“Tomorrow the whole family is going to our dacha. Buy some meat for shashlik!” my husband announced from the doorway, not knowing that the dacha had already been sold.

It didn’t start with the shashlik. It had started much earlier — on the very day my mother-in-law, Lyudmila Ivanovna, handed me the keys to the dacha. Back then, it looked like an act of goodwill. She stood in the doorway, majestic in her usual floral housecoat, and said, “I’m giving it to you, since you’re family now. Live there, build, just don’t forget us old folks.”
I believed her. Fool that I was.
Sergey and I spent ten years fixing up that dacha. Ten years of me hauling boards, mixing cement, painting the veranda with such bright blue paint that I scrubbed my hands for a week afterward. I planted every apple tree, every currant bush. The house was small and old, but we poured everything into it: time, money, hope. For me, it became a place of strength, a place where I could finally breathe freely, far away from my mother-in-law’s constant control.
For my husband’s family, it had always been just a place for parties. Lyudmila Ivanovna would come with her friends, Denis with his buddies, Sergey with his mates. Shashlik, beer, loud music. I cooked, cleaned, smiled. And not once did anyone ask whether I wanted any of it.
That evening, I was standing at the stove, stewing onions for dinner. It was already getting dark outside. The apartment smelled of fried food and coziness, but I felt no coziness. Only a heavy emptiness in my chest. I knew Sergey was supposed to come home late from work, and I hoped that today he would come home sober.
My hope was useless.
The key scraped in the lock louder than usual. The door slammed against the wall, and my husband appeared in the doorway. Red-faced, pleased with himself, carrying a shopping bag. He didn’t even notice that I hadn’t come out to greet him.
“Why are you silent?” he asked, tossing his keys onto the cabinet. The metal clinked against the wood. “I’m telling you, we’re leaving tomorrow. Mom is already making dumplings, my brother and Lenka promised to come, and of course you and I are going too. I bought meat. Look.”
He lifted the bag, and I saw the edge of a package of marinated shashlik. Three kilograms. Expensive stuff from the supermarket he usually avoided because “the prices there are insane.” Apparently, he was in a special mood today.
I slowly wiped my hands on a towel. The onions in the pan had already begun to burn, but I had no appetite. I looked at his broad back, at the way he confidently opened the refrigerator and put the meat inside, and felt a cold wave rising inside me.
It wasn’t anger. No. It was something heavier. The understanding that in a moment I was going to destroy his small, happy world.
“Sergey,” I said quietly. “There is no dacha anymore.”

He didn’t hear me. Or pretended not to. He kept rummaging in the refrigerator.
“What?”
I repeated, louder:
“I sold the dacha. Three weeks ago.”
Silence fell.
Not just silence — a vacuum. I could hear the old alarm clock ticking on top of the refrigerator, the pan hissing, someone far away outside turning on music. Sergey slowly turned around. First I saw the back of his head, then his profile, then half his face. He looked at me as if I had grown a second head. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped. He was still holding a jar of tomato paste in his hand.
“You… what?” His voice became hoarse, as though he had swallowed sandpaper. “Are you out of your mind? That’s my dacha! We built it!”
The jar flew into the sink. I didn’t even flinch.
“Exactly — we did,” I said, stepping toward the table. I pulled a thick envelope from the drawer and laid the documents on the tablecloth. The sales contract, laminated, with official round seals. The notary had certified it last month. “But when you took out a loan last year to repair your Toyota, you listed the dacha as collateral. You did, didn’t you? You did. And when you stopped paying the bank, I had to choose: either we lose this apartment, or I save at least something.”
“What apartment? What does the apartment have to do with this?” He stepped toward me, and I instinctively took a step back until my back hit the countertop.
“Have you forgotten? Or did you not know? The bank had already filed a lawsuit. The bailiffs were supposed to seize our two-room apartment any day now. I didn’t wait. I took the situation into my own hands.”
He was breathing heavily. I could see the gears turning in his head. He wasn’t really angry with me yet. He simply couldn’t digest the information. Too complicated. Too frightening.
