All Amazing Babies

Veronika Sergeyevna adjusted her strict jacket one last time in front of the mirror and frowned — everything had to be perfect. Then, as usual, she put on a mask of cold calmness behind which she habitually hid her true feelings. “It will do,” she thought, looking at her reflection. After fifteen years as the head of a women’s correctional colony, she had learned to bury her worries so deep that sometimes even she couldn’t tell where they ended. Today it was especially important to remain firm — everything inside hurt, but she could not show it.

She left her office and walked down the long corridor. New prisoners had arrived today, and Veronika always met them personally. She wanted to see their eyes, to understand who stood before her — dangerous repeat offenders or just lost people who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Whoever thought only men could commit cruel crimes was mistaken. The case files contained stories that sent chills even down the spines of the most experienced staff.

Two months ago, her son Denis suddenly died. So foolishly, so unexpectedly… He was just walking home, felt unwell, and fell. It seemed like an ordinary thing on a hot day. But he hit his head on a brick thrown on the pavement — and his life ended. The boy was only twenty-two. An age when others still have everything ahead, but he had nothing left. He didn’t even have time to introduce his girlfriend to his mother, although Veronika knew — he had someone, and seriously.

“What’s her name?” she asked once.

“Mom, there’s a time for everything,” he smiled. “I’ll introduce you in a couple of weeks.”

“You’re just like your father,” she sighed. “Stubborn to the extreme.”

Now, flipping through the files of the newcomers, Veronika’s attention was caught by one particular card. Two women — old system regulars, and the third — very young, confused, an orphan, clearly out of place in this terrible place. On paper, it appeared she had been convicted unfairly — simply made a convenient scapegoat.

“That’s all we needed,” thought the woman. Such prisoners often caused problems: they either tried to commit suicide or sought justice where there was none.

“Take those two to their cells, and bring this girl to me,” she ordered. “We need to talk.”

Another unpleasant fact — Lilya was pregnant. Strange. If there was a child, then there should be a father. Why didn’t he protect her? Maybe another “golden” young man who doesn’t want extra problems?

When the girl entered the office, Veronika noticed her fragility and fear. She spoke in a trembling voice:

“Hello…”

The chief smirked slightly:

“This is a colony, Lilya. You don’t say hello here like that. Well, tell me, what were you convicted for?”

“I don’t know…” the girl began to cry. “They said I stole a phone and money, but I wasn’t even in the office! Then they found them in my bag. Just because a guy, a student’s boyfriend, offered to date me…”

Veronika nodded. Now much was becoming clear.

“What’s that on your neck?”

Lilya grabbed her pendant:

“Please, don’t take it away! It’s like a talisman, a memory. My beloved gave it to me. We wanted to get married, but he disappeared…”

“Ran away?”

“No! He would never do that! Something happened… His name was Denis. He was the best…”

Veronika flinched. Something flickered in her mind. She looked closely at the pendant — it was incredibly familiar. Only two people had such jewelry: one belonged to her husband, the other — Denis. Her son wore that until his death.

“Show me,” she said quietly, approaching.

Lilya slowly lowered her hand. And then Veronika saw — it was her son’s pendant.

As soon as the door closed behind the girl, the woman collapsed into the chair. Her head was spinning.

A few minutes later, her friend Natasha, the medical unit doctor, peeked in.

“Nika, may I?”

“Come in. You look like you’ve seen a nightmare.”

“I really saw a ghost…”

“Tell me.”

When Veronika finished, Natasha whistled thoughtfully:

“So you’re sure the girl is innocent?”

“Almost one hundred percent. But now the question is: what to do?”

“Listen, maybe check who the father of her child is?”

Veronika perked up:

“Exactly! And also… let her stay with me for now. Pregnant women don’t belong in general cells.”

“Of course, bring her in. Meanwhile, I’ll try to figure things out.”

“Thank you, Natasha.”

Veronika couldn’t understand why her son kept silent about his girlfriend. Maybe he didn’t know about the pregnancy? The term — four months. Perhaps that was so. Although… what if the child wasn’t his?

Veronika’s head was about to explode. Sitting and guessing was useless. Action was needed.

After work, she stopped by the cemetery. Bowing over her son’s grave, she quietly said:

“Why did you leave me so many riddles, son? How can I unravel all this now?”

Denis’s photo on the tombstone smiled as if it knew the answers. Veronika slowly straightened up as if carrying someone’s invisible burden on her shoulders.

The first thing she decided was to visit Lilya’s home. The personal file had an address — a private sector. One house divided into two halves: in one lived the girl’s grandmother, the other half now inhabited by other people.

“Excuse me, may I talk to you?” Veronika addressed the old woman.

She met her suspiciously:

“About what?”

“About Lilya. About Denis,” Veronika cautiously named the boy. If the young man often visited here, the grandmother should know.

“Who are you?”

“I am his mother.”

“Oh my God! Where were you before?” exclaimed the woman. “The boy almost came here every day, then… Lilya got pregnant, and he disappeared. No help, no word — nothing!”

“Wait,” Veronika decisively stopped her. “You don’t know everything. Denis died more than two months ago. He didn’t even know about the child.”

The grandmother froze, clutching her heart:

“He died?! And Lilya kept waiting… Waiting for him to come, to take her away from here…”

They went inside. Over tea, the woman told much. Lilya was like family to her, and she didn’t believe in her guilt.

“She couldn’t have stolen! I don’t believe and won’t believe! A good girl, kind. I even went to the police, wanted to vouch for her, but they told me: ‘Go home, don’t get involved.’”

Veronika recalled the negative descriptions in the file and realized the truth was deeper than it seemed.

“Thank you,” she said, getting ready to leave.

“Wait, dear,” the grandmother brought a bag. “Here are Lilya’s things. Also a photo album. Look at home.”

At home, opening the bag, Veronika cried. The first photo showed Lilya and Denis — hugging, laughing, happy. She flipped through the album, found a group photo from the course, trying to spot who could have set the girl up. But the betrayer’s face remained hidden.

The next day she went to the institute.

“Why do you need this?” the dean asked coldly.

“I want to help.”

“Help a thief?” the woman snorted. “Only the guilty end up behind bars here.”

Veronika understood she wouldn’t get the truth from her. As she stepped outside, a student approached:

“Excuse me, you asked about Lilya? I know something. But let’s move aside so no one hears.”

Three days later, Veronika was hit by a car. Luckily, she managed to jump aside, but the blow was strong.

Natasha came to see her in the hospital:

“A warning, huh?”

“Yes. The car was heading straight for me. The driver saw me. And I saw him.”

“What will we do? How’s Lilya?”

“So far so good. She’s just beginning to realize what imprisonment is.”

“Nika, call Oleg. You can’t handle this alone.”

Oleg was her late husband’s brother. They hadn’t communicated for a long time — Veronika secretly blamed him for Sasha’s death, because he didn’t go fishing with him. If he had been there… Maybe nothing would have happened.

When Oleg arrived, he was frightened:

“Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“I just couldn’t. Sorry.”

“Stop it. People always look for someone to blame. Tell me everything.”

He agreed to help.

Some time later, Veronika and Natasha entered Lilya’s room. The girl jumped up.

“Lilya,” Veronika began, “Denis… he died. A completely stupid, accidental death.”

Lilya screamed, tears streaming:

“No! Better if he left me, found someone else! Just not this!”

Natasha quickly gave her an injection. After about ten minutes, the hysteria calmed down.

“You’re carrying my grandson or granddaughter,” Veronika said quietly. “We’re doing everything possible to get you released. You’re not alone. We will manage.”

Three years passed.

“Nikita! Stop!” Veronika called, chasing the little boy.

He ran happily, giggling joyfully. Lilya appeared ahead. Today she had passed her last exam. Thanks to Oleg and Veronika, she managed to finish her studies — though remotely.

A car stopped nearby:

“Girls! How I missed you! Especially you, Nikitos!”

The boy hesitated: mom, grandfather… Then he ran to Oleg.

A year ago, he and Veronika married. Today he was finally moving to this city.

“I sold my apartment in the capital,” he said, hugging Veronika. “Now I’m here again.”

She quit the colony to help Lilya study. Now she planned to find a calm women’s job.

Lilya came up, took her son in her arms, and they all hugged. Passersby walked around them, glancing curiously: they stood in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to let go of each other.

Strange?

No. They had simply gone through what you wouldn’t wish even on your enemy. And became a family — real, alive, united. And for them, that was the most important thing in the world.

In a small town where everyone was known at least by sight, the name Alexey sounded like a promise — a promise of life, a chance, salvation. His surname was synonymous with medical skill, a symbol of generations of doctors whose dedication to the profession knew no bounds. It was more than a tradition — it was a path laid out by decades of selfless work and hundreds, if not thousands, of saved lives.

His grandfather and grandmother — young military medics — met on the frontline, amid the thunder of gunfire and the moans of the wounded. Their hands, not yet touched by age, worked tirelessly: extracting shrapnel, stitching wounds, bringing soldiers back from the brink of death. Portraits of these people hung in Alexey’s home like family saints — stern, but full of love and dignity.

His parents, Egor and Marina, continued their parents’ work. They had avoided war, but their battlefield became the operating room. Their romance began under the cold light of the surgical ward lamps, among the smell of antiseptics and the monotone beeping of machines. What started as an office romance became a strong union of two hearts bound by the Hippocratic oath and mutual love.

Alexey grew up in an atmosphere of sacred duty. He was a quiet, thoughtful child with his father’s deep eyes. He studied excellently, winning biology and chemistry olympiads as if absorbing knowledge from nature itself. He never spoke openly about his plans, but for his parents, everything was clear. They did not demand or insist — they simply waited. Their expectation hung in the air, dense and silent.

After graduation, shy but determined, when he announced he had applied to medical school and wanted to become a surgeon, his father just nodded, and his mother couldn’t hold back tears of pride. The dynasty would continue.

Student years swept Alexey into a whirlpool of lectures, sleepless nights, and rare but loud parties. One May, at one such gathering, tired after exams, he leaned against the wall of the assembly hall, watching the dancers. And then he saw her.

Among many faces, she stood out like a flash of light. Golden hair, blue eyes as deep as the summer sky after rain. She stood slightly apart, talking to a friend, laughing so lightly and sincerely that Alexey’s heart stopped.

The girl’s name was called from the stage — Olga. She stepped out, took a guitar, and sang. Not perfectly, not loudly, but her voice carried such warmth, such living feeling, that he, a man of exact sciences, understood: this was love. From the very first note.

After the concert, overcoming his usual reserve, Alexey approached her, awkwardly praised the performance, and offered to walk her home. To his surprise, she agreed. They walked the night street, words flowing easily and freely. He spoke about family and his dream to become a doctor; she talked about music and the small apartment inherited from her grandmother. They were from different worlds — he from the world of scalpels and diagnoses, she from the world of poems and chords. But together it was easier than with anyone before.

On the third date, Alexey did something he did not even expect of himself. From his pocket, he took out a velvet box. Inside lay an antique gold bracelet — a family heirloom, once gifted to his grandmother by his grandfather. He gently placed it on her wrist.

“This is so you know my feelings are serious,” he whispered.

Olga blushed shyly, wanted to refuse — the gift was too expensive. But noticing the plea in his eyes, she just nodded and accepted the token.

Their wedding was modest — no pomp, no crowd of guests. Only the closest. They settled in Olga’s small apartment, filled with coziness and music. Alexey’s parents, initially wary of the girl “from another world,” softened when they saw how their son’s eyes shone beside her. Olga was accepted as family.

After university, Alexey chose the city hospital over prestigious private clinics. There, where his help was needed most. Olga began working with children — running a music club at the local center.

Their life flowed calmly, filled with simple joys: morning coffee, her quiet singing by the stove, long talks before sleep. She was his support, he was her protection. Everyone said: fate brought them together.

But in this harmony there was a crack — their home knew no children’s laughter. At first, they paid no mind, busy with work and love. Over time, the anxiety grew into pain. Doctors followed, tests, examinations. The verdicts were vague. They traveled to holy places, lit candles, consulted healers. A miracle did not happen. Their happiness was whole, but inside yawned emptiness.

Almost twenty years passed. Hope for their own child faded. One evening, sitting at the kitchen table, Olga said quietly but decisively:

“Lyosh… Maybe we should take a child from an orphanage? Give him a home.”

Alexey, seeing the last hope in her eyes, hugged her and agreed. A new faith awoke in their hearts.

A couple of weeks later, Olga went to the orphanage. She walked the corridors, looked into children’s faces, but nothing stirred her soul. Suddenly, from the assembly hall came a child’s voice. Thin, clear, a little scared. She peered inside. On the stage sat a little girl with big eyes and braids — and she sang.

This was Zoya.

Olga ran out, grabbed her phone.

“Lyosh, I found her! I found our daughter!” she cried into the phone, happier than ever.

She approached Zoya, carefully crouched before her.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

And, obeying impulse, took off the old bracelet — the very first gift from Alexey — and put it on the thin wrist of the girl.

“So you wait for me.”

She rushed out of the orphanage, full of joy, forgetting everything. Jumped into a taxi. It was raining, the road was slippery. The inexperienced driver lost control, the car veered into the oncoming lane. A piercing scream, metal screeching, a crash — and then silence.

Alexey, who had held the lives of others in his hands all his life, now looked at the lifeless face of the woman he loved. Behind him, the calm, soulless voice of a colleague:

“Severe traumatic brain injury. Coma. No prognosis.”

A desperate battle for Olga’s life began. Alexey sold everything: their small but cozy apartment, the old car — even those things dear to him by memories. He went into debt, paying for the best specialists, buying rare medicines, spending his last strength on hope. He could not stop believing. He had to believe.

But Olga lay in an endless gray coma fog, as if her soul had long left her body. Life was sustained by machines, but she was no longer there. After several agonizing months, her heart stopped.

The light went out. Alexey’s world collapsed irretrievably. He was left alone, face to face with grief so immense it filled everything — to the last corner of his soul. He moved to a tiny rented apartment on the city outskirts. Colors disappeared, sounds hushed, meaning scattered. He no longer lived — he existed mechanically, like a shadow, moving between home and hospital.

At work, he became a stranger among his own. Withdrawn, unshaven, in a crumpled coat, he drew sympathetic looks from colleagues. They whispered behind his back, pitied him but did not dare approach. Soon a legend grew around him: a brilliant surgeon able to perform the most complex operations, then refuse money with a wave of his hand. Money, recognition, career — all turned to dust. The only thing left were his hands, which still worked flawlessly, saving others’ lives but unable to save his own.

Fifteen years passed.

An ordinary day, filled with routine and the smell of antiseptics. Nurse Katerina peeked into the doctors’ room:

“Alexey Egorovich, urgent to the operating room! A girl with acute appendicitis and beginning peritonitis has arrived.”

He nodded briefly, pulling on his mask as he went.

The operation was successful. His hands moved confidently, precisely, almost mechanically, doing the work they knew better than he did himself. The patient’s face did not interest him. For him, it was just another life torn from death.

The next day, during the morning rounds, he looked into her room. The girl, about twenty, pale but conscious, smiled faintly:

“Thank you, doctor.”

Alexey nodded and mechanically took her hand to check the pulse. Suddenly, he froze. His fingertips touched something cold and hard. He looked down — on the girl’s wrist was an old, faded gold bracelet with barely visible engraving. His bracelet. Olga’s bracelet.

The world swayed. Alexey recoiled as if struck by electricity. He couldn’t breathe. Waiting for the nurse to leave, he sat beside her, on the edge of the bed. His voice trembled:

“Where… where did you get this bracelet?”

The girl looked at him with surprise, tears filling her eyes:

“It’s the only thing I have. A woman gave it to me… I was in an orphanage. She came, said she would take me. She put this bracelet on my wrist and… disappeared. I waited for her for many years.”

Zoya. It was her. The very girl. The one who was meant to become their daughter. Alexey looked at her, and for the first time in many years tears rolled down his cheeks — not from grief, but from sudden revelation. This was Olga’s last wish, her farewell gift. Not a coincidence, not chance — a sign. She did not simply disappear. She passed him this thread, binding him to life. And he understood — he must fulfill her will.

From that day, Alexey’s life gained a new center. He began caring for Zoya — first awkwardly, timidly, then more confidently. He visited her every day, brought fruit, told her about himself, about work. After her discharge, he helped find housing, enroll in school. He became the father she never dared dream of.

