«Redo it.»
The printout slid across the desk and stopped at the keyboard, its edge curling up. I smoothed the sheet with my hand—a habit I picked up with Ilya: he throws, I straighten.
Ilya Andreyevich stood over my desk, adjusting the white band of his smartwatch. He smelled of sweet perfume and the coffee from the capsule machine that Karina convinced the department to get last spring.
«This isn’t the calculation, Nonna Viktorovna, it’s just a draft,» he said. «With that number, we won’t even get started before being knocked out. Okay? I need the real version by lunch.»
The sheet was still warm from the printer. I stared at the final number, unable to figure out where it came from. Just two days ago, I had calculated and double-checked, and the figure was totally different.
I’ve been with the company for nineteen years, and under Ilya’s supervision for four. In that time, I put together sixty-one applications, twenty-three of which were successful. For every win, the manager got a bonus equal to a full salary. All I ever got in the team chat was a thumbs up emoji.
«And another thing, colleagues,» Ilya turned to Karina, but was obviously speaking to me. «October is going to be intense. We have an 87-million school, the ninth submission is coming up. Nonna Viktorovna, maybe reconsider your vacation.»
I looked up. Why did he suddenly bring up vacation? October 5th had been on the schedule since December, the general director had signed the schedule, and back in early September, I’d already signed the notice with Raisa Tikhonovna.
I had to think about my vacation every year because of Ilya. In 2023, he moved my July break to November because something was «urgent.» In 2024, August became December. I tried to object that time, but he told everyone: «If you don’t like it, resign—you aren’t irreplaceable.» Last June, I was pulled out of vacation on the third day. He called at eight in the morning, said the project would fall apart without me. And so I showed up. Who wouldn’t have?
But where do you go if you quit at fifty-four? Last spring, I secretly went to three interviews. Everyone smiled, promised to call back. No one ever did. I had just one year left before retirement and decided to keep my head down for that year.
Karina giggled, still glued to her phone. She was twenty-seven, just like my Miroslava, and hadn’t submitted a single application on her own yet.
«Nonna Viktorovna is from the old school,» Ilya went on, while his wristband blinked with a notification. «Maybe you don’t need a vacation, but an Excel course? They offer free ones now for people over fifty.»
Karina tried to stifle a laugh with her hand.
My ears felt hot, like I was leaning over an open oven. My fingers automatically stacked the papers and straightened the edges. I knew Excel better than he knew his own phone. And suddenly, I remembered exactly where I’d seen that number before.
I opened the file on the server and clicked on «Version History.» The screen flickered and showed a list.
«Ilya Andreevich, could you come over, please?»
He walked over, eyes still glued to his smartwatch.
«Here’s my version from the day before yesterday,» I said, pointing with the cursor. «The deflator index here matches the client’s guidelines. And here’s the edit from September eighth, at eleven fourteen PM. The author—that’s you. You changed one cell and the price shot up.»
He leaned in closer to the monitor. His cologne grew stronger and sickly sweet, like cheap liqueur. Karina stopped giggling and stared at her phone with real focus now.
«Well, I just checked the file,» Ilya said. «I could have changed something by accident.»
«You could have,» I agreed. «I’ll fix it in two minutes. And about the vacation, since you asked—October fifth, as scheduled. I signed the notice on the seventh.»
He looked at his watch again, like he expected it to tell him what to say.
«We’ll see,» he snapped, and walked off to his office, leaving the door open.
I corrected the number in the cell. The total went back to normal, the printer whirred, and a nice warm sheet slid out. I placed it on top of the crumpled one and rested my hand on it. My heart pounding, but inside, everything was calm—and oddly happy. All this time, I’d fixed his mistakes in silence. Today, for the first time, I showed him whose mistakes they were.
That evening, a voice message came from Miroslava.
«Mom, I put together the crib all by myself! The instructions were in Chinese, two extra screws left, but it’s standing! Are you really coming on the fourth?»