“That’s Mom’s dacha!” he suddenly shouted so loudly that I flinched. His hand swept across the table and knocked a plate off it. Porcelain shattered into pieces, the shards rattling across the floor. “She’ll never forgive you for this!”
“Mom’s?” I felt the anger I had been holding back for so long finally break through the dam. “Whose money was in the mortgage papers? Mine! Who paid the realtor? I did! Where were you these past six months, while the bailiffs were following you around? You were drinking with your brother in the garage!”
It was the truth. Bitter, vile truth. I saw it hit him in the face. Sergey froze. His fists clenched and unclenched as if he were trying to grab hold of air. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the floor, at the shards, at his boots.
I knew what he was thinking about. Not about the money. Not about the dacha. He was thinking: What will Mom say? How will I explain this to my brother? Who is going to grill shashlik now?
He didn’t ask where the money had gone. He didn’t ask how I had lived these past three weeks, hiding this secret, waking up every night in a cold sweat. Only one thing mattered to him: the status quo. That everything remain as it had been. That he remain a good son, a caring brother, a generous man who invited the whole family to shashlik.
“You’ll get it back,” he hissed, raising his head. His eyes had turned dark, almost black. “You’ll cancel the deal. I’ll find the money.”
“No.”
“I said you’ll get it back!”
He punched the wall. The plaster cracked, but he didn’t notice. All his rage, all his masculine pride, had focused on me like I was a target.
“The house has been bought,” I said calmly, though my heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. “The money has been transferred. Part of it went toward paying off your debt so we wouldn’t be thrown out of this apartment. The rest went toward our daughter’s education. But of course you don’t care about that.”
“Don’t care?” He laughed, but the laugh came out horrifying. “You might as well say I’m a bad father! And you’re Mother of the Year, are you? Sold the family property!”
“Family property?” I could barely hold back a scream. “Sergey, the dacha was a wreck! The roof leaked, the foundation was cracked. None of you did anything there for ten years! You only drank and ate!”
“So you decided you had the right?”
“I did.” I picked up the contract from the table and jabbed my finger at a line. “The dacha was registered in my name. We are married, yes, but the deed of gift from your mother was drawn up with a clause stating that it was not marital property, but a personal gift to me. Have you forgotten? Or did your mother forget, when she wanted to humiliate me at my last birthday, shouting that ‘this little shack belongs only to the daughter-in-law, so she knows her place’?”
I saw him turn pale. The color drained from his face, leaving it gray and earthy. He remembered. Of course he remembered that day. How Lyudmila Ivanovna, drunk on her own importance, had yelled across the entire veranda: “I gave it to you! It was my goodwill! So don’t get arrogant. Know your place!”
She had wanted to humiliate me. She had wanted to show me that I was nothing without her. And back then, with her own hands, she had created a legal trap.
Now that trap had snapped shut.
“How could you…” Sergey began, but his voice broke.
“I legally disposed of my property,” I interrupted. “If you want, we can call a lawyer. Or go to the notary. I did everything according to the law.”
He stood there, hunched over, silent. For a long time. So long that I managed to turn off the stove, take a rag, and start picking up the shards. He watched me bend down, put the larger pieces into the dustpan, and didn’t move.
“Tomorrow,” he finally forced out. His voice sounded foreign, somehow squeezed. “Tomorrow we’re going to the dacha. The whole family. I told Mom everything was ready. You’re going to make me look like an idiot in front of everyone!”
I straightened up and looked at him. At his shaking hands, his sweaty forehead, the way he was desperately trying to save face.
“You did that to yourself,” I answered tiredly. “Or did you think you could take out loans, play the oligarch in front of your relatives, and I would keep silently pulling you out of debt? There is no such thing as a bottom to money troubles, Sergey. I simply don’t want to end up there.”
He didn’t answer. He turned and walked into the hallway. I heard him put on his jacket, heard his keys clatter. The door slammed so hard the chandelier trembled.
I was left alone. Shards on the floor, a dirty frying pan, a bag of shashlik in the refrigerator. Tomorrow they would all arrive at the dacha that no longer existed. And I would have to look Lyudmila Ivanovna in the eye, at her triumphant expression, at her certainty that she was always right.