Learning that Zoya loved to sing, he found her the best teacher. Supported her in everything. The girl entered music college. Sometimes in the evenings, she sang for him — songs from Olga’s repertoire. Alexey sat with closed eyes and wept — but now these were tears of gratitude and gentle sorrow.

Zoya gently and unobtrusively began to change his life. She dragged him to the store, threw out his old worn sweater, bought new clothes. Colleagues at the hospital were amazed: instead of a “weirdo,” they saw a fit, still not old man, with a lively expression in his eyes again.

Years passed. Zoya became a famous singer. Leaving for her first big tour, she insisted that Alexey move out of his modest shack into her spacious and bright apartment.

But the happiest day for Alexey was when Zoya, shining with joy, announced she was getting married and asked him to be her father at the altar.

Standing in the church, watching the young couple, he thought of Olga. Felt her presence, her smile, her voice nearby. It was she, his beloved, leaving, who gave him this farewell gift — meeting Zoya, the found daughter, a new hope. His life gained fullness again.

And a year later, when Zoya, leaning against him, whispered:

“Congratulations, Dad. You’re going to be a grandfather soon…”

Alexey understood: the circle had closed. His dynasty would live on.

I noticed the folder by accident. Yesterday, Kolya brought another batch of papers — “work stuff, Val, nothing interesting.” Usually, I didn’t meddle with his documents. For thirty-two years of marriage, we had invisible but strong boundaries: the kitchen, cleaning, grandchildren — that was mine; bills, documents, property — that was his. But this morning, while dusting the shelf in the office, I knocked the folder, and it fell to the floor, scattering its contents.

“Gift agreement…” — I read, picking up the top sheet.

Our summer house in Ozerki. It was in the name of Tanya, Nikolai’s sister. On the next sheet were the documents for the house we had built with such effort five years ago. And again, Tanya’s name.
I sat on the floor, spreading the papers before me when my husband entered.

“What are you doing?” — his voice sounded calm, but I knew that tone. He used it when the children broke something valuable when they were little.

I looked up at him and felt like I had been caught in the act. But what had I done wrong?

“Kolya, why is the house and the dacha in your sister’s name?”
He sighed, as though he had to explain the obvious to a child:

“You know, Val, I have a business. Anything can happen. It’s safer for the family this way.”

“But why Tanya? Why not me?” — my voice trembled.

“Stop it,” — he grimaced. “What difference does it make whose name it’s in? It’s all ours, family property.”

Nikolai gathered the papers, neatly folded them into the folder, and put it in the drawer of his desk. Then he extended his hand, helping me up from the floor.

“Valya, we’ve been together for thirty years. Do you really not trust me?”

I nodded and forced a smile. But something inside me cracked. It was as if I had spent my whole life standing in a warm, cozy room, only to suddenly discover that behind one of the walls, there was an icy emptiness.

He kissed me on the cheek and went to the kitchen. I heard the clink of a cup, the water boiling in the kettle. The usual sounds of our home. Only now, I knew for sure: this house wasn’t mine.

For three days, I walked around like in a fog. I did everything as usual: cooked, cleaned, and on Thursday, I picked up the grandchildren from kindergarten. But something inside me was turning over. I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at my sleeping husband beside me. A stranger.

On Friday, Kolya left for a business trip. I put the kettle on and pulled out old photo albums. Here’s our wedding — me in the white lace dress that I had remade from my mother’s. Kolya looks at me with tenderness. Back then, I worked as a nurse, dreaming of entering medical school. Then Lenochka was born, two years later, Serёzha. I put off medical school for better times.

I flipped through several pages. Our first apartment — a one-room flat on the outskirts. I sat with the children, while Kolya was missing at work. “Hang on, Valyusha,” — he’d say, “everything will get better soon.”

Here we are at the dacha of his parents. No longer young — I was over forty. The children had grown. I still hadn’t returned to medicine, but I had mastered cooking and knitting. I remember how my mother-in-law praised me: “Kolya is lucky to have such a wife — a true keeper of the hearth!”

I closed the album. The mirror reflected an older woman with tired eyes. What had I done with my life? I had dissolved into my husband, into the children, into daily life. And now it turned out I wasn’t even a part of the family. Just… the help.

Outside, it was raining. I poured more tea and, for the first time in many years, allowed myself to cry — not because of the children’s problems, not because of a fight with my husband, but because of myself. Because of that girl in the white dress who once dreamed of healing people.

The tears ended suddenly. I wiped my face with the kitchen towel and suddenly felt something new — anger. Not at Kolya — at myself. How could I have so easily given up my life? Swapped dreams for borscht and knitted socks?

Then the phone rang — my granddaughter wanted me to read her a fairy tale via video call. I began reading about Cinderella and suddenly stumbled on the part where the prince finds her by the glass slipper.

“Grandma, what’s wrong?” — Nastya asked.

“You know, darling,” — I smiled, “I think Cinderella could have found happiness on her own, without the prince.”

“How?” — my granddaughter was surprised.

I didn’t know how to answer. But for the first time in a long time, I felt that I wanted to figure it out.

I was so nervous that I drove past the turn three times. The legal office “Justice” was tucked away in the old building of a former research institute, and the office number — 317 — I repeated like a mantra, climbing up the shabby stairs.

“Please sit, Valentina Sergeyevna,” — Irina Lvovna, a woman in her fifties with a keen gaze, pointed to the chair across from the desk. “So, what happened?”

I suddenly felt awkward. I took out the folder with copies of the documents I had secretly made yesterday.

“You see… Thirty-two years of marriage… My husband transferred all the property to his sister…”

The lawyer quickly skimmed through the papers, and her face became serious.

“When was this done?”

“The house five years ago, the dacha three years ago. But I only found out last week.”

She sighed, took off her glasses, and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“Valentina Sergeyevna, how long have you been married?”

“Since ’89…”

“Did you have a prenuptial agreement?”

I even smiled.

“Are you kidding? We didn’t even talk about such things back then. We got married during the Soviet Union.”

Irina Lvovna looked at me a little differently — like she was looking at a patient with an unpleasant diagnosis.

“By law, property acquired during marriage is divided in half. But if your husband has already re-registered it…”

“What does that mean?” — I interrupted, feeling the chill between my shoulder blades.

“Legally, it now belongs to his sister. We can try to contest it, but… Did you know about this when the documents were signed?”

“No!” — I almost shouted the word. “I didn’t suspect anything…”

“Did you work during the marriage?”

“Of course,” — I nodded. “I worked at the library, then ran a craft club at the cultural center. When the children were born, I stayed home with them. Later, I helped with the grandchildren…”

She made a note in her notebook.

“So, you didn’t have any official income for most of the marriage?”

It felt like I had been struck in the gut. Thirty years of life, and all that time…

“What should I do?” — I whispered.

“First, you need to create an inventory of the property that was definitely acquired during the marriage. Gather all the documents you have. And…”

She paused, as though deciding.

“And be prepared for the fact that without a divorce, recovering anything will be nearly impossible.”

I sat there, stunned. The only thought in my head was: did he really plan everything? Had he been building this scheme all this time while I cooked borscht and mended his shirts?

“I’ll gather the documents,” — my voice sounded unexpectedly firm. “And… I’ll file for divorce.”

For the first time in my life, I said those words aloud, and they didn’t sound like a sentence, but like the beginning of something new.

“Confirmation of receipt of the document…” — I carefully signed the form at the post office. With each paper, with each request, I felt a little more confident.

In the past month, my life has grown shrouded in secrets, like an old well covered with moss. On Mondays and Thursdays, I supposedly went “to a knitting club at Margarita Petrovna’s.” In reality, I attended computer literacy courses at the local library.

— Valentina, take your time, — Alia Viktorovna, the librarian with thirty years of experience, patiently repeated. — Press the buttons more confidently.

For some reason, I was afraid of those buttons — it seemed like one wrong press and the computer would explode. But the fear faded with each passing day. Just like the fear of Nikolai.

He, however, didn’t notice anything. Or rather, he noticed it in his own way:

— Valya, you seem younger? — he chuckled at dinner. — Your eyes are shining. Have you fallen in love in your old age?

I just smiled. Indeed, I had fallen in love. In myself, the new me, which I was discovering every day.

On Tuesdays, I met with Vera Nikolaevna — the lawyer recommended by Irina Lvovna.

— Is the inventory of property ready? — Vera Nikolaevna was a dry, business-like woman, but I felt a strange warmth from her. — And the bank statement showing deposits into your husband’s account?

— I don’t know his passwords…

— What about his credit history? Are you a co-signer?

Questions poured down like peas from a torn bag. I got confused, forgot things, but stubbornly returned with new documents. With every time, the folder grew thicker.

At home, I hid it under old winter clothes in the wardrobe. Nikolai never looked there — clean shirts would magically appear in his closet.

— You know, Valentina, — Vera said once over a cup of tea after another consultation, — many women in your place would have already given up.

I shrugged:

— Where should I give up to? I’m not a twenty-year-old girl to run around and lament. I’m sixty-one. If I don’t change everything now, when will I?

In the evenings, when Nikolai was asleep, I would take out my notebook, where I wrote down my action plan. A month ago, I didn’t even know which side of the computer to approach. Today, I had an email and a personal account on the government services website.

“The most important thing is not to scare him off too soon,” Vera said. And I waited. I gathered documents, consulted with specialists, and each day my resolve grew stronger.

This resolve I carefully hid behind the familiar mask of a caring wife, but I knew — soon that mask would no longer fit me.

Nikolai came home earlier than usual. He had some special, elated look — the one he wore when closing a lucrative deal.

— Valyusha, — he kissed me on the cheek, — I have a surprise for you.

I smiled, not stopping my task of chopping vegetables for the salad. Over the past months, I had learned to play the role of the old Valentina — compliant, soft, a little naïve. Exactly naïve, otherwise, how could I explain that for thirty-two years I hadn’t noticed the obvious?

— What surprise? — I asked, deliberately adding interest to my voice.

Nikolai took out a familiar blue folder with documents from his briefcase.

— Do you remember our apartment? Where Dima and Lena live now?

Of course, I remembered. Our first apartment, which we got during the Soviet Union, and then privatized. Now our son and his wife lived there.

— I remember, of course.

— Well, — Nikolai opened the folder solemnly, — I decided to make a gift deed. To Dima, of course.

Something inside me snapped. Our last joint property. The one we got when we were young, before all his “schemes.” The apartment where our children grew up, where I grew up as a woman and mother.

— I just need your consent, — Nikolai continued, handing me a pen, — you’re not opposed, are you?

I stared at the extended pen, at his confident smile. Thirty-two years ago, he smiled just like that when he gave me the ring.

— No, — I said quietly.

— Excuse me, what? — His smile faltered.

— I said “no,” Kolya.

He frowned, as if hearing something foolish.

— Valya, don’t be silly. This is for Dima. For our son.

— And the fact that you transferred the house and the dacha to your sister — is that also for our son? — I felt my hands tremble, and I put the knife down.

His face changed instantly — the smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed.

— Are you still on about that? I explained it to you…

I silently opened the buffet drawer and took out my folder. Thick, filled with dozens of documents, statements, and applications. My folder.

— What is this? — His voice turned cold.

— Divorce papers, — I was surprised at how calmly those words sounded. — I’m filing for divorce, Kolya.

He looked at me as if I had suddenly spoken in a foreign language. Then he laughed — unsure, broken:

— Are you joking? At sixty? After thirty years of marriage?

— Sixty-one. After thirty-two years of marriage, — I corrected him. — And no, I’m not joking.

— Because I want to protect our property? You… — He stopped, seemingly choosing softer words, — you just don’t understand.

— I understand everything, — my voice gained steel. — I understand that “our” property has long become “yours.” And that you’ve simply written me off.

He suddenly flared up — I hadn’t seen him like this in a long time:

— What do you even understand about business? You’ve been sitting with the kids your whole life, making your soups — you should just continue doing your thing!

He almost yelled the last phrase. And in that moment, something in me finally snapped — the last thread that connected me to my old life.

— And I am, Kolya. For the first time in many years — I’m doing my thing.

The courtroom, damn it, is tiny. Just like the vice-principal’s office at school, where I used to get scolded for Dima’s antics. The benches are wooden — hard and uncomfortable. I sat on the edge so I could stretch my legs.

— Citizen Romanova, are you ready? — Vera Nikolaevna leaned towards me, and I could smell some expensive perfume.

I nodded. Strangely enough, I was calm. Three months gathering papers, three months crying — and now there’s nothing inside, just lightness.

— Case No. 375 on divorce, — the secretary mumbled.

I glanced at Nikolai. A cream-colored shirt, a tie — he’s dressed as if going to negotiations. But his face was pale, drawn even. And next to him — his lawyer, all made up. On heels, with a hairstyle as if she were going to a reception, not to court. She saw me — wrinkled her nose. Of course, an old woman is getting divorced, it’s funny to her.

— Citizen Romanov, do you admit the claims? — the judge, a woman about fifty, looked at Kolya over her glasses.

— I categorically do not admit, — Kolya stood up and straightened his jacket. — The cottage and house legally belong to my sister, Tatyana Petrovna Somova. There’s nothing to divide here.

— Your Honor, — Vera Nikolaevna stood up too, — we have evidence that the property was re-registered without the plaintiff’s knowledge or consent. And we have witness testimony that citizen Romanova directly participated in financing the construction…

I listened to their argument as if through cotton wool. In my head, a silly phrase kept spinning: “And so the fairy tale is over, though there was much that was beautiful in it.” Where that line comes from, I don’t remember, maybe from a song or a poem.

The judge listened to me carefully. I told everything honestly: how I found out about the gift agreements, how I saved for the cottage, how I worked on the house for years — doing everything myself, wallpapering, sewing curtains.

After two hours and three hearings, we got the decision. A quarter of the house and the cottage — in money. Just enough for separate housing. The little things — a washing machine, a TV, carpets — Kolya gave without argument. Maybe he was tired of them.

When it was all over, Nikolai caught up with me in the corridor.

— Valya, what are you doing? — he asked tiredly, without anger. — Where will you go? To Olya’s? She has two of her own, she won’t have time for you.

— You were right then, in the argument, — I suddenly smiled, looking him straight in the eyes. — It’s time for me to do my thing.

— Valentina Sergeevna, please sort out these forms, — the library director, Raisa Andreevna, threw a stack of papers onto my desk. — You’re the only one with legible handwriting.

— Of course, Raisa Andreevna, — I was distracted from the computer. I typed slowly, but without errors.

The city library archive became my second home. I was hired almost immediately — libraries are always short on staff. As for the low salary — my requests are modest now. A small one-bedroom in a new building on the outskirts. The simplest of repairs. But — it’s all mine.

At first, my son was upset, blaming me for the breakdown of the family. But then he thawed. He started bringing the grandkids every weekend. Masha, my five-year-old, has already baked half the kitchen with me. She loves grandma’s pies — with cabbage, with apples.

— Grandma, don’t you miss us? — Dima asked once, when he was picking up the kids.

— Why would I? — I was surprised. — I have work, friends… You know, Nadya and I go to the theater every month. Soon we’re going on a tour to St. Petersburg.

He shook his head. Then suddenly hugged me tightly:

— You’re great, Mom.

And I thought so too. Really, I am great.

A year has passed. An entire damn year. I’m sitting on the windowsill, watching the rain drum on the glass, and thinking — it passed quickly, huh?

The kettle whistles in the kitchen. I go to make tea. Vera Nikolaevna’s gift — a cup with cornflowers — is already waiting on the table. A good woman, soulful. She called a couple of months after the trial, asking how I was settling in.

And I’ve settled in… well, pretty well. The first weeks I cried, of course. Thirty-two years down the drain — there was plenty to cry about. Then it stopped. Maybe the tears ran out? Or maybe it just didn’t make sense to cry anymore?

I took the tea to the room and went to the mirror. I used to be afraid to look in it — every year a new wrinkle, a new gray strand. Now I look boldly. Yeah, I’m an old lady. Sixty-two is no joke. But my eyes… there’s something new about my eyes. They’ve become alive, curious.

The library is always busy now. “Valentina Sergeevna, help with the catalog,” “Valentina Sergeevna, make an inventory.” And recently Raisa Andreevna called me:

— We’re going to master the electronic database, Romanova. Are you good with computers?

— I am, — I replied. And I wasn’t lying at all. I got so good over the year that the kids can’t believe it. Dima says his boss knows less about computers than I do. Funny.

The phone rang so unexpectedly that I jumped. The screen showed: “Nikolai.” We hadn’t spoken for about three months, since he came to get the things still left at Dima’s garage.