Her husband had been away on a shift for three months and wouldn’t return until November. The baby was expected in mid-October, and I promised I’d be there. My tickets for the train to Kazan and back—eleven thousand four hundred rubles—had been saved in my phone since July.
«Of course,» I replied. «Don’t put anything else together—wait for me.»
But Ilya’s «we’ll see» was still hanging in the air, just like his cologne.
The next morning, I found an email from Ilya: “Nonna Viktorovna, please arrange the MCHD in your name until October 31. Urgent.” This was a power of attorney allowing me to sign proposals on behalf of the company until the end of October. But why would I need it if I’m leaving on the fifth?
***
I drafted the power of attorney that same day and gave it to Ilya. I didn’t argue—who knows, maybe it would come in handy. Maybe he was genuinely worried the site would let us down? I preferred to think well of people.
On Tuesday, I arrived at half past seven. The heating still wasn’t on, the office was chilly, and I kept my hands warm with a gray cardigan and a mug. In six evenings working until nine, I’d almost finished the entire school application: four hundred and twelve pages, thirty-eight documents. All that was left was to check the estimates and attach the experience letters.
Ilya came in at nine, cheerful and tanned after his weekend at the dacha.
“Karina, million-dollar question,” he said from the doorway. “What kind of sunscreen should I take to Hurghada in October—SPF fifty?”
“SPF fifty, Ilya Andreevich, it’s still pretty hot there,” Karina replied brightly.
I let that conversation pass. Who cares where someone is planning to go? My focus was on the school.
I clicked on the “School_87” folder and was met with a blank window.
At first, I thought I picked the wrong drive. I double-checked. Then I searched by name. Then by date. The folder was nowhere—in fact, it seemed like it had never existed. Two weeks of work, every scan, every letter I’d chased down from subcontractors—gone.
“Ilya Andreevich,” I stood up. “My application folder has disappeared.”
“Oh, that,” he didn’t even look up from his phone, finger sliding over the screen. “I tidied up the server yesterday evening. It was a mess, you guys. Looks like your drafts ended up in the trash. Email the sysadmin, he’ll recover it from the backup.”
“We only have one sysadmin for the entire company. He handles application requests in order, so it’ll take three days.”
“Well, see, three days,” Ilya shrugged. “If you don’t make it by the fifth, then your vacation just drops off. Makes sense, right? No one’s rushing you—everything’s fair.”
Karina was tapping her nails on the screen, someone clanged a bucket in the hallway, and the place smelled of wet rags and bleach. I stood in the middle of the office, listening to how calmly he said it. Not even angry—just matter-of-fact, like talking about the weather.
Whether he deleted the folder by accident or not, I didn’t know. And I wouldn’t be able to prove it anyway. But the way he said ‘makes sense’—it was like he’d had that line ready for a while.
My mouth felt dry, like from an unripe persimmon. I traced my fingernail over the edge of the paper I held, again and again, until it gleamed. For three out of four years, I’d given up my vacation for him. Now it looked like he was just taking my fourth, without asking.
I sat down, opened my bag, and pulled out my keyring. Hanging between the apartment key and a souvenir from Kazan was a gray flash drive.
Back in 2019, our server crashed and I lost a week’s worth of work. Since then, every evening before shutting down my computer, I copy everything I’ve done that day. No one ever bothered to close the USB ports—our sysadmin simply didn’t have the time. People laughed at my little ritual. Ilya once called me ‘Nonna the Archivist.’
“Ilya Andreevich, could you come here, please?” I said for the second time that week.
He walked over, rolling his eyes. I plugged in the flash drive. The computer beeped, and a folder popped up on the screen labeled with Monday’s date.
“Here’s ‘School_87’,” I said. “A copy from last night, before you tidied everything up. Every single document.”
I dragged the folder onto the server. The copy bar slowly made its way to the right. Ilya stood next to me, and I could hear him breathing. Twelve minutes. I timed it.