I went to the window. Downstairs, near the entrance, headlights came on. Sergey got into the car but didn’t drive away. He sat there, his head lowered onto the steering wheel.
And suddenly I understood: this was only the beginning.
The worst was still ahead.
Chapter 2
I didn’t sleep that night. I lay on the sofa in the living room, covered with a blanket, staring at the ceiling. The bedroom was quiet, but I knew Sergey wasn’t sleeping either. He came back two hours after slamming the door. I heard him fumbling in the entryway, breathing heavily, walking past the living room without even looking in. The bedroom door closed quietly, but sharply.
Then the phone calls began. I heard his muffled voice, scraps of phrases drifting through the wall. First he called his mother. He spoke quickly, disjointedly, sometimes breaking into a shout, then growing quiet again. I couldn’t make out everything, but some words burned into my memory: “She’s gone mad,” “What do we do?” “Come tomorrow, sort it out.”
Sort it out. With me. As if I were a misbehaving child or a broken vacuum cleaner.
Then came the calls to his brother. There his voice became angrier, more confident. Denis was advising him on something, and Sergey grunted in agreement. I pictured them both: Sergey sitting on the bed, gripping the phone, and on the other end Denis, just as self-assured, handing out instructions. They had always been a team. Since childhood. Lyudmila Ivanovna had raised them like one clenched fist: the boys against the whole world. And women in that system were either service staff or enemies.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. The documents I had prepared with the lawyer kept spinning in my head. We had thought everything through. Every letter, every signature. But a chill still sat in my chest. Because I knew: the law is the law, but when an entire family comes at you, the law can feel powerless.
Toward morning I finally sank into a heavy, anxious sleep. I dreamed of the dacha. Green, sunny, with the apple trees my daughter and I had planted together. Then the apple trees began to blacken, the leaves fell away, and from behind them Lyudmila Ivanovna appeared in her floral housecoat and said, “You are a stranger here.”
I woke to the sound of the front door slamming.
Sergey came out of the bedroom exactly at eight. I heard his steps: heavy, decisive. He went into the kitchen, turned something on, turned it off. Then his footsteps moved toward the living room. I didn’t open my eyes, but I felt his gaze. He stood in the doorway and looked at me. Silently. Several minutes passed like that.
“I know you’re not asleep,” he finally said.
His voice was foreign. Not the voice he had used with me yesterday, not angry and not confused. It was the voice of a man who had made a decision.
I opened my eyes. Sergey stood leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He was wearing his best sweater — dark blue, high-collared, the one he usually wore to important negotiations with clients. His hair was combed back, his face shaved. He looked collected, almost calm. Only his eyes gave him away: dark circles lay beneath them, and his gaze was hard as sandpaper.
“Get ready,” he said. “We’re going.”
I sat up on the sofa and adjusted the blanket that had slipped down. My head was heavy, but the thought that the worst was about to begin drove away the last remnants of sleep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I answered. “I told you everything yesterday.”
“Mother said you will be there,” he said slowly, enunciating every word. “If you don’t come, it means you stole the dacha and are hiding. You want war? You’ll get war. The whole family will be there. And they want to look you in the eye.”
I smirked. Not because it was funny. Because it was painfully predictable. They couldn’t simply accept a fact. They needed a ritual, a family council, where I would be tried and sentenced. And I had to be present. Otherwise, they would make me into a fugitive, a thief, a coward.
“What time are we leaving?” I asked, understanding that arguing was useless. If I didn’t go, they would come here. And then it wouldn’t be a conversation anymore, but a siege.
“In an hour. You have time.”
He turned and went into the kitchen. I heard him clattering cups, making coffee. Everything as usual. As if nothing had happened yesterday.
I got up, washed, dressed. Jeans, a plain T-shirt, a light jacket. No jewelry. I had to look calm and confident. As I was getting ready, Sergey came out of the kitchen with a bag. I noticed it was heavy.
“I bought shashlik,” he said, catching my glance. “With my own money.”
He emphasized “my own.” I stayed silent. But to myself, I noted that yesterday he had withdrawn five thousand from our shared card. Money I had earned through side jobs was still on that card. But now was not the time to count pennies.