— Yes, — I answered, after a second of thinking.

— Valya, — his voice sounded strange, soft, — how are you?

— Fine, — I said. And suddenly realized I wasn’t lying. — Really fine, Kolya.

— I see… — there was a pause, then: — Dima said it’s your… well… anniversary today.

— Yeah, — I couldn’t help but smile. — A year of freedom.

— I just wanted to know if everything’s okay with you? — he asked after a long pause.

— Completely, — I answered. — How about you?

— Nothing special, working, — his voice carried those familiar notes of self-satisfaction. — By the way, I’ll soon get the house back in my name. Tanya, can you believe it, demanded money for it being in her name. She’s really gotten bold…

I almost laughed. He hadn’t changed a bit. Still spinning things around, moving them from place to place. But now, it doesn’t concern me.

— Kolya, I have to go, — I interrupted. — I’m glad to hear everything’s fine with you.

After the call, I went back to the mirror. Fixed my hair. More gray hairs. More wrinkles. But who cares?

It’s six in the evening. Nadya promised to drop by — we were going to the philharmonic. Classical music, can you imagine? I used to hate it, and now I have a subscription. I’m learning English. And I’m taking computer courses — advanced level.

What comes next, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to a sanatorium this summer. Olya offered me a voucher. Maybe I’ll sign up for cooking classes — I’ve always wanted to learn how to bake a real strudel.

I was standing in front of the mirror and suddenly realized — this is it, the feeling I’ve been looking for in my eyes. It’s curiosity. Curiosity about life. About myself. About what’s ahead.

Someone knocks at the door. Probably Nadya has arrived. Time to go. I now have my own road. Unknown, sometimes frightening. But — mine.

“Larisa, just a little more… Come on, dear, you can do it!”

She barely moved her legs. Every step was taken with tremendous effort, as if heavy weights were strapped to her feet.

“I want to take a shower…” Larisa whispered, feeling her strength finally leaving her. “Gleb, I can’t anymore. Honestly, I can’t!”

Her husband looked at her with feigned concern, but there was a strange coldness in his eyes. How had she not noticed that icy gleam before?

“You can, darling, you’ll manage! Look, there’s our goal — the little house!”

Larisa followed his gaze. In front of them stood a building that looked like a mix between an old shed and a fairy-tale hut on chicken legs.

“Are you… really sure the healer lives here?” Her voice betrayed her exhaustion and fear.

“Of course, dear! Come on, just a bit more!”

Larisa climbed onto the crooked porch almost mechanically, as if in a dream. Gleb laid her down on a wooden bench and suddenly smirked smugly. That smile cut through her heart.

“Now you can rest… for a long time.”

She surveyed the gloomy room: cobwebs, dust, dampness. She looked at her husband fearfully.

“Gleb… Nobody lives here!”

“That’s right!” He laughed. “Nobody has lived here for about twenty years. And no one’s been here for a long time. If you’re lucky — you’ll die your natural death. If not…” — he paused — “wild animals will find you.”

“Gleb! What are you saying?! Snap out of it!”

He straightened up, and the mask of a loving husband vanished forever.

“I asked you — register the business under my name! But you were stubborn as a mule!” He spat. “Do you even realize what it cost me to put up with you? To sleep with you? You disgust me!”

“And my money doesn’t disgust you?” Larisa whispered.

“Those are MY money!” He growled. “They’re mine, just need to finish the paperwork. Everyone knows how obsessed you are with all this witchcraft nonsense. I tell everyone you’re crazy and ran off to some quack in the sticks. I tried to convince you, but…” He theatrically threw up his hands, “you’re stubborn! Like my plan? I don’t even need to buy a coffin!”

His laughter sounded like a dog’s bark. Larisa closed her eyes — this was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

But the door slam was all too real.

She tried to get up — she needed to run, this must be a joke! But her body wouldn’t obey. Lately, she grew tired quickly, as if someone was draining the life out of her.

“Now I know who…” flashed through her mind.

She had no strength left. Larisa gave up and sank into a restless sleep.

Five years ago they got married. Gleb appeared out of nowhere — penniless, but with charm that made her lose her head. Tired of loneliness and work, Larisa fell madly in love.

But they had warned her… Everyone around said he only wanted money, that he spent her funds on other women. She found out the truth a year ago. After that, health problems began — sometimes her heart, sometimes her stomach, sometimes everything at once. Doctors blamed nervous breakdowns.

She tried not to worry. Really tried! But how not to worry when you love someone who betrayed you?

And now she was a wealthy, successful woman, but so sick she couldn’t get out of that ruin in the woods. Her death would remain a secret.

Half-asleep, Larisa heard a rustle. Someone was standing nearby. Her heart stopped — could it really be wild animals?

“Don’t be afraid!”

She startled.

“A girl?! Where did you come from here?”

In front of her sat a child about seven or eight years old. The girl crouched beside her.

“I was here before. When he brought you here, I hid.”

Larisa lifted herself up.

“You’re alive? How did you end up here?”

“I come by myself. When I fight with Dad — I hide here. Let him worry!”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Nope! He just makes me help. But I don’t want to. Why should kids work? If I don’t listen — he makes me wash the dishes. A whole mountain!” The girl spread her arms.

Larisa weakly smiled.

“Maybe he’s just tired. Trying to give you manageable chores. I would do anything for my dad if he were alive.”

“Your dad died?”

“Yes, long ago.”

“Everyone will die,” the girl stated with childlike philosophy.

“Are you saying your dad will die too?!” The girl perked up.

“People die when they get old. That’s how it is.”

The girl thought.

“Mom was sick… She went to the angels. I often cry because I miss her. I’ll help Dad so he won’t die!” She looked at Larisa. “Did they bring you here to die too?”

“Looks like it…”

“Why not in a hospital?”

A tear slid down Larisa’s cheek.

“He decided so himself… So they wouldn’t cure me.”

“Bastard!” The girl was outraged. “I’ll run to Dad! You know what he is? He heals everyone in the village! Except Mom… ” Her voice trembled.

“How come?”

The girl went to the door, then turned and whispered:

“My dad is a wizard!”

Larisa involuntarily smiled.

“Sweetie, there’s no such thing…”

“But there is! Your husband said you believe in that. Okay, don’t be sad, I’ll be back soon!”

“What’s your name?”

“Dasha!”

 

“Dasha, aren’t you afraid to stay here? What if animals come?”

“What animals?!” The girl snorted. “No one visits this forest except hedgehogs!”

And with those words she slipped out the door as if she had wings on her shoulders.

“Counting on a child — stupid beyond reason,” Larisa thought, closing her eyes. “She’ll run around the forest, meet a squirrel or the same hedgehog — and forget about me…”

She began to drift off when a whisper woke her:

“Dad, is she dead?”

“No, sunshine. She’s just sleeping.”

Larisa snapped her eyes open.

“Dasha! You’re back!”

The hut was dimly lit, and she couldn’t make out the man’s face.

“Hello. Sorry things turned out this way…”

“It’s okay. Can you stand? Go outside?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

The man touched her forehead with his palm, and warmth spread through her body like spring sun after a long winter.

“You can. I promise.”

And she really could! With his help, she stood up, took a few unsteady steps. Outside the hut was a… motorcycle with a sidecar? Her vision blurred, legs wobbled, but strong hands supported her and gently laid her in the sidecar.

Where they were going and how long it took — Larisa didn’t remember. She came to only on the bumps, saw stars above — and fell back into darkness.

She didn’t care. What difference did it make where to die?

But then it got warm. Cozy. And even… hungry!

She opened her eyes. High ceilings, bright log walls — nothing like that ruin. On the wall… a TV?!

“Some kind of strange afterlife,” crossed her mind.

“Awake? Great! Dinner’s ready. Today’s special — Dasha volunteered to help for the first time! I don’t know what you told her, but I’m very grateful.”

Larisa smiled. She would never tell what exactly had moved the girl. Shameful — an adult woman saying such things…

The man helped her sit up, placed pillows behind her. On the table — potatoes with gravy, fresh salad, milk… And bread. But what bread! Loaves like fluffy clouds, with big holes inside.

 

“This… bread?” Larisa was surprised.

“Eat up!” The man laughed. “I bake it myself. Can’t eat store bread. Maybe you’ll try someday.”

Larisa smiled sadly — “someday” seemed too far away. But the potatoes were so tasty, it felt like the best dinner of her life.

She didn’t finish — drowsiness overtook her. Before sleep, she whispered:

“What’s your name?”

“Aleksei.”

Day by day it got better. Appetite returned, strength, desire to live. Larisa rejoiced but understood nothing: no medicines, no treatments, no IV drips…

Once, when Dasha ran off to play, she asked directly:

“Are you the one treating me?”

Aleksei looked at her with clear blue eyes:

“Me?”

“Yes! I feel better. Much better! And I was supposed to die… Dasha said you’re a wizard.”

He laughed — so sincerely that Larisa couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Oh, Dasha the dreamer! Our granny was one who knew herbs. She passed a little to me. But I’m as far from a wizard as China is on foot!”

Days passed. And then — she walked outside on her own, without support.

“Larisa! Well done!”

Aleksei picked her up in his arms and spun her around. She clung to him and cried — from happiness, relief, and the fact she was alive…

Half a year later

Gleb was pacing the office like a wounded beast:

“I need all rights! Without me, the company can’t work!”

“The company works like clockwork,” someone cautiously noted. “Larisa Sergeevna kept everything in perfect order.”

“Stop calling her ‘Larisa’! She’s gone! Ran off to the woods to quacks, got eaten there! I’m the rightful husband!”

“Gleb Sergeevich,” one of the attendees said softly but firmly, “the body hasn’t been found. And your behavior… raises certain questions.”

“What difference does it make?!” He exploded. “I’m a man who lost his beloved wife!”

An elderly employee stood up:

“I won’t work under your leadership.”

“Who else?” Gleb looked around. “All of you can leave!”

But at that moment the door flew open.

“I wouldn’t rush to hire a new team.”

Gleb collapsed into a chair. Larisa stood before him — alive, blooming, eyes shining. Beside her — a tall man, and behind them — police officers.

“You… how… you were supposed to…”

“To die?” She finished calmly. “Your plan failed again. As usual.”

As they led Gleb away, yelling and cursing the world, Larisa turned to the staff:

“Hello! I’m back. I have many ideas. Let me introduce my husband — Aleksei. And I invite you all for a barbecue this weekend — get to know nature and the new family!”

Everyone smiled. Everyone was happy.

“And a heads up: now I have a daughter. Dasha was with us, but Svetochka lured her away with her makeup suitcase.”

Everyone laughed heartily — Larisa’s secretary did always carry a suitcase full of jars and tubes.

“Semyon Arkadyevich,” she addressed the lawyer, “please take care of the divorce and adoption.”

“Of course, Larisa Sergeevna. Welcome back!”

“Thank you,” she replied, squeezing Aleksei’s hand tightly.

Sometimes, to find true happiness, you have to lose everything. And meet a little girl in the forest who believes in miracles…

One morning, Lesha woke up with the feeling that something had to change drastically. Otherwise, he simply wouldn’t be able to endure it.

He was afraid to think about how things would end if he continued living with this woman. His wife. The mother of his children.

The revelation came early — within the first six months of their marriage. That very Masha, whom he had thought of as gentle, light, almost angelic, started shedding her mask. And what Alexey saw underneath it, at first amused him, but then began to scare him.

Beneath her blonde head with large gray eyes and a meek smile, there was a completely different girl — calculating, harsh, indifferent to everything except herself.

He began to realize this gradually. Not at once, but through small, seemingly insignificant situations that seemed to scratch his soul.

The first warning bell was barely audible, almost amusing. What seemed cute quickly turned into an alarming signal.

Like, for example, the morning after their wedding. He, as usual, made coffee, added sugar — the way he liked it. He handed his beloved a cup with the hot drink and a warm smile:

“Here, darling… just how you like it.”

“I can’t stand sugar in my coffee,” she replied coldly. “You still haven’t remembered after all these months of dating?” And, without blinking, she poured the drink into the sink.

Lesha stood holding his cup, unable to understand: why did it hurt him? Why did he suddenly feel awkward about his gift?

The next incident left not a laugh, but a small crack in his soul. It happened about two weeks after the wedding.

Masha insisted that he go with her to a café to meet her friends.

“I’ll just sit there, listen,” he told himself. “She still wants me to be there.”

But at the café, a regular girls’ night out started, which suddenly changed his perception. At one point, Masha laughed and said:

“Imagine, he still thinks I have a ‘Kia’! I’ve told him a hundred times — it’s a ‘Jaguar’! But no, he still mixes up the brands. Classic!”

Her friends giggled. Alexey smiled, though inside, something painful clicked.

“Well, a mistake, it happens,” he tried to joke.

“It happens when a person doesn’t pay attention to the details,” one of them hummed.

“Or doesn’t care about what’s happening around them,” added another.

Masha looked at him with a smirk. She was enjoying herself. From the feeling of superiority. From his confusion.

Alexey remained silent. He just looked away. Later, at home, he asked:

“Why did you do that? It was unpleasant.”

“What exactly?” she asked playfully. “Did we laugh? It’s a joke, Lesha. You need to learn to laugh at yourself too.”

She approached, hugged him, kissed him — and he melted again. He hadn’t yet learned how to resist her charm. And didn’t know that in another six months, he would.

The further it went, the more Alexey became disillusioned. His romanticized idea of Masha was falling apart one piece at a time. And each time, he caught himself thinking: he didn’t recognize the woman he had pursued. The one he had built dreams for.

One day, he came home with a gift — a poetry book. A rare impulse, but at that moment, he wanted something warm, human, soulful.

“Here,” he handed it to his wife. “I got a bonus, and decided to get something for the soul.”

Masha sighed and took the book without much enthusiasm.

“Can I have the receipt?” she asked.

“Receipt?” Lesha didn’t immediately understand. “Why?”

“In case I decide to return it if I don’t like it.”

“This is my gift,” he said. “I thought you’d at least look at it with warmth.”

“I’m not obligated to,” she replied coldly. “Now we have a family. The focus should be on important things. Like the mortgage. Not poems.”

Lesha stared at her for a long time. Not at her face, not her lips, not her smile. But through all that — at the person he suddenly didn’t recognize.

He remembered the lyrics of an old song:

“I want to invent you today…
I want to invent you like a song…
So that I could envy myself…
So that you were better than everyone else…”

But the reality was something entirely different.

Another incident stayed in his memory forever.

They had just left a restaurant where they were celebrating some anniversary — it didn’t matter which one. He felt his gaze drawn to an old man sitting at the entrance. With an outstretched hand, in a worn-out coat, with sadness in his eyes. Alexey stopped:

“Masha, do you have some spare change? Let’s help him…”

“Beggars aren’t people, they’re weak,” she replied curtly. “Pity only multiplies them. Let’s go.”

She didn’t even turn around. He hesitated, looked at the old man, then at the back of his young wife. And followed her, but more slowly. As though an invisible gap had appeared between them.

It was then that he first thought:
“Who is this woman? Why did I tie my life to hers?”

This moment became a turning point. After that, the question arose more and more often:
“Why am I living with a stranger?”

After that incident near the restaurant, there were other “drops,” each of which should have been a reason to break up. But Alexey kept postponing it, as though he were waiting for something bigger. Or an excuse.

And then the children were born.
And he started hoping again: maybe now she would change? Maybe the marriage would gain meaning? Masha would become a wife, not just a stranger in the house?

But nothing happened. As the years passed, it only got worse. He lived in a family on paper, but inside, he felt lonelier than before meeting her.

Almost twenty years passed.
And one day, Lesha realized: there wasn’t as much time left as he had hoped. His health had failed. And with it — his life.

“I need to change something…” he thought. “I need to start a new chapter…”

But he kept living as before.
Even when his heart could no longer bear it.

The divorce was painful, but expected. Masha, as expected, had been playing her game for a long time. Money from their joint account disappeared long before the first court hearing — it had moved to her mother’s account. She also tried to take the apartment for herself, attacking with poisonous remarks:

“I knew you were weak… Only hysterics, not real women, hold onto every inch. You’re a man — you should just leave. No unnecessary scandals.”

“Then be a woman, not a hysteric,” Lesha replied, already learning how to fend off her attacks. “Don’t cling to the walls if your place is somewhere else.”