“Done,” I announced once the bar finished. “Your application will be ready by Friday. Before I leave on vacation.”
“Very prudent,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I learned to keep copies of everything from you, Ilya Andreevich,” I replied. “Everything.”
He looked at me a moment longer than usual, then at his watch. He turned and left, and this time the door closed firmly behind him with a thud.
I counted the files, scrolled through budgets, licenses, certificates, extracts. Everything was there—down to the last comma. I put the flash drive back in my bag and zipped it up. My hands were cold but my cheeks were burning. All these years he thought I was just ‘the archive’ because I was old. But this was my insurance policy.
At lunch, I took a photo of my key ring and sent it to Miroslava: “Mom conquered the server.” She sent back three laughing emojis and a picture of her belly in a striped T-shirt. “We’re cheering for you too,” she wrote. I looked at the photo and, for the first time that morning, felt warm—though the radiators still weren’t heating.
But I understood: he hadn’t given up. This move just didn’t work.
After three o’clock, Ilya walked past my desk holding a leather folder.
“I’m taking your MCD to the director for signature, Nonna Viktorovna,” he said with a smile. “For backup.”
The smile was unnecessary. What was he so happy about?
***
On Friday at eleven, we were called in to see the director.
Saveliy Olegovich’s office smelled of old books and ink. He still signed everything with a fountain pen, refusing to use ballpoints. The big clock on the wall ticked so loudly that you could hear it in the pauses, even from the corner. I sat on the edge of a leather chair, cold as this whole September.
The finance director arrived with a laptop. Ilya brought up the presentation on the screen—twelve slides, blue arrows, the company logo in the corner of each one.
“Colleagues, regarding the school,” he began cheerfully. “The application is almost ready. I’ve personally checked every page. Our experience is confirmed, the price is solid, risks are covered.”
He said ‘personally’ so confidently that for a moment even I nearly believed him. But he hadn’t opened a single file. I was the one sitting there until nine for six evenings, not him. And he never talked like that in front of me—only upstairs, where bonuses are handed out.
“All right,” Saveliy Olegovich raised his eyes over his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “The security deposit?”
“Eight hundred seventy thousand,” the finance director responded. “We’ll transfer it to the special account on the sixth—no money before that.”
“Who’ll submit it?”
Ilya hesitated a little. Adjusted his bracelet.
“Technically, Nonna Viktorovna will process it,” he said, smiling in my direction. “If she manages. She’s, let’s say, not a sprinter. Her pace isn’t what it once was, but we’ll back her up—there’s a power of attorney.”
The finance guy gave a sarcastic grunt. Someone in the hallway laughed—it was about something else, but I couldn’t help feeling it was aimed at me.
A wave of heat rushed to my cheeks, creeping up from my neck all the way to my temples. My palm pressed into the armrest and the leather creaked beneath it. Not a sprinter. At my age. And right in front of the CEO, who remembered me back when Ilya was still darting off to college lectures. I took off my glasses and let them hang from their chain, suddenly knowing exactly what I’d say. Because if I kept silent, by Monday everyone would be talking about my ‘age.’
“Savely Olegovich, may I clarify something?”
He nodded.
“The application is fully ready,” I began. “Four hundred and twelve pages, thirty-eight documents, all budgets double-checked. By the end of today, everything will be in Ilya Andreevich’s inbox. After that, only two tasks remain: securing the sixth item and submitting everything. That’s a half hour’s work.”
The clock on the wall ticked away a few seconds. The finance guy stopped his scoffing.
“Alright,” Savely Olegovich said, scribbling a note with his fountain pen. “Good. So we’re on schedule.”
He glanced at Ilya. Not sternly, not with any emotion; just a look. Ilya lowered his gaze to his watch and flipped through something.
In the hallway, he caught up with me by the elevator.
“Nonna Viktorovna,” Ilya said softly, dropping the formal ‘colleague.’ “I overreacted back there. Stress, school—I’m sure you understand. Please, enjoy your well-deserved rest.”
