Nastya, sweetie, can we come to you for January holidays? Not long, just for ten days, — asked the mother-in-law
— Nastya, sweetie, can we come to you for January holidays? Not long, just for ten days, — asked the mother-in-law.
— Yeah, — Nastya set the kettle up without turning around. — Of course… how about ten .
— The two of us will be, nothing special — The mother-in-law’s voice was almost tender, with a tight comfort, which Nastya had heard more than once. — And maybe Lesha and Irishka will visit. Let’s get together as a family at least once!
Nastya moved the platter to the edge of the table. On it lay a glazed mandarin peel and two teaspoons — one wet, the other sticky from honey.
«I will think,» she said. — Alexey will come soon, talk to him.
— And what to think about? — my mother-in-law laughed in the tube. — The house is big, there are no children, only boredom. Fedor and I should at least go out to people!
Nastya turned off the kettle, put the cup on, without pouring water. Fingers were a little wet — a thin tea pair of donkeys. She pressed the button on the screen and put the phone on the table with the screen down.
Outside the window, the snow lay quietly, as if afraid to disturb. There was a reminder on the fridge: «vacation — January, Novgorod — reservation until the 6th.» Reservations can certainly not be canceled. Two weeks of anticipation — no kitchen, no cleaning, just a castle by the river, books and tea.
Only now it all began to seem something stupid, almost fantastic. The dinner was a success. Alexey came tired, sat down, took off his shoes right in the hallway, untied his tie as he went.
«Mom called,» he said, putting a fork in the mashed potatoes. — Why are you keeping quiet?
— And what to say? Call for ten days — Nastya pressed her shoulders. — «Not for long,» as she says.
— Well, it’s a new year. They want to be together. We didn’t go last year, remember?
— Last year you had a fever.
— Well! — He nodded. — Now we need to catch up.
She was listening in her ear. Alexei spoke in his usual tone — justifiable but confident, as if the decision had already been made. So he spoke to everyone in a row, even at work, and usually people listened to him: he was comfortable. Arguing with him was like pushing a wall — not because he’s strong, just because he’s standing firm.
«You know,» said Nastya, «we have tickets.» — What are the tickets? — To Velikiy Novgorod.
— What is this, far away? — We’re pouting. — In a car ? — On a train.
Alexey measured with a fork in his hand. — And I thought you were joking so much. Is anyone going to Novgorod in winter? — We. Wanted.
He flipped the fork and then put it down. — Mom will be offended. — Well, let it be.
He smiled. — You’re like a girl. «And you’re like a boy with your mother,» she replied quietly.
I bit my lip, but I couldn’t argue. And at that moment, Nastya almost believed that the trip would end. Three days later, the mother-in-law sent a voice note: «Nastenka, we’ve decided everything, don’t worry! We’ll arrive first, just in time after the battle of currants — you have two floors, we’ll sort it out ourselves.
Nastya did not turn on a message for a long time. Then I put the kettle on, again, as if it helped me to think, and got on the booking app — you can’t cancel, only «change the dates». I typed «May» and sat for a long time, listening to droplets crawling into the sink. Lesha said in the evening :
— Well, you see, it worked itself out. We’ll make mom happy and stay at home.
He spoke as if it was for her. Nastya just nodded. They arrived in the first number, wearing blue jackets, with three suitcases and a pack of homemade pickles. Immediately it smelled of something old — fir branches, oranges, and a light shower of ointment for joints nearby.
Fedor put a felt in the hallway. — It’s like you have here! It’s warm as. Gas or what ? “From the cauldron,” answered Nastya.
— Oh yeah! — exclaimed his mother-in-law. — And we have all electricity! Can you imagine, Nastenka, the lights blinked on New Year’s Eve, and Fedya managed to fix it — now the machine knocks out. You would have seen it!
She spoke continuously even when Nastya took out the cups and came back. Alexei managed to trick without listening. On the second day, Fedor carved the socket in the kitchen. Nastya deliberately walked past and noticed how he inserted a screwdriver at the wrong end.
— Fyodor Stepanovich, leave it, I’ll call the electrician myself. — Yes, there’s something to do here! — he waved his hand. — My hands remember.