The apartment was sold. They truly parted ways.
But Masha managed to take almost three-quarters of the money — with documents she had prepared in advance. She referred to generous gifts from her mother, although Alexey knew the truth: not a penny had come from his mother-in-law to their family.

He was just amazed at how far they had both pretended.
And how far one of them had gone, leaving the other with empty hands.

Life after the divorce started over — in a small, rented apartment. Cozy, bright. Modern. He looked at his four walls and thought: “Damn, why didn’t I do this earlier?”

But now, he had to save up for his own place. But this was his choice. His chance.

He met his neighbor, Zhanna, on the third day after moving in. She ran into the elevator at the last moment, just before the doors closed. Her movements were swift, her voice cheerful, her gaze alive.

Lesha felt the smell of youth, freedom, lightness.
And in his head, he thought:
“Years have passed. Oh, how nice it was to be young.”

“Be careful, young lady,” he said, stepping out behind her. “You could lose your life that way. Elevators don’t tolerate rushing.”

She turned around.
And he froze.

First of all, the girl turned out to be a woman. About his age. Secondly, her face was… special. Her skin — rough, covered with small imperfections, her eyes — slightly off, her lips — barely noticeable, like a thread. All of it was striking, but not repulsive — strangely, it even intrigued him.

“I know,” she smiled. “But I’m always late. It’s my style.”

“Got it,” he replied, avoiding eye contact. “As they say, everyone has their own.”

That was their first meeting.

Soon, evening tea sessions became the norm. Over a cup of hot drink, they talked about everything: books, movies, life. Sometimes — just sat in silence, listening to music. And Alexey felt: there was someone around who didn’t pressure him, didn’t humiliate him, didn’t hurt him.

At first, they just communicated. Then they started to walk. A couple of strolls in the park, dinners in cafes, movies in theaters.
He no longer noticed her appearance. Inside Zhanna was a lively, warm, intelligent soul.

His friends, when they found out about her, immediately teased:

“Is that the kikimora you’re living with now?”

“No,” Lesha answered. “She’s my neighbor. Just Zhanna. Just a person with whom I feel at ease.”

“Well, if she’s rich, marry her. Solve all your problems in one go. You’re broke after Masha…”

This thought crossed his mind more than once.
Maybe he should? Maybe it would be easier?

He saw that Zhanna was drawn to him. She tried to stay close, didn’t judge him, didn’t provoke him. She was soft, attentive, caring.
He felt her warmth.
He understood she was waiting. Ready.

And one day, sitting at her place, he cautiously asked:

“Why are you still alone?”

Zhanna was silent for a moment. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“You see. I’ve just had bad luck.
But now, it seems, I’ve been lucky.”

He shuddered slightly. He wanted to say something but didn’t dare.

After a conversation with a friend and several visits to a jewelry store, the idea of proposing began to take shape. Lesha imagined a romantic dinner, a beautiful ring, words of love…
And he realized he couldn’t do it.

“Yes, it’s good with her,” he thought. “We understand each other, laugh, help. But…”

But to kiss her at the wedding. In front of everyone.
But to lie down with her in one bed.
But to kiss. Hug.
But to build a family.
He couldn’t.
Not because she was bad.
Just… her face still stopped him.
He wasn’t sure he could.

“Zhanna is a great person,” he kept repeating to himself. “But I can’t be with her the way she deserves.”

And he stayed silent.
And kept living next to her.
Without a relationship.
Without a marriage.
Just — like two neighbors who became close.

But one day, troubles hit Lesha one after another, as if fate itself decided to test his strength.

“Bad luck,” he thought, looking at the ceiling. “It’s okay, it’ll pass. It always passes.”

But the days went by, and the bad luck didn’t end. Either he had fallen too deep into it, or it was just the way the time was — but misfortune never came alone.

The first blow came from a mistake in calculations — small, almost technical. But the consequences turned out to be large-scale: an accident at the factory, casualties, an investigation.
And although Alexey wasn’t the only one at fault, he was singled out as the scapegoat.

Thank goodness there were no casualties. Otherwise, he would have been sentenced for sure. But this way — a demotion, loss of position, a sharp salary cut. And a moral burden — heavy as lead.

Soon after, the landlord informed him that rent would go up. As if all the troubles had conspired together.

Lesha sighed, set aside part of his meager savings… and still bought a ring. Even if it wasn’t for love, but with the thought of stability. He decided to propose to Zhanna.

She deserved more. But he hoped that over time, everything would change. That feelings would come.

“Marry me,” he said at the café, trying to sound confident. “We suit each other. I appreciate you. We have common interests, understanding. We can be together.”

Zhanna smiled slightly, sincerely, warmly:

“There’s nothing perfect in life, Lesha. But I agree. I’ve loved you for a long time… really.”

His heart froze. He realized: she knows. She had calculated everything. And still accepted him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I should have started with this… but back then, I just couldn’t say those words to you.”

“You didn’t say them,” she replied softly. “But I waited. And I knew that one day you would say them. I just didn’t expect you to shout it into the phone every night for a whole month…”

He blushed. Not because his conscience tortured him — but because he realized that his feelings were no longer fake. They had become real.

The application was submitted immediately. The ceremony was postponed for three months — Zhanna was going to study.

“I need to finish the course,” she explained. “I’ll come back right before the wedding. We’ll prepare online. Come on, Lesha, be patient.”

She left.

And he thought that relief would come with her departure. That it would be easier now that he could breathe a little, without pretending every day. But after a week, Lesha realized: he felt worse.

He missed her.
Her voice. Her scent. The way she laughed, listening to his stories.
Her silence, which was warmer than any chatter.

He realized: she didn’t need him as a neighbor or a friend.
She needed him as a man. As her beloved. As the person she wanted to always be with.

And when Zhanna finally returned, he couldn’t stand it:

“You’re back! My dear! I… I can’t live without you. I love you. I love you. For real. I wanted to marry you earlier, but I didn’t know I could love you this much.”

At the airport, he searched for her among the arriving passengers. He expected to see her familiar face, her familiar figure. But she wasn’t there. Just a long phone call, and then — the voice:

“I’m home. Come out.”

He ran out. And saw her. Completely different. Smooth skin, even features, eyes full of light. Lips — not a thread, but real, full, slightly smiling.

“It’s you?” he asked, stunned. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “A little indulgence with my own money, Lesha. And a bit of modern medicine. Everything can be fixed if you have the desire.”

“But why didn’t you do this earlier?”

“I was waiting. For the man who would love me as I am. Without beauty, without a mask. With you, I realized: this person is you.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I proposed to you not out of love. I was disgusted with myself for that. I’m ashamed.”

“I know,” Zhanna took his hand. “I guessed. But you’ve changed. And I have too. Now we’re different. Together.”

“Just as we are,” he whispered.

Months have passed since then. They lived simply. Without any pretense. Without romantic gestures from TV shows. But with warmth inside.

He learned to kiss her without fear. To hug without internal resistance. To love — without looking back.

And one evening, sitting on the balcony, he said:

“You’re my good luck. After the bad. After Masha. After the destruction. After the mistakes. You’re my new start.”

Zhanna placed her head on his shoulder.

“And you’re my old, lost chance. And my new one — at the same time.”

They no longer rushed. But now they knew the most important thing:

It’s not the perfection of the face that makes a person beautiful. It’s the sincerity of feelings.

I’m filing for divorce.”

Artyom stood in the doorway of the office, his hands shoved into the pockets of his fashionable pants, looking somewhere above Ksenia’s head. His eyes, usually warm and glowing, now appeared cold as ice.

Ksenia put down her planner and slowly raised her head. Her husband’s words hit her like a blow to the stomach, but outwardly, she remained calm, her fingers tightening around the pen.

“Is that so?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “And why is that?”

It had been a tough day. Her department head at the publishing house where she worked had canceled yet another project, a client had caused a scene over a typo in a contract, and on her way home, she got caught in the rain. And now this.

Although, if she were honest with herself, she had been expecting this conversation. The last few months of their relationship had felt like a polite cohabitation between two random travel companions. Artyom was constantly on the move, and she was immersed in work. Dinners together had become rare, conversations shallow, and sex felt like an obligation.

Artyom shrugged as though explaining the obvious was beneath him.

“We both know our marriage has run its course. I’ve grown too much…”

“Grown.” Ksenia gave a bitter smile. Five years ago, he had been an insecure, aspiring writer whose first novel had bombed terribly. Then came years of short stories published in low-circulation magazines, barely noticed. But now, when his latest book unexpectedly became a bestseller, he had “grown.”

“Artyom,” Ksenia stood up from the table, “let’s talk calmly. What happened?”

She already knew the answer. A tiny seed of suspicion had sprouted in her a couple of months ago when Artyom returned from yet another presentation with a new scent of perfume on his clothes.

“It’s not about that,” he looked away, and Ksenia understood that her suspicions were correct. “I feel like I can achieve more. And next to you… You’re too ordinary, Ksyusha. I need a muse, not a clerk checking commas.”

It was unfair. Hurtful. And painful.

“Ordinary? Have you forgotten how many nights I spent editing your ‘bestseller’? Have you forgotten how I proofread every page, suggested plot twists, rewrote dialogues?”

Artyom grimaced as though in pain.

“Don’t exaggerate your role. You did the technical work. Inspiration, plot, characters—all of that is mine. And that’s what readers appreciate.”

“And my name as co-author on the cover? We agreed on that!”

“Come on, Ksyusha. What kind of writer are you? You’ll always be a clerk at the publishing house, going through other people’s manuscripts. And me… I’m just beginning my climb to the top.”

“Fame will pass, Artyom. And what will remain? Who will you be with when you’re no longer the trendy author?”

Artyom laughed. His laughter, which once made her heart flutter, now sounded cold and arrogant.

“Oh my, how cliché! ‘Fame will pass, but I’ll remain.’ Is that from a cheap melodrama? My fame is just beginning, dear. As for you…” he gave her a once-over from head to toe, “you’ll always remain the same gray mouse with a savior complex.”

Ksenia held herself back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

“So, this decision is final?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded and walked toward the door. “I’m packing my things. I’ll come for the rest tomorrow.”

When the door closed behind him, Ksenia slowly sank into the chair. His words echoed in her head: “You’ll always be a clerk… A gray mouse… I’m just beginning my climb to the top.”

Her eyes found a photograph on the desk—her and Artyom on the day his first book was released. Happy, in love, with hope for the future. Ksenia took the frame and traced her finger over her husband’s face.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I’m just beginning too.”

“My God, Ksyusha, I thought you’d be in shock!” Tatiana looked at her friend in astonishment, who was calmly arranging cups on the coffee table. “How are you holding up?”

A week had passed since Artyom left. A week without his voice, his scent, his presence in the house. Tatiana, upon hearing the news, rushed over with a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine, ready to comfort and support her grief-stricken friend. Instead, she found a composed, businesslike Ksenia, who seemed to have taken her husband’s departure as an annoying but not life-shattering inconvenience.

“What am I supposed to do?” Ksenia poured wine into glasses. “Cry into a pillow? Take tranquilizers? Call him and beg him to come back?”

Tatiana smiled sheepishly.

“Well… yes. That’s pretty much what I did when Dimka left me. I was a zombie for a month, couldn’t eat or sleep.”

“And did that help? Did your Dimka come back?”

“No, of course not,” Tatiana snorted. “He didn’t even call, the bastard. But that’s not the point. It’s just… you loved Artyom. Five years of your life—that’s no joke.”

Ksenia took a sip of wine and gazed thoughtfully out the window.

“You know, Tany, I really did love him. And maybe part of me still does. But I can’t afford to fall apart. Not now.”

“Why?”

“Because if I break down, he wins. He’ll prove that I really am just a ‘gray mouse’ who is nothing without him. And I want to prove the opposite. First and foremost—to myself.”

Tatiana shook her head.

“Honestly, I envy you. When I was left, I turned into a total wreck. But you… you seem to have gotten stronger.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Ksenia smiled. “You know what’s the most painful part? Not that he found someone else. But that he took all the credit for the novel. My work, my ideas, my sleepless nights—and nothing in return, not even a mention as co-author. As if I were not a wife but a free literary slave.”

“He was always a bit of an egoist,” Tatiana said cautiously.

“A bit?” Ksenia smiled bitterly. “It used to seem like an endearing trait of a creative personality. Now I see it’s just plain selfishness.”

The doorbell rang. Ksenia frowned—she wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Probably a delivery mistake,” she muttered, heading to the door.

Standing on the doorstep was Alina Romanovna, her mother-in-law, looking at Ksenia with barely concealed disdain.

“Good afternoon, Ksenia. May I come in? We need to talk.

I have come with just one proposal,” Alina Romanovna sat on the edge of the sofa, keeping her back unnaturally straight. “I hope you will show reason.”

Understanding the delicacy of the situation, Tatiana quickly said her goodbyes, leaving her friend alone with her mother-in-law.

“I’m listening carefully,” Ksenia crossed her arms over her chest.

“Artem said you are getting a divorce. It’s the right decision. You never suited each other.”

“Interesting,” Ksenia thought, “did she think the same when she accepted gifts from me and asked for help with repairs?” But she remained silent.

“I want to offer you compensation,” Alina Romanovna continued. “A reasonable sum of money in exchange for your commitment not to claim that Artem’s romance is a shared asset. No lawsuits, no scandals in the press. A clean break.”

“Compensation? For what exactly? For five years of supporting your son? For hours spent editing his texts? For believing in him when everyone else, including you, thought he was a hack?” Ksenia’s voice grew sharp.

Alina Romanovna pursed her lips.

“Don’t exaggerate your role, dear. Artem is a talented writer. Yes, he went through a creative crisis, but that’s normal for an artistic nature. He just needed the right muse, not…”

“Not who?” Ksenia leaned forward. “Finish your sentence.”

“Not a woman who didn’t support him properly and was more focused on her career than her husband,” the mother-in-law cut her off. “Artem told me that he had to look for inspiration elsewhere. And as you can see, it worked.”

Ksenia stood up abruptly and walked to the bookshelf. Grabbing a thick folder, she threw it onto the table in front of Alina Romanovna.

“Do you know what this is? These are drafts of Artem’s first novel. With my edits, comments, and suggestions. Pages I rewrote ten times because your son couldn’t string two sentences together without grammatical errors!” She snatched a few sheets and waved them in front of her mother-in-law’s face. “Without me, the second novel would never have been finished. It was my plot idea that made the book a bestseller!”

Alina Romanovna looked at her with pity, as though she were mentally ill.

“Poor girl. You’ve gotten so used to living off other people’s achievements that now you can’t accept the fact that Artem succeeded on his own. This is just envy, Ksenia. Mediocre people are always envious of talent.”

She stood up, straightened her jacket, and headed for the door.

“Think about my proposal. It’s your only chance to leave with dignity.”

When the door closed behind her mother-in-law, Ksenia remained standing in the middle of the room, gripping the sheets of paper with edits. “Mediocre,” the word echoed in her head.

“I’ll show you who the mediocre one is,” she whispered.

Three years later

Artem nervously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The last traffic light before the publishing house was red, as if mocking his impatience. He checked his watch — only ten minutes left until the scheduled meeting. He couldn’t afford to be late.

The last year had been difficult. His third novel, on which he had pinned so many hopes, had failed miserably. Critics called it “derivative” and “pretentious,” and sales didn’t even cover the printing costs.

“It will get better,” he muttered, trying to convince himself more than the empty car interior. “The new novel will definitely be a bestseller. The second one did well, so the fourth will too.”

The money from the advance on the second novel was long gone. Olga, his new wife — the “muse” for whom he had left Ksenia — was beginning to show signs of nervousness. The last book had to be printed with borrowed money, and now, with the stock gathering dust in warehouses, the debts were becoming harder to ignore.

“You need to go to the publishing house,” Olga had said to him over dinner the night before. “Ask them for a contract for the next book. The advance will keep us afloat while you write.”

“Not a chance,” he snapped. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Sweetheart,” Olga placed her hand on his, “pride is great, but it won’t pay the bills. ‘Palimpsest’ publishing house has always published your books. They have reasons to support you.”

She was right, although he didn’t want to admit it. After a night of reflection, Artem made the humiliating decision to ask for a contract.

The light turned green, and Artem pressed the gas pedal. Five minutes later, he was parking in front of the modern building of the “Palimpsest” publishing house.

He climbed to the third floor and confidently headed to the familiar office of the director. Peter Nikolaevich, whom Artem had worked with before, had always treated him with respect. He knocked and, hearing “Come in,” opened the door.