I was caught off guard. In all our time working together, he’d never once apologized—not for rescheduling July, not for that phone call at eight in the morning last June.
“Thank you,” I replied.
Maybe it really was just stress? Maybe all this—the folder, the ‘makes sense,’ the ‘not a sprinter’—was just from exhaustion? People can be better than they seem.
For the rest of the day, I worked with a clear head, feeling young again, like before summer break. At 6:40, I hit ‘Send.’ The email with the application went off to Ilya, a copy filed in my ‘Sent’ folder, complete with date and time. I shut down my computer, copied the final files onto a flash drive, and walked home through the park.
The first leaves were crunching under my feet, the air filled with the scent of apples from someone’s bag and smoke from a distant bonfire behind the garages. I called Miroslava and told her that yes, the fourth is set. She gasped over the phone and burst out laughing.
At 7:30, just as I was standing at the stove, Raisa Tikhonovna called.
“Nonnochka, have you changed your mind or what?” she asked in a near-whisper. “Ilya Andreevich told me not to prepare the order for you. Said you’re postponing till December. I remember your notice, so I thought I’d call.”
The frying pan sizzled as the onions started to burn. I turned off the burner.
“I’m not postponing anything, Raisa Tikhonovna.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said after a pause. “And I never told you any of this, Nonnochka. But he rescheduled his own vacation. From November to October third. Two weeks. The CEO signed off back on the eleventh.”
I set my phone face down on the table. Hurghada. SPF 50 sunscreen. Power of attorney until the end of October. He’s flying out on the third. I’ll have to submit the application on the ninth using my authorization. Instead of my own vacation. That ‘overreacting’ by the elevator? Just to get me to send him the finished work with peace of mind.
The onions cooled in the pan, bitter and black. I never ended up eating them.
***
On Saturday, I messaged Ilya: “Ilya Andreevich, please confirm that my vacation from October 5th according to the schedule remains unchanged.” Two grey checkmarks turned blue at 11:02. There was no reply on Saturday or Sunday.
On Sunday evening, I found Article 124 of the Labor Code online. It clearly states that an employer can only reschedule a planned vacation with the employee’s consent. Nobody had asked for mine.
On Monday, I arrived at eight and printed out four sheets: the vacation schedule signed by the general director, my notice from September 7th, Friday’s email with the time it was sent, and his request about the power of attorney until the end of October. I stacked them neatly and put them in a clear file folder.
At nine, the entire commercial department—nine people—gathered for the meeting. It was pouring outside, and the meeting room smelled of wet umbrellas and instant coffee. Chairs creaked, and someone rustled a bag of cookies.
“Colleagues, okay, about October vacations,” Ilya began, glancing at his tablet. “Karina—starts on the twelfth, as planned. Nonna Viktorovna is moving hers to December. Production necessity. Over the weekend, I looked over the application for the school—there are a ton of issues.”
I put my hand on the clear file folder.
“What kind of issues, Ilya Andreevich?”
“Nonna Viktorovna, let’s not discuss this here.”
“At least name one. I’ll fix it today.”
I didn’t know if he had opened my email. But there couldn’t possibly be any issues: I had triple-checked every page, and he knew it. Nine people watched, glancing between him and me. The rain tapped on the windowsill like someone drumming their fingers.
Ilya’s neck flushed with red spots, climbing up from his collar, and he blurted out for the whole meeting room to hear:
“Those who actually work will get vacation, not you.”
It became so quiet that you could hear the hum of the projector.
Not ‘you’ in a formal sense. Not ‘Nonna Viktorovna.’ Just ‘you.’ From the very first day, he’d always called me by my full name, even when he tossed papers in my direction. But now, in front of everyone, he just said ‘you,’ the way you’d scold a student for being late to class. That one little word hit harder than all the papers he’d ever thrown at me. My fingers went cold, and I pressed the folder to the table so no one would notice.