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“Nastya, sweetheart, could we come stay with you over the January holidays? Not for long, just ten days,” her mother-in-law asked.
“Uh-huh.” Nastya set the kettle down without turning around. “Of course… sure, ten days.”
“It’ll just be the two of us, nothing special,” her mother-in-law’s voice was almost gentle, wrapped in that strained coziness Nastya had heard many times before. “And maybe Lyosha and Irishka will stop by too. At least the whole family will get together for once!”
Nastya nudged a saucer to the edge of the table. On it lay a gnawed tangerine peel and two teaspoons—one wet, the other sticky with honey.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “Alexey will be home soon. Talk to him.”
“What is there to think about?” her mother-in-law laughed into the phone. “The house is big, you don’t have children, it’s nothing but boredom there. At least Fyodor and I could get out among people!”
Nastya switched off the kettle and set down a cup without pouring the water. Her fingers were slightly damp from the fine steam. She tapped the screen and placed the phone face down on the table.
Outside the window, snow was falling softly, as if afraid to disturb anything.
A reminder hung on the refrigerator: “Vacation — January, Novgorod — reservation until the 6th.” The booking, of course, was nonrefundable. Two weeks of anticipation—no kitchen, no cleaning, just a castle by the river, books, and tea. But now all of it was beginning to seem ridiculous, almost fantastical.
Dinner went exactly like a carbon copy. Alexey came home tired, sat down, took off his boots right in the hallway, loosened his tie as he walked.
“Mom called,” he said, sticking his fork into the mashed potatoes. “Why are you keeping quiet?”
“What is there to say? She wants to come for ten days,” Nastya shrugged. “‘Not for long,’ as she puts it.”
“Well, it’s New Year’s. They want us all together. Last year we didn’t go, remember?”
“Last year you had a fever.”
“Exactly!” He nodded. “So now we have to make up for it.”
She listened with half an ear. Alexey spoke in his usual tone—apologetic but confident, as if the decision had already been made. He spoke like that to everyone, even at work, and people usually listened: he was convenient.
Arguing with him was like pushing a wall—not because he was strong, just because he stood there stubbornly.
“You know,” Nastya said, “we have tickets.”
“What tickets?”
“To Veliky Novgorod.”
“What, is that far?” He frowned. “By car?”
“By train.”
Alexey froze with the fork in his hand. “I thought you were joking. Who even goes to Novgorod in winter?”
“We do. Wanted to.”
He twirled the fork, then set it down. “Mom will be offended.”
“So let her.”
He smirked. “You’re like a little girl.”
“And you’re like a little boy with his mommy,” she replied quietly.
He bit his lip, but didn’t argue. And in that moment Nastya almost believed the trip would fall through.
Three days later her mother-in-law sent a voice message:
“Nastenka, we’ve decided everything, don’t worry! We’ll come on the first, just in time after midnight—you have two floors, after all, we’ll manage on our own.”
Nastya didn’t play the message for a long time. Then she put the kettle on again, as if that helped her think, and opened the booking app—couldn’t cancel, only “change dates.”
She entered “May” and sat there for a long time listening to drops sliding into the sink. That evening Lyosha said:
“Well, see? Everything worked out by itself. We’ll make Mom happy, and we’ll stay home.”
He said it as though he were doing it for her. Nastya only nodded.
They arrived on the first of January, in blue jackets, with three suitcases and a pack of homemade pickles. At once the house filled with the smell of something old—pine branches, oranges, and nearby, the faint odor of joint ointment.
Fyodor set his felt boots in the hallway.
“Well, look at this place! So warm in here. Is it from gas?”
“From the boiler,” Nastya answered.
“Right!” her mother-in-law shouted over him. “And we’re all electric at home! Can you imagine, Nastenka, the power flickered on New Year’s and Fedya went to fix it—now the breaker keeps tripping. You should’ve seen it!”
She talked nonstop, even when Nastya carried out cups and came back. Alexey somehow managed to nod along without listening.
On the second day Fyodor was picking at an outlet in the kitchen. Nastya deliberately walked past and noticed he was inserting the screwdriver the wrong way around.