The director’s chair was turned towards the window, so Artem could only see the back of the person sitting in it.

“Good afternoon, Peter Nikolaevich. Sorry for the sudden visit, but…”

The chair slowly swiveled, and Artem’s words caught in his throat. Instead of the elderly man, Ksenia, his ex-wife, was sitting there. She looked nothing like the “mousy” clerk he had so disdainfully abandoned. She was now in a sharp business suit, with a new stylish hairstyle and an expression of calm superiority on her face.

“Ksenia?” He couldn’t hide his shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Artem,” she smiled, and there wasn’t a shred of warmth in her smile. “I work here. As the CEO of ‘Palimpsest.’ For the second year now.”

His ex-wife — CEO of a publishing house? The same “mousy clerk” he had so casually discarded?

“I… I didn’t know,” he backed away towards the door. “Sorry, I’ll come back another time.”

“Wait,” her voice stopped him. “Since you’re here, it must mean things aren’t going well, right? Sit down, let’s talk.”

Reluctantly, Artem sank into the visitor’s chair. Shame and irritation fought within him, but he knew he needed the contract.

“The third novel didn’t meet expectations,” Ksenia continued, flipping through some papers on the desk. “‘A pretentious attempt to replicate the success of the previous book,’ if I quote the ‘Literary Herald.’ Sales were below the floor, debts are growing. Am I right?”

Artem didn’t like hearing his failures from her, but he nodded stiffly.

“Well,” Ksenia leaned back in her chair, “I can offer you a contract.”

“Really?” He couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Of course. I have an idea for a novel that will definitely be a bestseller. It will be based on your personal life.”

“What?” Artem frowned.

“It’s simple. A novel about how you met me, how we lived happily, how you wrote your first failed novel, and then — the bestseller, in which I played a direct role.”

“Why would you want this?” Artem asked, unable to hide his suspicion.

“The publishing business, dear,” Ksenia shrugged. “Readers love real stories, especially with dramatic twists. Plus, you are truly talented. The second novel was wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Artem said automatically.

“But there’s one condition,” Ksenia leaned forward. “In the novel, the main character, that is, you, must divorce your… muse, and return to your first wife.

Artem laughed, thinking it was a joke, but Ksenia’s face remained serious.

— You can’t demand that I change my personal life for the sake of a book, — he exclaimed.

— I’m not demanding anything, — she replied calmly. — It’s just the plot of a novel. But life should match art. For believability, you understand?

— You’re out of your mind, — Artem stood up. — I’m not going to divorce Olga.

— As you wish, — Ksenia shrugged. — Think about my offer. The advance will be generous.

Artem headed toward the door, boiling with anger and humiliation.

— By the way, — Ksenia stopped him, — you can say hello to Alina Romanovna for me. Tell her I remember our conversation about “insignificances.”

— She said WHAT?! — Olga was pacing the living room. — That bitch wants you to divorce me and go back to her? What gall!

Artem was sitting on the couch, massaging his temples. The headache was getting worse by the minute.

— I almost quoted her words exactly, — he said tiredly. — It’s just revenge. Now she’s in power and wants me to feel like nothing.

— And what did you say? — Olga stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest.

— That I’m not getting divorced, of course.

— Right, — Olga nodded. — We’ll figure something out. We still have time before the next loan payment, right?

Artem looked away.

— Three weeks. And my mother refused to help. She says I should solve my own problems.

— Damn, — Olga sat down beside him. — But that doesn’t mean you should dance to your ex’s tune. We’ll find another way.

Artem looked at her for a long time.

— What if… — he hesitated, searching for the right words, — what if we just pretend we’ve divorced? A fake divorce. I’ll get the contract, write the novel, make some money, and then…

— Are you out of your mind? — Olga’s eyes widened in shock. — You seriously want me to participate in this… performance?

— Understand, — Artem took her hands, — it’s just business. I’ll write what she wants, or rather what the publisher wants, get the money, pay off the debts. And then we’ll be together again.

— And you’re sure she’ll just let you go afterward?

— Of course. She just needs the novel and public humiliation. Once I give that to her, she’ll lose interest.

Olga yanked her hands away from him.

— The worst part? — her voice shook with anger. — It’s not that this bitch wants to break us up. It’s that you’re so weak that you’re willing to go along with it!

She stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Artem leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Something told him this was just the beginning of a nightmare.

— What are you doing here? — Ksenia set aside the documents and calmly looked at Olga, who had barged into her office without knocking.

— Came to talk to the homewrecker, — Olga spat, walking up to the desk. — You think I don’t understand your game? You’re using your position to steal my husband!

— First of all, sit down and calm down, — Ksenia pointed to the chair. — Second of all, I’m not “stealing” anything. I made a business offer to your husband. He is free to accept or refuse it.

— A business offer? — Olga laughed. — You’re demanding he divorce me!

— I suggested a plot for a novel, — Ksenia remained unperturbed. — What happens in his personal life is his choice. If Artem decides to break up with you for the contract, then he values money more than his feelings. But that’s not my problem, it’s yours.

Olga gasped in indignation.

— You… you’re a real snake! Manipulating him, taking advantage of his financial troubles!

— No, I’m a businesswoman, — Ksenia leaned forward. — And you know what’s interesting? The very thought that Artem might prefer money to you terrifies you. Because deep down, you’ve been doubting him for a long time.

Olga turned pale. It was too close to the truth — to those doubts that had been eating at her since Artem first mentioned his “fake” proposal.

— You know what? — Olga composed herself. — I feel sorry for you. You never could let go of the past. And Artem and I love each other and will be together, despite your scheming.

She turned around and headed for the door.

— Maybe, — Ksenia said quietly, watching her leave. — Or maybe not. Time will tell.

A month later, Artem sat in his apartment, staring at the blank screen of his laptop. His last conversation with his mother still echoed in his ears.

— You have to accept the contract! — Alina Romanovna had shouted. — You’re up to your neck in debt! Divorce that opportunist — it’s not such a big price!

— Mom, I love Olga, — he had replied tiredly.

— Love? — his mother snorted. — When you left Ksenia, you also talked about love. And now what? You’re willing to lose everything for this so-called love?

She was right, and it crushed him. If he didn’t get the contract, a financial catastrophe awaited him. The bank had already sent a notice of overdue payment.

— Olga, — he called his wife, entering the room.

— What? — she stopped in the doorway, eyeing him warily.

— I… I’ve started working on the draft for the novel the publisher suggested.

— What? — Olga turned pale. — Without my consent?

— Understand, — Artem stood up and approached her, — it’s just work. I have to do it, or we’ll lose everything. It’ll just be a book, a piece of fiction.

Olga stepped back when he tried to take her hands.

— Just work? — her voice shrilled in disbelief. — You’re going to write a novel about leaving me and going back to your ex-wife! And you call that “just work”?

— I’m not really going to leave you, — Artem ran his hand through his hair. — It’s just the plot, understand? I need the money, and this is the only way to get it.

Olga laughed — loudly, hysterically, with a note of desperation.

— Amazing! You’re selling out for money — and don’t even see anything wrong with it. You know, Artem, you’ve disappointed me. When you left your first wife, I thought you did it for love. Now I realize you’re just a weak man without principles.

— You’re being unfair…

— Unfair? — her eyes flashed with rage. — You’re going to write a novel about how you go back to Ksenia because you need money. And you’re still telling me you love me. What is that, if not betrayal?

Artem was silent, unable to find a response. Olga suddenly calmed down, as if making a decision.

— You know what? I’ll even make it easier for you. I agree to the divorce. Real, not fake. You can write your novel peacefully and go back to Ksenia, not just in the pages of the book, but in real life too.

— But I don’t want a divorce! — Artem protested. — This is just for the contract!

— I want it, — Olga said firmly. — I won’t be with someone who’s ready to sell our relationship for a fee. You’re cursed, Artem. Cursed by your selfishness and weakness.

She turned around and went to the bedroom. An hour later, Olga came out with a packed suitcase.

— I’ll file for divorce tomorrow, — she said, standing in the doorway. — Don’t worry, I won’t claim your non-existent royalties. Unlike you, I don’t need scraps from someone else’s table.

The door slammed behind her.

A week later, Artem sat in Ksenia’s office, handing her a folder with the concept for the novel.

— Here, — he said, not looking her in the eye. — I’ve accepted your offer. Here’s the main plot and the first three chapters.

Ksenia took the folder and began reading carefully, making notes in the margins. Artem nervously watched her expression.

— This… is acceptable, — she finally said, closing the folder. — But there’s one condition.

— What condition? — Artem asked tiredly. — I’ve already agreed to your concept. Olga and I filed for divorce. What else do you want?

— The truth, — Ksenia simply replied. — In this draft, you’re avoiding the sharp corners. You’re creating an image of a misunderstood genius who made a mistake in choosing a woman. No, Artem. If you want the contract, write the truth. The whole truth.

— What truth? — he grimaced.

— Your betrayal. How you betrayed me. How you took credit for my work. How you convinced everyone, including your mother, that I was nothing, and your new lover was your source of inspiration. Then describe how this passion left you when you stopped earning.

— Olga didn’t leave me! — Artem exclaimed. — I…

 

— Oh yes, oh yes, — Ksenia smirked. — She just agreed to your divorce proposal. In any case, write it as it is. No embellishments, no self-justifications. Your “I” in the novel should be brutally honest.

Artem gritted his teeth. He wanted to throw the folder in her face and leave. But the debts didn’t allow for such luxury.

— Fine, — he muttered. — I’ll give you the truth. All of it, every last drop.

— Sign the contract, — Ksenia handed him the documents. — You’ll get the advance today.

Six months later, the novel was finished. “Betrayal and Return” — that’s what it was called. Artem poured everything into it, fulfilling Ksenia’s condition — he was brutally honest with himself. The novel turned out to be sincere, painful, exposing all his weaknesses and mistakes.

Ksenia personally edited each chapter, and Artem was surprised to discover that her comments were professional and precise. After finishing the final revision, he received the rest of the advance — a large sum that allowed him to pay off his debts.

On his way out of the publishing house, he bumped into his mother.

— Artem! — Alina Romanovna exclaimed. — I was just about to visit you. How’s the novel going?

— Finished, — he replied shortly.

— Wonderful! — his mother beamed. — And when’s the wedding?

— What wedding? — Artem asked in confusion.

— Well, of course! Your wedding with Ksenia. In the novel, you two are getting back together, right?

Artem froze. He had never thought about it seriously. In the novel, the main character did indeed get back with his first wife, but…

— I… I don’t know, — he mumbled. — Ksenia never said anything about a real wedding.

— But you’re back together, aren’t you? Like in the book?

— No. Not yet. Mom, I have to go.

Artem left quickly, but the thought had already settled in his mind. Of course! This is exactly what Ksenia had planned all along — to get him back. And he, the idiot, didn’t realize her game.

That evening, he called her and invited her to an expensive restaurant. Ksenia agreed.

— For the successful completion of the project, — Artem raised his glass of champagne.

— For honesty in literature, — Ksenia smiled, clinking glasses with him.

She looked stunning in an elegant black dress. Artem caught himself thinking that he had never seen her so confident and attractive.

— You know, — he began after a pause, — I realized a lot while writing this novel. About myself, about us, about my mistakes.

— I’m glad to hear that, — Ksenia nodded. — Self-awareness is the main goal of literature.

— Not just self-awareness, — Artem sighed deeply and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. — Ksenia, I want you to know — everything I wrote about the feelings of the main character, about his remorse and love — it’s true. My truth.

He opened the box, showing her a diamond ring.

— Will you marry me? Again?

Ksenia looked at the ring with an inscrutable expression. Then she gently closed the box.

— No, Artem. I won’t.

— But… why? — he was stunned. — Wasn’t this whole novel about us getting back together?

Ksenia shook her head.

— I never promised I’d accept your proposal. I offered you the concept of a novel, and you agreed. That was the deal, nothing more.

— You… you lied to me! — Artem raised his voice, drawing the attention of nearby tables. — You made me divorce Olga!

— I didn’t make anyone do anything, — Ksenia replied calmly. — That was your choice. You traded your marriage for money and false glory. I just offered a deal, and you accepted it.

Artem turned pale, realizing the truth in her words.

— Fine, — he muttered. — That’s your right. But will the novel be published? When will it come out?

— Never, — Ksenia answered simply. — The publisher decided not to publish it.

— What?! — Artem jumped up. — You can’t do this! We have a contract!

— Which you fully fulfilled, — Ksenia remained unmoved. — And you got paid for it. Nowhere in the contract does it say the book must be published. It’s the publisher’s right to decide whether to release it or not.

— Then I’ll publish it elsewhere!

— You won’t, — Ksenia shook her head. — According to the contract, all rights to the work belong to “Palimpsest.” If you try to publish it anywhere else, the publisher will sue you.

Artem collapsed back into his chair, stunned. Ksenia stood up and placed the money for her share of the meal on the table.

— You stole five years of my life and my work on “your” bestseller. Now I’ve taken your novel — the one that could have truly made you famous as an honest writer.

She headed for the door, but halfway there she turned around:

— You know what’s funny? This novel was actually good. Maybe the best thing you ever wrote. But no one will ever read it.

 

Artem sat in his empty apartment, staring at a stack of printed pages — the only copy of the novel left with him. “Betrayal and Return” — the novel that would never see the light of day.

The money from the advance had gone entirely to pay off his debts. Olga had left, taking the last remnants of his love for her. Ksenia had rejected him, turning him into a joke. His mother had turned away after learning about the fiasco with the proposal.

He had lost everything — fame, money, love, family. And, worst of all, the chance to ever become a successful writer again. Because his best book was now buried on the publisher’s archive shelf.

Artem ran his hand over the cover. Yes, it was his best novel. The one in which he was finally honest with himself and his readers. The novel in which he admitted his mistakes and found redemption. And now no one would ever read it.

He picked up his phone and opened the last message from Ksenia: “You wanted fame at any cost. Now you have neither fame nor a price. But you have the truth. I hope it will comfort you.”

Artem set the phone down and stared into the void. For the first time in his life, he had no words.

It seemed that Kirill had thought of everything: fictitious bankruptcy, divorce, secret accounts. But he had forgotten that Anya was not just a «modest housewife.» Behind the borscht and baby blankets was a woman capable of turning his lies into financial ruin. When the last illusions collapsed, there remained only one question: what was scarier—losing a business or discovering that your wife had long been playing her own game? This is the story of how quiet revenge becomes louder than the crash of a collapsing empire.

— You’ll never be the CEO of a large corporation, I swear, — Kirill said mockingly, looking at his wife with the demeanor of an experienced psychologist, disappointed in his patient. — You don’t understand a thing about business.

— How could I understand? — Anya shrugged, not even turning away from the stove where she was stirring the borscht, her husband’s favorite dish. — I’m not a superwoman from the Planet of Great Businessmen. Just a humble housewife with a home, a child, and your socks scattered all over the apartment.

This conversation, which had become familiar over the past few years, echoed so often in their kitchen that even one-year-old Masha, sitting in her high chair, instinctively scrunched her nose every time her father began his lecture about how difficult it was to manage his own company. Especially when his wife didn’t support him at all.

Kirill, a hereditary entrepreneur (in his own words), though in reality just a lucky guy who won a tender for the supply of building materials to a government department during a time when all his competitors went bankrupt, loved to emphasize his uniqueness. Sometimes Anya felt like he wore an invisible crown with the inscription «I am a business genius,» waiting for everyone to bow accordingly.

— Look, — Kirill continued, throwing his legs up on the nearby chair without asking if she needed help. — If the company starts going bankrupt, you need to act quickly and decisively. Cut off everything unnecessary, minimize risks, preserve assets… You’d be completely lost.

Anya silently stirred the soup, thinking that her culinary skills were never criticized by her husband. But her financial acumen was constantly questioned, even though the apartment, inherited from her grandmother, was their family nest. And her salary as a piano teacher was the only steady income when Kirill was «getting his business off the ground.»

— Good thing you’ll never have such problems, — she handed him a bowl of steaming borscht. — You are a business genius.

He didn’t even notice the sarcasm—he just hummed in satisfaction and picked up his spoon.

The conversation about bankruptcy turned out to be prophetic. A week later, Kirill came home pale as a sheet, with red eyes and the smell of cheap whiskey. He threw his briefcase into the corner of the hallway and collapsed into a chair without even removing his shoes.

— We’re bankrupt, — he announced dramatically, with a voice worthy of an Oscar nomination. — Completely and irreversibly.