I stood up, took the file, and left. Someone probably thought I was going off to cry.
The general director’s reception area was empty, and the air smelled of fresh polish. The secretary looked at me in surprise; in nineteen years, I had never gone to Saveliy Olegovich without an appointment. He arrived at 9:20, shook the rain from his coat, and nodded to me: Come in.
“Saveliy Olegovich, I’m not here to complain,” I said, setting the folder with my documents in front of him. “I just want to show you something.”
He read everything silently, in order. The schedule. The notification. The email sent on Friday at 18:40. The request about the power of attorney.
“Okay,” he said. “And where will he be on the ninth?”
“In Hurghada. From the third to the sixteenth. You have his transfer request; you signed it on the eleventh.”
Saveliy Olegovich opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and found the document. He stared at it for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds away.
«The power of attorney is valid until the end of October,» he finally said. «He brought it to me ‘just in case.’ I signed it.» He picked up the phone. «Raisa Tikhonovna, the order for Nonna Viktorovna’s vacation, starting from October 5th, according to the schedule. Right now, I’m waiting.»
Then he picked up his fountain pen, crossed out his previous note on Ilya’s application, and wrote above it: «I withdraw it. S.O.»
«If the request is so urgent,» he said, «the department head will submit it himself.»
«If the site has any issues, I’ll be available,» I said. «You can also call me from Kazan.»
«No need,» he replied. «You’re on vacation.»
Raisa Tikhonovna brought the order ten minutes later, out of breath, holding a still-warm sheet fresh from the printer. Saveliy Olegovich signed it at 9:46. Exactly half an hour after I’d been called by my first name and told I wasn’t working, in front of the entire department.
He pressed the intercom button:
«Send Ilya Andreevich to my office.»
In the doorway, I just missed Ilya. He was walking quickly, checking his watch as he moved, and didn’t recognize me at first. Then he did. His face lengthened, and he entered the office silently, saying nothing.
Karina caught up with me in the hallway. She hesitated, fiddling with her phone.
«Nonna Viktorovna,» she whispered. «You did the right thing.»
I went back to my desk and placed a copy of the order in front of me. I smoothed it out with my palm, even though the sheet was perfectly flat, without a single crease. I just wanted to hold it. All these years at this company, I had never asked for anything for myself. Turns out, all it took was to lay four sheets of paper on the table.
There was complete silence coming from the general director’s office. They really installed those double doors well.
I took out my phone and messaged Miroslava: «I’m coming on the fourth. No one will cancel that.» She replied with a heart emoji and a photo of a crib made up with a blue blanket.
***
On October 8th, after lunch, Miroslava gave birth to a son. On the morning of the ninth, Raisa Tikhonovna sent me a message: «He submitted it himself. Almost at midnight. Spent the whole day calling the sysadmin.» Ilya’s wife changed the destination on their Hurghada trip to her sister and went with her instead. On the sixteenth, the result came in: we had won the school contract.
I returned to work on the nineteenth. At the final meeting, Saveliy Olegovich publicly said that Nonna Viktorovna had prepared the application, and my name was first on the award order. Ilya now greets me formally, using «you,» and there were no more age jokes at meetings. A week later, Karina asked me to teach her how to process an application. I agreed.
In the two weeks I spent in Kazan, I didn’t open my work email once. I caught sleep when I could, made compotes, washed tiny baby clothes, and walked along the Kazanka River with the stroller while my grandson napped under the hood. My back ached by evening, but my heart hadn’t been this peaceful in years.
But what stuck with me most was something else. Noon on the sixteenth, when the phone beeped with the news about the result, and I didn’t even pick it up right away. I stood over the crib that Miroslava had assembled herself, with two extra screws left over. My grandson slept, arms thrown wide. I smoothed the blue blanket with my hand, the same gesture I’d used for four years to flatten the papers handed to me. Only now, warmth was under my hand.
In the end, those who truly worked were the ones who got to take a vacation.