“Fyodor Stepanovich, leave it. I’ll call an electrician myself.”
“It’s nothing!” he waved her off. “My hands remember.”
“They remember, just not the right thing,” Nastya said quietly.
“What?” he asked again, but she was already walking toward the window.
The snow was falling unevenly, blown by the wind. It seemed to her that time had stopped—as if everything had gotten stuck in these kitchen scenes, and even the cat in the shed had stopped catching mice.
By evening the breaker really did trip. Alexey said tiredly:
“You can see the man was trying.”
Nastya said nothing. She could see that.
Day four. The kitchen table was covered with containers. Her mother-in-law was making dumplings and telling stories about who at the factory got a bonus and whose pay was cut. Nastya had never been there, but she knew all those people from snippets overheard in phone calls.
“You’re always on your phone,” her mother-in-law suddenly said. “Posting your stories again, are you?”
“Work,” Nastya answered dryly. “I have a blog.”
“That blog! Pure devilry. At least write about something decent. Instead of all these tips on how to obey your husband and not complain…”
“That’s my audience. Women my age.”
“Women your age should be giving birth, not running blogs,” said her mother-in-law.
Nastya felt her breathing turn uneven, short. She took off her apron, walked into the living room, and sat by the window.
Children’s laughter drifted from the соседний yard. Snowballs flew over the fence, someone shouted, “Vaaaasya, stop cheating!”
She watched the little clumps of snow, steadying her breathing, as though fitting herself back into everyday life.
Day seven.
Fyodor couldn’t hold back and decided to fix the faucet.
“Well, it’s leaking, can’t you see!” he said. “It’s just the washer, that’s all.”
An hour later she was standing in a puddle.
Then he decided to dry it with a hair dryer.
Her mother-in-law snapped at Nastya:
“Couldn’t you at least tell us where you keep the brush, the rag? You live as if we’re your enemies.”
Nastya silently brought her the rag.
And in her head, brief notes for herself:
“People come with good intentions—but their own kind of good, according to someone else’s recipe.”
Maybe it would come in handy for a post later.
By the ninth day her mother-in-law got sick. Fever close to 104. Nastya brought tea, set the thermometer, listened to the buzzing tone of irritation in response.
Fyodor grumbled:
“You’re not a doctor. I’ll handle it myself.”
Alexey had gone out on business and would be back in the evening.
That was when silence settled between the rooms. That sticky kind—not because of illness, but because the air itself seemed frozen by the too-long presence of people.
Nastya opened the windows to air the place out. Frost rushed into the living room at once, as if trying to knock every trace of human life out of it.
She sat down. Looked at the suitcases.
At the bottom lay an envelope of money—the leftover cash from the trip. She held it in her hands for a long time, then slipped it into her pocket. She sat at her laptop and typed into the search bar: “Bus Moscow — Veliky Novgorod nearest departure.”
Seat thirty-two was gone, but seat thirty-one was still available. In three hours.
She went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was peeking out from the room, pale, thermometer in hand.
“Nastya, where’s the new kettle? The old one heats too slowly…”
“In the cupboard,” Nastya answered.
Then she added—quietly, but evenly:
“I’m leaving for a couple of days.”
“Where?!” The voice rang out at once, like dishes crashing. “Alone? Are you out of your mind? What about Lyosha?”
“I’ll be back.”
Nastya stepped into the hallway, but from behind her came:
“You’re abandoning me when I’m sick?”
The tone was not pleading, but commanding.
She stopped at the door. Took hold of her bag.
“I’m just going to the place where I wanted to be.”
She closed the door without a sound.
The bus was almost empty. It smelled of wet jackets and gasoline. Nastya sat by the window, and gray snow raced past the glass.
Her phone kept vibrating—first Lyosha, then Mother-in-law, then Lyosha again.
“Where are you? What happened?”
She didn’t answer. She stared at the highway.
At the next stop a man in a black puffer jacket got on, set down his suitcase, and sat beside her.
He took out a thermos and poured himself some tea.
Then he turned to her.
“Traveling alone?”
“You could say that.”
He nodded. “Same here, going to Novgorod. My grandfather left me an old house there. I want to sort it out, maybe sell it.”