Anya, who had been rocking Masha to sleep, froze.

— What happened?

— It all happened! — he slammed his fist on the armrest. — A major client canceled the contract, the tax office slapped us with some insane fines, the bank wants us to pay back the loan early… We’re completely doomed, do you understand?

She understood. And most of all, she understood that Kirill, despite all his talk about «cutting off the unnecessary,» was now in a panic.

— Calm down, — Anya placed the baby in her crib and approached her husband. — Let’s figure this out. What exactly are the company’s debts?

— Millions! — he waved his hands. — We’ve been sued by suppliers, we can’t pay employees’ salaries, the tax office is threatening to seize our accounts… Anya, we’re finished.

She studied him closely. After five years of marriage, she had learned to recognize his moods. When he was truly worried, his left eye would twitch slightly. Now his eye was calm.

— So what do you suggest? — she asked carefully.

— The only way out is complete liquidation of our obligations, — Kirill unexpectedly calmed down and started speaking in a businesslike tone. — We’ll have to sell everything we own. The apartment first.

— This apartment? — Anya clarified. — My grandmother’s apartment, which has nothing to do with your business?

— Not yours, but ours, — he corrected her irritably. — We’re a family. And if we don’t sell it now voluntarily, the bailiffs will come and throw us out. Do you want that?

Anya sat down on the armrest of the nearby chair.

— And what about the money from the sale? Will the creditors take all of it?

Kirill bit his lip, and his gaze shifted to the side.

— Not exactly… — he hesitated. — There’s one option. If we get a divorce before the court proceedings, part of the property will remain with you as it has nothing to do with the business. It’s a standard legal practice.

— A divorce? — Anya raised an eyebrow. — You’re suggesting we divorce to save money?

— It’s a fictitious divorce, silly, — he smiled and took her hand. — Just a legal procedure. We sell the apartment, give part of the money to the creditors, and hide part in your account. Then, once everything settles down, we’ll get remarried. It’s elementary!

Anya looked at his hand holding hers. Too tightly, too confidently for someone whose business was supposedly falling apart.

— Fine, — she finally said. — Let’s talk to a lawyer tomorrow. I want to understand all the details.

— What details? — he frowned. — We don’t have time for lawyers. We need to act quickly.

— I won’t act quickly when it comes to the roof over our daughter’s head, — Anya cut him off, pulling her hand away. — Either we do everything legally and consult with a specialist, or nothing.

Kirill grimaced but didn’t argue. He knew that when it came to some issues, his quiet, obedient wife could be as stubborn as a mule.

The lawyer, an older woman, listened carefully to Kirill’s story about the company’s bankruptcy.

— Strange, — she said, reviewing the documents Kirill had brought. — On paper, your situation seems quite stable. You have debts, but they are not critical for a business of your scale.

— Those are outdated data, — Kirill interrupted. — Things are much worse now. You’d better tell us about the divorce procedure.

The lawyer turned her gaze to Anya.

— Are you sure you want a divorce? Especially with a small child?

— No, — she answered honestly. — But if it’s the only way to protect my daughter from the consequences of bankruptcy…

— There are different ways to protect, — the lawyer tapped the pen on the table. — For example, your apartment, as pre-marital property, is not subject to seizure for your husband’s debts. As long as you didn’t act as a guarantor for any loans.

Anya shook her head.

— No, I didn’t sign anything like that.

— Then why sell the apartment? — the lawyer looked at Kirill questioningly.

— Because under the law, creditors can claim half of the couple’s joint property, — Kirill answered quickly. — And a divorce will at least protect part of it.

— That’s correct, but only for property acquired during the marriage. Pre-marital property is protected as is, — the lawyer turned to Anya. — If the apartment is yours, acquired before marriage, it’s entirely yours. They can’t take it.

Kirill shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

— That’s theoretical. But practically, our courts do whatever they want. Better to be safe.

The lawyer shrugged.

— It’s up to you. But I don’t see any reason for an urgent sale of the apartment.

When they left the office, Kirill was darker than a cloud.

— This idiot doesn’t understand anything about real business, — he hissed. — Listen, let’s just do it the way I say. I’ve thought it all through.

Anya didn’t reply. Too many questions were spinning in her head. If the apartment was protected by law, why sell it? If the company wasn’t in critical condition, where was the panic coming from? And why was Kirill insisting on a quick divorce?

— I need to think, — she finally said. — And talk to my mother.

— What does your mother have to do with this? — Kirill exploded. — These are our family matters!

— She’s a financier with thirty years of experience, — Anya reminded him. — And she loves you like a son. Maybe she’ll have some advice.

It was a lie. Her mother, Elena Viktorovna, couldn’t stand Kirill, considering him an arrogant fool with no real abilities. But Anya knew that her husband was afraid of her mother and tried not to cross her.

— Fine, — Kirill reluctantly agreed. — But don’t take too long. Time is working against us.

Elena Viktorovna, after hearing her daughter’s story, didn’t hide her skepticism.

— Bankruptcy? — she sniffed. — Have you seen any documents confirming that? Notices from the tax office? Court lawsuits? Or just his dramatic stories?

Anya thought. Indeed, she had seen no evidence of the company’s collapse. Only Kirill’s words.

— And why sell your apartment if it’s not subject to seizure by law? — her mother continued. — Even if his business really is going under, your property will remain yours. You got it before marriage.

— Kirill says that in practice, the courts can make a different decision…

— Nonsense! — Elena Viktorovna cut her off. — I’ve worked with bankruptcies for forty years. Pre-marital property is sacred. No court will touch your apartment.

She paused, then added more gently:

— Anya, think for yourself: if a man truly cares about his family, would he insist on selling the only home where his little child lives?

Anya remembered how Kirill had been nervous in the lawyer’s office. How he insisted on a quick divorce. How he avoided specific answers.

— What do you suggest? — she asked quietly.

— Test him, — her mother answered simply. — Tell him you agree to the divorce, but you’ll sell the apartment yourself. And the money will stay in your account until the situation is fully clarified.

— And if he doesn’t agree?

— Then you’ll get answers to all your questions, — Elena Viktorovna stroked her daughter’s hair. — And remember: anytime you can come back to me with Masha. My apartment is big enough for all of us.

— I agree to the divorce, — Anya announced in the evening when Kirill came home. — But I have conditions.

His face lit up:

— Anything, darling! I knew you’d understand!

— I’ll sell the apartment myself, — she said firmly, looking him directly in the eye. — Through the agency my mother recommends. And the money will stay in my account until the official divorce. After that, we’ll decide when I transfer it to you.

Kirill noticeably tensed, his confident smile fading.

 

— But we need to act quickly. If we wait for your slow agencies…

— Either this, or nothing, — Anya cut him off. — This is my apartment, and I won’t let anyone rush the sale.

That evening, Kirill was unusually accommodating—he put Masha to bed, washed the dishes, and even suggested they watch a movie together. Anya agreed, but her mind was far away. She had already begun to suspect that the bankruptcy story wasn’t quite what Kirill had claimed.

Her suspicions turned into certainty a week later. Masha got sick, and Anya decided to look for a thermometer in her husband’s desk. Instead of a thermometer, she found bank statements—several large transfers marked “For Mom.”

«Why is he secretly transferring money to his mother if the company is on the verge of collapse?»

The next day, Anya, seizing the moment when Kirill was in the shower, checked his phone. The correspondence with his mother confirmed her suspicions: there was no bankruptcy. The company was operating normally, and Kirill had been systematically transferring money to his mother’s account—“for safekeeping,” as he wrote.

«So this is what the story about the fictitious divorce and selling the apartment was about,» Anya thought. Kirill was clearly preparing for an escape, securing himself a «backup airfield.»

It took all her self-control to keep playing the role of the obedient wife. Inside, her anger was growing—not only from the betrayal but also from how easily Kirill had decided to deprive his own daughter of a roof over her head.

A month after the «bankruptcy filing,» his mother suddenly appeared in their apartment with complaints.

— Kirill doesn’t help me anymore, — Nina Petrovna declared, not taking off her coat in the hallway. — And I know who’s to blame.

Anya, rocking the sleepy Masha, raised her eyebrows in surprise:

— What do you mean?

— Don’t pretend! — Nina Petrovna sniffed. — If you had helped your son with the business instead of staying home with the baby, his company wouldn’t have collapsed!

Anya barely held back her laughter:

— Nina Petrovna, are you serious? Kirill insisted I quit my job and focus on the house and the child.

— Everyone says that! But a normal wife should understand that her husband needs help. Instead, you let his business fail! And now he can’t even help his own mother!

Anya carefully placed the sleeping Masha in her crib and stood tall:

— Let’s go to the kitchen. We won’t wake the baby.

When they sat at the table, Anya asked directly:

— Nina Petrovna, do you know that there is no bankruptcy? Kirill’s company is operating as usual.

Nina Petrovna blinked, clearly taken aback:

— What nonsense? Kirill said…

— Kirill says a lot of things, — Anya gently interrupted. — But the documents say otherwise. And your regular transfers from your son also say otherwise.

Nina Petrovna turned red and stared at her cup. It was obvious that she had let something slip.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about, — she mumbled. — Kirill helps me, like any good son. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have problems.

— Nina Petrovna, — Anya leaned forward, — Kirill is planning to divorce me, sell my apartment, and disappear with the money. Are you involved in this?

— How awful! How can you say that about my son? — Nina Petrovna was clearly shocked by the question.

But something in her eyes flickered, something that looked like guilt. She knew. Perhaps not all the details, but the general plan—certainly.

The decision came surprisingly easily. Anya agreed to the expedited divorce procedure that Kirill had been so eager for. He didn’t even demand a division of assets, fearing that the case would drag on.

— I’ll sell the apartment right after the divorce, — she promised. — And the car too.

The car—a costly wedding gift from her father—was worth almost as much as a one-bedroom apartment. Kirill couldn’t hide his satisfied smile.

The divorce was finalized quickly, almost without scandal. Kirill seemed unusually compliant and even agreed to a sizable alimony, though he had no intention of paying it after his planned disappearance.

A week after receiving the divorce certificate, Anya invited her former mother-in-law for tea. And Kirill too.

— I want to discuss selling the apartment and dividing the money, — she explained. — You’re interested too, aren’t you, Nina Petrovna?

Nina Petrovna agreed to come, though she looked cautious. Anya knew that Kirill wouldn’t resist—he had gotten used to thinking of her as weak and obedient, incapable of taking serious steps without his guidance.

When all three were gathered at the table, Anya pulled out a folder of documents:

— I’ve prepared all the papers for the sale. But before that, I want to clarify a few things.

She spread out printouts of messages, bank statements, and photographs.

— Kirill, I know there’s no bankruptcy. I know you’ve been transferring money to your mother’s account. And I know about Sofia, with whom you plan to leave.

At the mention of Sofia, Nina Petrovna flinched:

— What Sofia?

— My assistant, Mom, — Kirill waved dismissively. — Anya’s just gone crazy with jealousy.

— The assistant you’re renting an apartment with on the North side? — Anya laid out a few more photos. — The one you’re choosing furniture with for your new home in Sochi?

Nina Petrovna turned pale:

— Kirill, is this true?

— Nonsense! — he jumped up. — Anya, what kind of circus are you putting on?

— Not a circus, but the truth, — she replied calmly. — You wanted a divorce—now you’ve got it. You wanted my apartment—but you won’t get it. I’m not going anywhere with Masha.

— What about our agreements? — he hissed.

— What agreements, son? — Nina Petrovna intervened. — You promised to sell your wife’s apartment?

Kirill froze, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.

— It was a temporary measure, Mom. To protect the assets from creditors…

— What creditors? — his mother raised her voice. — You said the company is doing fine, you just wanted to secure the capital! And now it turns out you were planning to rob your own wife and abandon your daughter?

Anya silently watched as the house of cards Kirill had built collapsed. It all went even better than she had expected.

In the next two weeks, Kirill’s life fell apart completely. His mother, who adored her granddaughter, kicked him out of her apartment, where he had temporarily moved after the divorce.

— I don’t want to see someone who’s ready to deprive his own child of a roof over her head, — she declared, refusing to let him cross the threshold. — And I’ll return every penny to you. It’s shameful that my son turned out this way…

The word with which she ended her sentence, Anya didn’t even think about repeating.

Then, at Kirill’s company, a real crisis began—large contracts fell through one after another, the best employees started quitting, and competitors suddenly slashed prices below cost.

Anya didn’t play at nobility. After the divorce, she secured the division of her husband’s business assets through the court, proving his attempt to hide property before the divorce. The share she received was immediately sold to Kirill’s main competitors—those who were now pushing him out of the market.

Sofia, the embodiment of the «real woman who can support,» disappeared from Kirill’s life when his bank account ran dry. She left a note in the rented apartment: «Losers don’t even have luck in love.»

Six months later, Nina Petrovna stood at the door of her former daughter-in-law’s apartment with a bag of groceries and a toy for her granddaughter.

— May I come in? — she asked uncertainly.

 

Anya silently stepped back, letting her in. They hadn’t spoken in several months after Kirill finally went bankrupt.

— I know you have every right to hate me, — Nina Petrovna began. — What Kirill did… what we both did… is unforgivable.

— He’s your son, — Anya shrugged. — You wanted to help him.

— I didn’t know the whole truth, — Nina Petrovna shook her head. — I didn’t know about the mistress, the plans to take the apartment from you. Kirill said he just wanted to protect the money from the tax office.

Anya started boiling the kettle:

— You don’t have to justify yourself.

— I do, — Nina Petrovna said firmly. — Because I raised my son wrong. I always indulged his selfishness, his feeling that everyone owes him. And here’s the result—he lost everything he had.

They sat in silence. The sound of little Masha snoring from the nursery filled the room.

— You know, — Nina Petrovna continued, — when I found out that my son was ready to deprive his own daughter of a roof over her head, I realized I couldn’t forgive him. Betraying the family is a line that can’t be crossed.

She awkwardly handed Anya a small box:

— These are my earrings, my grandmother’s. I want them to go to Masha. So at least something… at least some part of our family stays with her.

Anya carefully took the box. Inside were indeed antique silver earrings with garnets—she had seen them in photographs of Kirill’s great-grandmother.

— Thank you, — she said softly. — Masha will be happy to see you. She misses you.

— Really? — Nina Petrovna’s eyes sparkled with tears. — Can I… can I visit her sometimes?

— Of course, — Anya nodded. — After all, she’s your granddaughter.

Her former mother-in-law nodded gratefully, understanding that she had received more than she deserved—a second chance to be part of her granddaughter’s life.

– Well, where do you think you’re going?!

Semyon, of course, understood that he wasn’t perfect either, but he couldn’t help thinking about it. But what was it with her, walking on the road like that? Crossing the street at the wrong place, and holding a child of about five by the hand – that was brazen, to say the least!

A heavy vehicle stopped, practically a centimeter from the woman who was standing frozen, eyes shut tight. The child began to cry, and that snapped her out of her stupor. She picked the boy up in her arms.

– Can’t you see there’s no crosswalk here?! – Semyon tried to keep his voice down, but his frustration broke through.

– Sorry… I didn’t notice, – she mumbled.

– «Didn’t notice»? I could end up in jail for you! At least think about the child, if you don’t care about others!

She turned sharply to him:

– I said, I’m sorry! It would have been better if you hadn’t stopped at all… – That would have made it easier for both of us…

She didn’t seem like a drunk, and certainly not a fool.

– Get in the car, – Semyon said.

She looked at him, startled:

– Yes… I’ll give you a ride. Look, there’s a traffic jam.

The traffic jam was, indeed, only five cars, but it seemed like they scared her. Semyon glanced at her sideways – holding her child close, she seemed like a caring mother. But why did she respond like that to him? Something had happened…

– Why do you need other people’s problems? – she sighed, but still got in.

The car stopped by the restaurant.

– Come on, have lunch with me, let’s talk, – Semyon offered.

– Oh no, that’s not necessary, it’s awkward…

– It’s fine, it’s my restaurant. Don’t be shy, consider it an apology from me. I was inattentive, scared you. By the way, let’s get acquainted. My name is Semyon.

– Valentina, and this is Yegor, – she replied.

While they waited for the order, Valya seemed lost in thought, then spoke:

– In general, everything has kind of fallen apart… Until yesterday, I thought everything was fine. But last night, my husband just threw us out. He said he had found a new, real love, and we weren’t needed anymore… I’ve been sitting at home with my son, I don’t have a job or friends left… If this is your restaurant, maybe you could help me find some work? I can wash floors, dishes… whatever, just to get by.

