—there will be another court hearing.” “— What?” — Vitya managed to say. “— You lived in my apartment with your relatives and didn’t pay the rent. I’ll calculate the average rent for your stay and send you the bill. And that comes to roughly three hundred and fifty thousand, plus the rent and utilities. So decide about the land, and tomorrow please don’t be late for court.”
An hour after Vitya left, a cleaning crew arrived to carry out a general cleaning in the very apartment where his relatives had once lived.
And the next day, Vitya did appear in court. His appearance was something else—it seemed as if his mind had been washed all night by his mother, father, brother, and sister. In court, Vitya agreed to sell his share of the plot to his ex-wife, because he really needed money just to survive this period. He lost everything: the wife he loved (who now despised him), the home in which he had hoped to raise his children, the land, and on top of that, he earned the curse of his parents and the contempt of his brother and sister.
A late summer evening enveloped the city in a damp chill. In a cozy apartment on the fifth floor of an old brick building, Anya was tidying up. After a thorough cleaning, the room filled with freshness and cleanliness. In the corridor, a neat pile of her ex-husband’s things and the hastily packed belongings of her in-laws lay. She called a transport company and sent everything off to Antonina Pavlovna’s house.
In the kitchen, fitted with modern appliances, two sisters sat at a round table. Olya, the younger, sidled up to Anya with a mischievous smile: “— So, ready for another hunt?” Olya always joked like that when Anya began scouting for a new man. “— Oh no!” — the lady of the house said, spitting over her shoulder. Seeing this, her sister giggled: “— And I have someone in mind…” “— Don’t start,” — Anya replied decisively and, taking a photograph from the bookshelf, crossed out Vitya’s face with a thick marker. “— Well, he wasn’t bad, after all.” “— Yes, he was,” — Anya agreed, “— exactly that he was.” It hurt that things had turned out this way—she had loved her husband deeply and never imagined he would betray her so. But what was done was done. In the end, she had put in so much effort to fix the situation, yet every step only led to worse consequences. Olya, always ready to support her sister, took a bottle of red wine out of her bag, set it on the table, and went to fetch a corkscrew. Outside, it was long dark, and as the sisters settled comfortably on the soft sofa in the living room, they began to reminisce. They sat and laughed, recalling their childhood. But this time they did not speak about men—it was taboo, forbidden—even if only temporarily. Only well past midnight, tired and satisfied with the evening, did they disperse to their rooms. Anya sat on the bed, ran her hand over the empty sheets, and then, hugging a pillow, she fell asleep.
“Would the ladies like to cool off?”