She nodded automatically, but something in his voice made her look up.
His features… vaguely familiar.
He gave his last name himself, casually, in passing.
It was the same name on which the hotel owner had booked the room—E. A. Vlasova. The very woman Nastya had been messaging a month ago.
“You’re Vlasov?” she asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“I was supposed to stay at your place. In January…”
He smiled. “Well, as you can see. We can go together. I’m going there now anyway.”
The highway twisted outside the window, and for a moment Nastya felt something strange—as though two futures had collided at one point, and now it was being decided on which road everything would remain.
She thought about whether she should call Lyosha.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
The bus started moving again, and the loudspeaker announced:
“Next stop—Chernaya Rechka.”
Nastya looked out the window.
A wet sign on a roadside café flashed briefly: “Home Cooking. 24 Hours.”
And at that moment the phone buzzed again—a new message, short:
“Nastya, you’re going the wrong way…”
A period, then empty space.
The sender: “Alexey (friend).”
She didn’t remember ever saving a contact like that. Nastya stared at the screen, and a chill ran down her spine. In her contacts, her husband was saved simply as “Lyosha.” Where had this “Alexey (friend)” come from? She opened the message history, but it was empty—just this one text, sent a minute ago.
“Something wrong?” her fellow traveler asked, noticing her confusion.
“No, just… a strange message.”
She locked the phone and shoved it deep into her bag. The bus jolted over a pothole. Vlasov looked at her intently, too intently for a random stranger.
“You know, Anastasia,” he said, lowering his voice, “my grandfather always said: if reality starts to split in two, it means you’ve been living someone else’s life for too long. You’re not just going on vacation. You’re running away.”
Nastya said nothing. His words hit the exact spot. She was running away from her mother-in-law, from the leaking faucet, from the “convenient” husband who in seven days had not once asked what she wanted.
Two hours later the bus stopped at a snow-covered platform in Novgorod. The city greeted them with thick fog and the light of yellow lamps reflected in the river. Vlasov helped her out and picked up her suitcase.
“My house is on the other side, right by the kremlin. I’ll drop you at the hotel, it’s not far.”
When they drove up to the old mansion where Nastya was supposed to stay, she saw a familiar figure at the entrance. Under the streetlamp, shifting from foot to foot, stood… Alexey. But not the exhausted husband in the stretched-out sweater she had left at home with his parents. He wore an expensive coat, and in his hands he held a small leather case.
He lifted his head, and Nastya gasped. It was her husband, but as if “edited”: confident gaze, straight posture.
“You’re two hours late,” he said, walking toward the car. “I texted you: you went the wrong way. You got on the wrong bus, Nastya.”
She turned to Vlasov, but he only smiled mysteriously and handed her a business card. There was no phone number on it, only one phrase:
“The Club of Those Who Chose Themselves.”
“Lyosha? What are you doing here? How did you get here before me?” Nastya’s voice trembled.
“Mom and Dad—that was a test,” her husband said calmly. “The final test of whether you were ready to defend your boundaries. You endured nine days. A long time. But in the end, you still left. Come on, the castle reservation was never canceled.”
He held out his hand. At that moment the phone in her pocket vibrated again. Nastya pulled it out. A video message had arrived from “Lyosha”—the real one. In the video he was sitting in their kitchen, wiping the floor under the leaking faucet with a rag and asking pitifully, “Nast, where do we keep the mosquito repellent? Mom got bitten by a mosquito—where did it even come from in winter?”
Nastya looked from the screen to the man in the expensive coat standing before her in the Novgorod twilight. Before her lay two realities: the familiar daily life where she was a doormat and a cook, and this new, frightening, but tempting unknown.
“Who are you?” she asked the man in the coat.
“Your real husband,” he answered. “The one you married before you let everyday life and other people’s advice erase both me and yourself. Come on. The tea is getting cold.”
Nastya looked at the road disappearing into darkness, at Vlasov’s card, and at the shining windows of the old house. She took a step forward, leaving the phone with the video message on the car seat.
Tomorrow she would write a post about how sometimes, to find the right road, you have to get on the most “wrong” bus.