– And where will you live? Who will take care of your son while you’re working? – Semyon asked.

Valya lowered her head:

– I don’t know… I really don’t know what to do…

Semyon nodded toward the plates:

– Eat, and feed your son. We’ll figure something out…

He looked at the young, tired woman and couldn’t understand how her husband could treat her like this. She was proud, apparently, because she hadn’t tried to sue him or argue. Only a bag with her… How could he help them? Strange, but Semyon, who normally didn’t like to commit himself to obligations toward others, wanted to help her. But how? He wasn’t sure yet.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the number:

– Of course… Hello.

– Semyon Vasilyevich, we need to buy feed, you bought some last month.

– Yeah, sure, I’ll send the money. What’s the problem? No buyers?

– No one’s called… Poor animal, it’s not its fault…

– Alright, I think someone will come by soon, and you’ll be able to pass it on to them.

The voice on the other end seemed to brighten up. The woman who had been looking after the house was elderly. It was hard for her, and she hadn’t been to her grandchildren for three months.

This whole farming situation had fallen into Semyon’s lap unexpectedly. The uncle, whom he’d only seen maybe twice, apparently had something like a farm. Semyon went there once, looked around – and that was it. He paid the elderly neighbor to watch over the animals, but what to do with them, he didn’t have a clue. He shoved the phone into his pocket and glanced at Valentina:

– Tell me, have you ever seen cows, sheep?

– I lived in the village until I was fifteen, then we moved, – she waved her hand.

Semyon perked up:

– How would you feel about going to the village? I’ll explain everything… – And he outlined the situation: – I’ll give you all the cards! You can do whatever you want with it – develop it, sell it, buy whatever you need! I won’t interfere. I don’t need anything. I just feel sorry to leave it all behind. The village isn’t small, there’s definitely a school, not sure about the kindergarten, but everything is there. I think you’ll have no problems with Yegor.

Valya looked at him with wide eyes:

– Are you serious?! But it’s yours…

Semyon waved his hands:

– Oh, if you could take it off my hands, I’d be happy! To sell it all, I’d have to invest so much in paperwork, the farm would be worth nothing. Just a waste of time.

Valentina’s eyes shone:

– But we’re complete strangers to you…

– Valentina, don’t think of it like that! Think of it differently… like you’re doing me a favor! I won’t have to think about it anymore, I won’t have to pay money for it. By the way, do you have a driver’s license?

She nodded.

– Well, there’s even some equipment in the garage. The uncle seemed to sell something. Anyway, feel free to use whatever you find! The main thing is that this village nightmare doesn’t drain me.

Valentina smiled at Semyon:

– You know, just half an hour ago, I didn’t believe there were good people left in the world. When your closest person treats you like that, it feels like everyone else is even worse. But now I see – no, there are still good people, and maybe even more of them.

Semyon called over the administrator:

 

– Oleg, take the keys to my car and drive these people to this address. Someone will cover for you. There’s no one around anyway.

Valya watched the fields and forests fly by and smiled. How she missed the village! Although she’d never admitted it to herself. And Yegor would be happy there. As long as the house was in good condition… Semyon was such a good, kind, handsome guy, even though he was rich! They pulled up to a big house. Valya exhaled: «Wow…»

Oleg helped her unload the bags. Semyon gave him some money and told him to stop by the grocery store. Valya took everything she needed. It wasn’t a small amount of bags and packages. She had taken little by little, but Oleg decided to take charge.

– Semyon called me, warned me, – said the elderly neighbor. – Oh, if you only knew how glad I am that you’re going to live here now! First of all, a house like this can’t stand empty, and secondly, I’m so tired.

Her name was Anna Fyodorovna, and her house was nearby.

– Don’t worry, Valyusha, – she said. – I’ll help you at first, and once you get settled, you’ll figure out what to do next. I understand, you’ve got all the authority for this?

Valya laughed:

– Of course! – And like a child, she spun around in the middle of the room. – This is nothing like the apartment we lived in with my husband! The whole apartment could fit into one room here!

Anna Fyodorovna showed her the dishes and the bedding.

– Don’t worry about it…

– Don’t worry, the owner didn’t die here, he passed away in the hospital. So, use everything.

And so the weeks went by. Valentina, with her naturally good nature, learned and remembered the craft of farming. She got to know the cows, of which there were very few left, the sheep raised for meat, and the chickens… Her mind gradually cleared. She began to realize that even animals that weren’t fully cared for produced more than they could eat. That meant she needed to find a market. So, if she found a place to sell all of it… Maybe some grandmother at the market? Then she could hire someone to help…

Later, Valya went to see what was in the garage. In the garage stood a monster – a huge vehicle meant for transporting small loads and driving through dirt. Valya sighed. Once upon a time, she had driven a small car that would fit in the cabin of this beast.

And now, weeks later, she had learned things she never thought she would. And the car… well, just a bit bigger than the one she used to have.

Anna Fyodorovna watched from the window with big eyes:

– Grandpa, look! Is it my imagination, or is that the neighbor’s car? No, really, maybe they sold the beast? Wait, look, Valya’s driving it! Well, this girl will probably go through fire if she has to! She’ll need helpers soon. Hasn’t she said anything yet?

– No, I haven’t heard, – replied Grandpa. – Well, maybe some work will come for our villagers.

– That’s true. Strange though, why hasn’t Semyon come yet? I thought… Well, they would make a nice couple.

Grandpa laughed:

– Oh, Anya, you want to marry everyone off! But Valya, maybe it’ll all work out for her.

Semyon stopped the car at the restaurant. He stared at the building.

He hadn’t thought he’d fall for this, like an inexperienced kid. Just an ordinary capture. He relaxed, started believing in himself… Idiot! Fortunately, he realized just in time what was going on. He’d practically sold the restaurant and the house for pennies. There was still money saved up, so he could try to start over. But while the bankruptcy process was underway, the money was on an anonymous account and couldn’t be accessed. He needed to lay low for six months or so. Maybe more, maybe less. It all depended on how things went…

In the evening, yesterday, he miraculously remembered about his uncle’s farm. No one had touched it yet, because Semyon still hadn’t had the time to fully accept the inheritance.

“Well, Valentina can’t kick me out, can she?” – he thought. – «Although, who knows? Maybe she’s already left? But on the other hand, Anna Fyodorovna would’ve called…»

He drove to the village. The morning was quiet, peaceful. He stopped at the house and opened his mouth. No, he’d been here a couple of times before, but he definitely remembered that half of what was here now wasn’t here before.

He stopped right by the gate, and Valentina came running out. She pulled out some huge bags and dragged them toward the new building. Coming toward her was… his mouth dropped open even wider… It was Anna Fyodorovna, in a white gown and a white cap! Semyon rubbed his eyes. Then he stepped out:

– Hello, ladies!

The women turned toward him. If Semyon had met Valya on the street right now, he wouldn’t have recognized her! A confident look, fashionable jeans, a t-shirt…

– Hello! – Anna Fyodorovna clapped her hands.

Semyon noticed that a look of fear flashed in Valya’s eyes, and he quickly said:

– Valentina, please don’t think anything of it. I just wanted to ask if I could stay with you for a while. I’ve got some problems in the city, I need to reset. Will you mind?

She smiled brightly:

– What are you talking about! Of course, come in!

Semyon looked around in surprise:

– What is this?

– A cheese-making workshop. Yes, exactly. And this… – She waved toward the new building. – We’re just starting here, but we already have a lot of orders. We make shashlik, marinate cheeses, ribs, and all that.

Semyon felt his mouth open again:

– Valya, when did you manage all this?

– Well, it’s been two years since we last saw each other. – She shrugged.

 

They didn’t sleep until late into the night. Yegor calmed down early because he and Semyon had been riding bikes all evening. Semyon felt… good! Just like a kid. And now, they were sitting at the table, and he was listening to Valya’s plans. – You really want to bring all this to life? – he asked.

– Of course! We’re doing pretty well now, we can cover salaries, and we’re saving up.

Semyon looked at her and couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen how beautiful Valya’s eyes were, how lovely her face was, how amazing she really was…

He walked over to Anna Fyodorovna:

– I need your advice.

She looked at him slyly:

– I think I know what this is about. You want to talk? More precisely, about whom?

Semyon blushed:

– Well, you seem to know everything, Anna Fyodorovna… I just wanted to ask… Is there someone in Valya’s life? Should I leave?

The woman laughed:

– Who could there be, if all she thinks about is work? Where does she get the strength for everything? She’s buzzing around from morning to night, running that monster of hers. She’s like a bee here!

– Thank you, Anna Fyodorovna, – Semyon smiled. – I really hope I can be a good assistant to her.

Semyon didn’t return to the city. He decided that such a beautiful and wonderful place could use a café too. Maybe even a hotel. Especially since they had plenty to attract customers.

The reputation of the products they were making was booming throughout the area! Orders were already coming in from other regions. However, Valya asked to hold off on expanding production until their newborn daughter turned at least six months old.

– Well, why rush? – she said. – Family is the most important thing

Tatyana Alexandrovna struggled to understand what exactly she had been given. That day, her son-in-law had invited her simply for a «visit,» supposedly for a barbecue. Only when the fragrant smoke started to rise from the grill, and the meat began to sizzle, did Oleg casually hand her a set of keys.

At first, she laughed, thinking it was some kind of game. But he, calm, confident, always a bit reserved, said:

— «This is now yours. The house, the land, the gazebo—all official. I just wanted to do something nice.»

Oleg never liked grand gestures or pompous statements. Even now, he spoke as if he hadn’t bought a house, but had simply taken it from a friend to «save the good,» as if the land had been overgrown, and he decided it was better to give it to his mother-in-law than let it sit idle.

Tatyana silently turned the keys over in her hands. They were weightless, almost like toys. But the feeling… that was enormous. Was her heart lightly rejoicing? Or was it pulling her back to the thought: what do I do now with this entire gift?

On the way home, in the car, Larisa—her daughter—beamed with joy:

— «Mom, now you’re rich! There’s a whole lawn, flowerbeds, roses! And the house—it’s like something out of a movie!»

But a moment later, she added:

— «But this year, I probably won’t make it. The pregnancy is tough. We decided that you’ll go alone for now. Don’t let the place go to waste! It’ll do you good to rest there.»

The next morning, Tatyana, still not fully believing the reality of what had happened, set off for the country house. The trip was long—electric train, bus, then on foot. But when she reached the gate, she heard the familiar creak and stopped. In front of her was the perfect lawn, neat paths, fresh air. She stood in the middle of the plot, unable to believe it all now belonged to her.

Two windows with white curtains, a veranda with carvings, wooden swings under a birch tree, gooseberries in the corner, and in the center—a flowerbed with young sprouts. It seemed like the house had come out of the pages of an old fairy tale. And the most important thing—silence. No shouting, no cars, no TV. Only the wind in the leaves and the chirping of birds.

She went inside. She ran her palm over the back of a chair, inhaling the scent of wood and herbs. On the kitchen counter were jars of honey and dried fruits, in the fridge— a bottle of milk. In the bedroom—clean bed linens, in the bathroom—new lavender-scented soap. Someone had worked hard, not sparing anything. She knew it was Oleg. No fanfare, no unnecessary words. He simply did it.

 

That night, she didn’t turn on the TV. She simply sat on the veranda, drank tea, and watched the sunset paint the clouds pink. For the first time in a long while, it seemed like peace had arrived. And life had stopped in the right place.

A few days later, back at home, she posted a couple of pictures on social media: sunset, tea cup, green veranda. The caption was short:
«Cozy can be different. Sometimes, it’s like this.»

She didn’t expect it to stir such interest.

The very next day, Lyuba—a distant relative whom they hadn’t spoken to in a long time—called. Her voice rang in the receiver:

— «Tanyusha! I saw your photos! Is that your country house? Oh my God, how beautiful! Did your son-in-law give it to you? I can’t believe it! Such people! We must meet! We haven’t seen each other in so long!»

Tatyana tried to answer politely, but Lyuba was already charging forward, like a spring hurricane:

— «Yura and I will come to visit on the weekend! Shashlik, wine, good mood—what could be better?»

It was impossible to refuse.

By Saturday noon, the gatebell announced their arrival. Lyuba burst in first—with a smile, bags, vodka, and a voice that could wake up the whole neighborhood:

— «Oh, Tanyusha, how beautiful it is here! Just like in a movie! Wow, lucky you!»

Yura—her husband—walked past almost without greeting, immediately sitting down on the bench. He was silent, drinking, looking at his phone. Meanwhile, Lyuba talked about everything under the sun—neighbors, work, how hard it is to live with someone who is «just special.»

Tatyana walked around, almost as if in a fog. She set the table, poured more shashlik, didn’t eat herself. When Yura, after the meal, lay down on her bed—still in his shoes, with muddy boots on the floor—she said nothing. When the evening ended, she was left alone among spots of ketchup, scattered rags, and empty bottles. The morning began with a weight on her chest. The country house no longer felt like paradise.

Later, she noticed that the syrniki, a jar of jam, and a packet of milk had gone missing—the little bit she had left «for reserve.» And then it dawned on her: the guests hadn’t just stayed—they had taken part of her comfort with them. And in return, they left exhaustion.

In the following days, she stopped answering the phone when Lyuba called. But one day, in the middle of the afternoon, the phone rang again. The voice on the other end was solemn:

— «Tanyusha, we’re coming with the girls! With the kids. We’re not bringing Yura. Are you okay with that?»

— «And the kids… are they very little?» Tatyana asked uncertainly.

— «No! Eight and ten years old. Lovely children! You just hold them for a bit, and we’ll stay by the grill!»

And again, she couldn’t say «no.» For some reason, it felt awkward, as if it were she who were breaking the rules.

Saturday arrived, the gate swung open, and the kids rushed into the garden. One straight to the flowerbed, the other pulling off flowers, shouting that «they smell bad,» and tossing petals everywhere. The mother, busy chatting with Lyuba, just waved it off:

— «Don’t shout, don’t bother Aunt Tanya.»

And Tatyana felt everything tighten inside her. From shame. From helplessness. She wanted to disappear.

She was alone again. Only the kitchen, empty chairs, and silence that no longer felt cozy. After the guests, there were traces left behind: crumbs, stains, trampled grass, indentations on the pillows. She cleaned it all up. Wiped down the tables, washed the floors, even sprayed lavender mist— as if the old sense of peace could return.

But the air still carried someone else’s energy. And Tatyana began to wonder: «Is it worth coming back here? Maybe it’s better to let the house just stand… remain empty. Why keep it if I can’t rest here?»

Not even two days later, the phone rang again. The screen showed Lyuba’s name. «What now?» flashed in Tatyana’s mind. But she picked up the phone, trying to sound calm:

— «Hello.»

— «Tanyusha! Hi, darling! Tanya and I are thinking—why don’t we come to you for the weekend? Just the two of us, no kids. A girls’ night, shashlik…»

— «We’re leaving, with my husband, to the city. Business. I’m busy.»

— «Husband? So you really got married?»

— «Dmitry Nikolaevich. We’re not making it public. It just happened.»

— «Are you serious? Is he so gloomy?»

— «He’s reliable,» Tatyana answered. «And I feel safe with him.»

And she hung up.

She stared at the phone for a long time. Her hands were shaking, but inside—there was warmth. For the first time in a long time, she hadn’t given in. She hadn’t explained. She hadn’t apologized. She had just put a period on the conversation.

That same day, a new photo appeared on social media: she and Dmitry on the veranda. Tea, strawberries, silence. The caption: «Honeymoon. Phone off.»

Comments poured in: some were happy, some were surprised, some were jealous. She didn’t reply. She just liked, sometimes smiled. And that was it.

Saturday arrived. The morning was unusually calm. Athos lazily chewed on grass, Dmitry sharpened a knife, and Tatyana watered the flowers. But by noon, the noise began again.

— «Tanya! Tanyusha! We’re coming to you! Surprise! We’re like family!»

He went out. Calmly. No shouting. Behind him—Athos.

— «She’s resting. No one’s here.»

— «What’s this circus? We’re friends! Let us in!»

— «We’re not expecting anyone today,» Dmitry said.

— «We brought juice for the kids! Wine, fruit! Just for a little while! Call Tanya!»

He didn’t answer. Silently, he went back inside and came out with two chocolates, a bottle of water, and a couple of plastic cups. He placed everything at the gate.

— «Goodbye.»

— «Who are you, anyway?!» Liza couldn’t hold it in.

Dmitry didn’t respond. He just closed the gate. The click of the latch sounded like the final punctuation mark. A pause. Silence.

Tatyana watched all of this from the window. Her hand was on her chest, as if trying to calm her racing heart. But inside, there was… warmth. For the first time, she didn’t feel lonely in the face of someone else’s insistence. She was being protected. Not with words. With actions.

 

When the noise outside died down, they sat on the veranda, drinking tea. Tatyana cautiously asked:

— «Have you always been able to do that? Chase away an entire delegation with just a glance?»

— «The service leaves its mark. The key is to stay silent. People figure it out on their own when it’s not the right time.»

On Monday, the phone rang. The screen read: Lyuba. Tatyana sighed and picked up.

— «Tanyusha, this is too much! We just wanted to help, and you… you’ve completely forgotten about us?»

— «I have a husband at home, Lyuba. He doesn’t like guests. Don’t be offended, but I think we won’t see each other again.»

— «He’s so… harsh! Couldn’t you find someone simpler?»

— «I couldn’t,» Tatyana answered firmly. «And I didn’t want to.»

— «Well, live how you want!» Lyuba muttered and hung up.

She never called again.

The quiet weeks followed. No phone calls, no visits. Occasionally, someone from the «well-wishers» would show up at the gate, but seeing Dmitry or hearing Athos growl, they would quickly disappear. The plan worked without words. No scandals. Just—a boundary drawn clearly and firmly.

Tatyana became herself again. Or rather—the new version of herself. The woman who once feared saying «no» was now in the past. Now, she had her own home. And she knew: no one would ever cross its threshold against her will again.

One evening, she sat down next to Dmitry on the bench. He was reading a newspaper, focused and silent. She looked at the garden, where twilight was descending, and suddenly said:

— «Thank you. I mean… everything. Not just what you did. But how you did it. Very… gently.»

He raised his eyebrows slightly.

— «I just honored the agreement. You paid, and I played the role.»

— «Maybe it was an agreement, but it felt real.»

— «Then let’s celebrate. Tea, a little sugar, a little cake. And a bone for Athos.»

For the first time in a long time, he smiled. Not widely. But sincerely. Like someone who enjoys being around, not because it’s necessary, but because it’s wanted.

They sat until dark. Talking. Not about plans, not about the past—just being together. Like people who are comfortable with each other. Not because they have to. But because they truly want to.

And then Tatyana understood: this whole «show marriage» story had been a turning point. Not to protect her from guests. But to learn how to protect herself. To say: «I no longer need to tolerate.» And start living—truly.

— «You know,» she said, «I used to start every morning with anxiety. I was afraid someone would call, show up, destroy my peace. But now… I can just wake up, open the window, and know: it’s safe here.»

Dmitry looked at her for a long time, thoughtfully. Then he said:

— «I’ll leave you my number. If anyone shows up—call me. I’ll come.»

— «And if I just want you to come?»

— «Then I’ll come not as a protector. But as a guest. A voluntary one.»

They fell silent. Listening to the evening, which smelled of pine wind, blooming gooseberries, and something else—more personal. Something that didn’t need words.

— «What if someone comes and you’re not here?» she asked quietly.

— «I won’t leave,» he said. «I’ll stay. Right here.»

And he touched her shoulder—almost imperceptibly. But that was enough to make it clear: this was no longer a game. This was life. And it seemed she had finally chosen her side.

Since then, not much time has passed. Neighbors whispered, guessing: is he really her husband, or just a good acquaintance? Some called them a couple from a movie, some envied silently.

But Tatyana didn’t care. Because now it wasn’t a masquerade. This was their home. Their summer. Their story.

Lena found out about her husband’s departure by accident. She came home early and caught her husband in an unusual activity: for the first time, he was packing his own bag.

Elena entered the room and quietly watched for a few seconds as he struggled to fold a t-shirt and shorts. He was failing miserably, so Lena decided to make his task easier.

“Let me help. Is this how you fold clothes?” she couldn’t help but ask, walking up to him from behind. He jumped in surprise, even though he wasn’t the athletic type.

“Lena?!”
“What?” she quickly stuffed the clothes into the bag that had been pulled out of the wardrobe. He hadn’t even had time to say where he was going. “Are you leaving again? Should I make pancakes for the trip?”

“Well… I wouldn’t mind…”

“Okay, I’ll change from my dress into a robe.”

Lena hummed her favorite song as her husband checked the drawers to see if there was anything valuable he could take with him. The apartment belonged to Lena, and he had already figured out that his claim would be limited to movable property that could fit into his suitcase.

“Will ten pancakes be enough?”

“Yeah…”

“Should I pour some condensed milk over them?”

“Better with sour cream.”

Lena pulled out a jar of 20% fat sour cream from the fridge, and before opening it, she finally asked her husband:

“How far are you going? Won’t the sour cream spoil?”

“I’m going just next door… to the neighboring building.”

At first, Lena didn’t think much of it, but after analyzing it, she set the jar aside.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah… I’m leaving for another woman. I’m going to file for divorce. Thanks for the pancakes.”

Her husband shuffled around, grabbed the container with the pancakes, and walked toward the door. Lena stood frozen, holding the frying pan in her hands.

When realization hit, she ran out into the street, wearing nothing but her robe, apron, and holding the hot frying pan. Thankfully, her husband had already managed to load his things into a taxi and literally slipped away from under her nose, just as Lena was ready to do anything.

She had to go back home. The frying pan cooled down, and the sour cream started to sour. Perhaps it was the summer heat, or maybe Lena’s mood.

“He left for another woman! And I packed his things…” she cried, calling her friend.

“What do you mean?!”

Lena explained everything, mixing her speech with sobs and hiccups.

“He left! How do I live now?!”

“Like everyone else, Lena. That’s how you’ll live.”

“I won’t be able to do it on my own!”

“You will.”
“No!”

“Then go to your son.”

“I’ll be in the way there.”

“Get a dog.”

“My husband is allergic to fur…”

“Your husband left you! What does it matter what he’s allergic to?!”

“Maybe he’ll come back?” Lena asked hopefully. But her friend gave her a lecture about how after 50, a woman should be self-sufficient and learn to enjoy life not just in her husband’s presence but also on her own.

Despite her friend’s words, they didn’t have the desired effect. Lena couldn’t sit still.

“How could I not notice? He was living with someone else on the side… Maybe he was missing my attention. Why did I go to those tailoring and sewing classes?! I should’ve stayed at home, spent more time with my husband,” she thought, searching for the reasons for his betrayal in herself.

“Mom, stop moping! I saw dad, and he’s not sad at all. He’s walking around like a proud peacock, bought himself a new suit! And you? Look at yourself… no hairstyle, no manicure!” her son even evaluated his mother’s condition, though he had never cared about the state of her nails before. “Here, take this.”

He handed his mother some money. Vova was already working and could financially help her. She had never taken money from her son before, but this time, she decided to accept it.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask…”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, son.”

Lena made an appointment with a hairdresser, bought fabric for a new top, and chose special perfume. She loved changing scents when her life went through changes. The fragrance was fresh, like a sea breeze. Lena liked to dream while generously spraying herself with perfume.

Perhaps that’s why she met Vasily.

“You smell so good…” he said when they were on the bus together. Lena even blushed with embarrassment. She wondered if she had forgotten to use deodorant in the morning, but fortunately, the man added, “Very delicious. What perfume is that?”

“Do you like it?” she exhaled. It wasn’t that she cared about his opinion, but at that moment, the desire to appear well-groomed from the outside was important to her.

“Yes! I work in a perfume store, and I’ve never smelled anything like it.”

“This is a ‘resourceful’ scent. It was made specially for me. Personally, so to speak. There are several types of oils that match my mood right now.”

“Now it’s clear why I’ve never heard of it before.”

“And you… A perfumer?”

“In a way, yes. My name is Vasily. And you?”

“My name is Elena. Oh! I almost missed my stop!” she jumped up and rushed toward the exit. Thankfully, she made it just in time.

She didn’t think about the stranger until they met again on the bus.

“Oh, Lena! Good morning!”

“Good morning to you too…”

“You know, I’ve noticed you for a while now.”

Elena tensed.

“Don’t think anything bad, it’s just not every day you see an interesting woman on the bus.”

“My husband used to drive me to work.”

“And now?”

“We’re divorced.”

“In that case, you’re not just interesting but also free?”

Elena shrugged. Her stop was approaching.

“Give me your number, I’m leaving for another city tomorrow on business, and I don’t want to lose contact.”

Elena looked at Vasily, then at the toes of her shoes, then back at him… and without knowing why, she quickly gave him her number.

Vasily called her a week later. During all that time, Elena wondered, and now he finally called.

“I want to invite you on a date.”

“Go ahead.”

“Come to my place. Here’s the address.”

“But that’s not Moscow…”

“Yes, I live in the suburbs. I moved because of circumstances. My ex-wife decided the apartment should go to her and the son.”

“I see.”

“Is that a problem for you? There are trains, and I’ll pick you up at the station.”

“I need to think about it.”

“Okay. I’m not in a hurry.”

Elena didn’t think long. Once again looking at the empty room and talking to the cactus, she put the address into the navigator and set the route.

Vasily met her as promised. He didn’t bring flowers but paid for the taxi.

“Where are we going?”

“To my place.”

“Just like that?”

“Why waste time and money? I have everything at home. Wine, ‘salad,’ my mom cut it, sausage, cheese…”

Elena looked at Vasily. Her first thought was to ask him to call a taxi back. But imagining herself walking into an empty apartment, Elena quickly changed her mind.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll take me to the train station when I want to go. And no trying to pressure me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“Of course.”

Elena entered Vasily’s apartment with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she hoped that this meeting on the bus might turn out to be fate — here it was, a second chance… But on the other hand, the voice from the kitchen nearly crushed her hopes.

“Vasya! Is that you?”

 

“Yes, mom.”

“Did you buy kefir?”

“No.”

“Why not? What am I supposed to eat my okroshka with?”

“Mom, I came with a guest.”

“With a guest? Okroshka doesn’t go with guests. I need kefir.”

“Lena, go on in, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back… the store is in our building,” Vasily apologized and, without waiting for a response, dashed out the door.

Lena decided to head toward the kitchen.

“Good afternoon…”

A woman in her seventies stood across from her in an apron. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her sharp features and dryness reminded Lena of a nasty old woman with a rat on a leash from her favorite cartoon. And as if to confirm her thoughts, a small dog, resembling a rat, ran out from behind the corner. The rat-dog started barking at Lena.

For some reason, Vasily’s mother didn’t notice this. She just kept staring at Elena, waiting for something.

“Hello!” Lena repeated a little louder.

“Good day…”

“Could you please calm your dog? I’m afraid he might bite me.”

“He’s part of the family, and he won’t bite you. He’s just showing that he’s protecting his owner.”

Lena didn’t know how to respond to that. She decided to wait for Vasily in the hallway.

“What are your plans for my son? Do you want to marry him?” the woman asked Lena’s back.

“I don’t have any plans. He invited me over, and I came.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m back. Mom, here’s the kefir. Lena, this is my mother, Larisa Nikolaevna. Baron, hush!” Vasily tried to lighten the mood. “Well, let’s sit down at the table.”

“Wash your hands before sitting down at the table!” commanded Larisa Nikolaevna. “And how can we sit down without Alexander?”

“Who’s Alexander?” Lena quietly asked.

“Sasha — my son. I’ll call him now.”

The guy didn’t pick up the phone, and after a few minutes of pointless arguing, they decided not to wait. Finally, Lena was invited to the table.

The table didn’t look abundant: aside from the okroshka, there was stale cheese, questionable-looking sausage, and a lot of bread. Instead of the promised wine, there was a carton of kefir on the table.

“So, you’re divorced?” Larisa Nikolaevna asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did your husband leave you? Although don’t answer, I can guess…”

“And why’s that?”

“He found someone young and beautiful? What’s it like living with us old women?” Larisa Nikolaevna laughed hoarsely.

“I’m far from old. I’m not even retired yet,” Lena blushed.

“Do you work? At least that’s a plus… What do you do? I hope your salary’s good? At our place, it’s understood: all the money goes to me. And I’ll make sure to save it.”

“Vasily, didn’t you say you work as a perfumer?” Lena turned to Vasily to avoid hearing her potential mother-in-law’s nonsense.

“A perfumer?!” Larisa Nikolaevna nearly fell off her chair from laughter. It was so loud and hoarse, it was unclear whether she was laughing or dying.

“Vasya the perfumer! Ha ha ha!”

“What? That’s not true?” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a security guard. In a household goods store.”

“What about the perfume?”

“We sell perfume and cosmetics, and other household products,” he confessed.

“I see…”

“Well, you probably got your hopes up! Oh, I can’t stop laughing! Vasya the perfumer! With his education and health, it’s a miracle they hired him as a guard! And by the way, are you healthy? No chronic diseases? Don’t answer though. I won’t believe you on your word. You’ll bring me all the documents. I need to know you won’t infect me with anything.”

Throughout the meal, Lena sat on edge. She couldn’t leave, but she didn’t want to stay either. Also, the chair they gave her was squeaky and incredibly uncomfortable…

She declined the “main dish,” asking for tea instead.

“We’ll have tea after the meal. Nobody drinks tea first!” Larisa Nikolaevna snapped.

“And why aren’t you eating the okroshka?” Vasily asked.

“I don’t like it.” Lena couldn’t understand how anyone could eat pickles, sausage, and onions drenched in kefir or kvass.

“What do you like?”

“Olivier salad.”

“Same as okroshka,” Larisa Nikolaevna sniffed. “And anyway, you don’t come to someone’s house empty-handed. You should’ve brought your ‘olivier’ with you. Then we could evaluate your culinary skills.”

“Lena, what do you like to cook?” Vasily asked.

“I like cooking everything. Cooking is my passion.”

 

“Maybe you could demonstrate something for us?”

Lena didn’t have a chance to respond before the doorbell rang, and Vasily’s son arrived.

“Hey, grandma! Hey, dad!” the teenager sat down at the table. He didn’t pay any attention to Lena.

“Lena, don’t just sit there! You see, a young man has arrived? He needs a clean plate, utensils…” Larisa Nikolaevna demanded, staring at the guest.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing to apologize for. Go to the kitchen and bring everything I said, quickly!” Vasily’s mother repeated sternly.

“Me?”

“You!”

Lena was taken aback.

“And take the dirty plates from the table. Wash them, dry them, and bring them back. We haven’t finished our meal yet.”

Lena stood up, gathered the dishes, and took them to the kitchen. She wasn’t planning on washing them. This whole situation felt like a prank. While she was trying to figure out what to do, Vasily appeared in the kitchen.

“Listen, Lena… Since you promised, could you quickly whip something up for tea? Maybe some pancakes, something quick? Sanya doesn’t like okroshka either, and my mom’s been acting strange lately. She demands kefir and okroshka every day…”

“I noticed her peculiar behavior.”

“Don’t pay attention, Lena. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m afraid I won’t.”

“What are you two stuck on? Lena! How much longer do we have to wait for a simple plate?! You should be sent for death, that’s how slow you are!” Larisa Nikolaevna shouted. “You brought some kind of shabby woman! Unpolished, careless! What kind of wife can’t even bring a fork?”

Lena didn’t respond. She looked pityingly at Vasily, who didn’t really appeal to her, and, thanking him for the “romantic” dinner, she headed for the door.

“Lena, what about the pancakes?”

“Maybe next time.”

“She’s already leaving?!” Vasily’s mother noticed the noise in the hallway and the dog’s barking. “No sense of tact! She came, ate us out, and now she’s leaving! Where do you find such rude women, Vasily?!”

“MOM…”

“Goodbye, Larisa Nikolaevna,” Lena said, and without looking back, she hurried out.

At home, she was greeted by silence and peace.

“Oh, how good it is! I’m the mistress of my own life! I can eat jam if I want, I can make pancakes… but I won’t bake!” she said, surveying the room: her favorite couch, the chair with the soft upholstery, and her beloved cactus. What more do you need for happiness? Maybe just a little kitten.

Vasily called several times, tried to make suggestions. Once, he even waited for her at the bus stop. But Elena refused to continue the strange relationship.

Now Lena clearly understood that clinging to a man was a thankless task. Better alone than with a whole family of cockroaches in the potential mother-in-law’s and his relatives’ heads.