We left the apartment in silence. In the car, he turned the music on loudly so we wouldn’t have to talk. I looked out the window. The city slowly melted behind the glass, giving way to suburban settlements, then forest, then fields. The drive took about an hour. I knew every turn, every pothole. We had driven this road so many times before — with things, with groceries, with a baby stroller. Now I was going there to meet my fate.
When we entered the settlement, I saw the familiar streets overgrown with grass, the old fences. Our plot was at the end, near the forest. From a distance, I noticed a strange car by the gate. A white latest-model Hyundai, shiny as candy.
Denis. Of course he had arrived first. He couldn’t wait.
Sergey parked nearby. We got out. I took my bag; he took the shashlik. His brother was already standing by the gate. Denis was three years younger than Sergey but looked older: stocky, close-cropped hair, wearing an expensive leather jacket. He was leaning against the hood of his car and looking at me with a faint smirk. Beside him, a little farther away, stood Lenka, his wife. She wore a simple dress, her hair tied back, and held a bag of groceries. Lenka was always carrying groceries. And always silent.
“Oh, they’ve arrived,” Denis drawled without even saying hello. “We were starting to think, Natasha, that you’d run off with the money to warmer countries.”
I didn’t answer. I walked past him and opened the gate. Sergey followed me. Denis snorted but went in too.
Lyudmila Ivanovna was sitting on the porch. She reigned on an old wooden chair she herself had brought here years ago, after placing an embroidered cushion on it. Her hands were folded on her knees, her back straight. She always set up her throne here whenever she came to the dacha. Beside her stood a folding table already covered with tomatoes, cucumbers, and greens. She was preparing to receive guests.
“And here are our dear guests!” she sang, but there was so much poison in her voice that even the neighbors’ dogs started barking. “Come in, come in. Tell us how you sold off our family relic.”
Family relic. She called that wreck, with its leaking roof and cracked foundation, a relic.
I stopped about two meters away from her. Close enough to speak, far enough that she couldn’t reach me.
“Good afternoon, Lyudmila Ivanovna,” I said evenly. “I didn’t sell it off for scraps. I sold it to a legitimate buyer to cover your son’s debts. If you want, I can show you the bank payment receipts.”
“Don’t you dare throw debts in my face!” My mother-in-law jumped up. The hem of her long skirt caught on the leg of the chair, but she jerked so hard the chair nearly toppled. “My son is a businessman! He’s just going through a rough patch! And you’re a rootless woman who only knows how to drain money!”
Sergey stood behind me. I felt his breath, but he was silent. He didn’t defend me. Didn’t say a word in my favor. As always.
“Go inside,” my mother-in-law added, drilling into me with her stare. “We’ll sort this out. Denis, Lenka, come here. I declare a family council.”
Lenka, who had been standing by the gate all this time as though she didn’t dare enter without permission, stepped forward. Denis took the bag from her and moved toward the porch.
“Come in, come in,” he nodded toward the door. “Don’t be shy. Everything is fair here.”
I entered the house. The smell of pies hit me — Lyudmila Ivanovna always baked before these showdowns. Her signature cabbage pies, which she put on the table so “the conversation would be more heartfelt.” On the kitchen table there was already baked chicken, pickles, cold cuts, bread. Everything like in the good old days.
Only the atmosphere was different. Oppressive, heavy.
We sat down. Lyudmila Ivanovna at the head of the table, Sergey on her right, Denis on her left. Lenka sat on the edge of a chair, almost falling off it, as if ready to jump up and run at any moment. I sat opposite my mother-in-law, placing my bag in front of me. Inside it was a folder of documents.
“Well, out with it,” my mother-in-law began, slicing bread. The knife moved slowly, with pressure. “How much did you get for the house?”
“Three million two hundred thousand rubles,” I said.
Denis whistled. Lenka raised her eyes and looked at me for the first time. I caught her gaze and saw something like fear there.
“And where is the money?” My mother-in-law put the knife down. “Where are the three million, I’m asking you?”
I opened my bag and took out the folder. I spread the documents on the table. Copies of payment orders, bank statements, the sales contract.
“One million eight hundred thousand went toward paying off Sergey’s loan at Alfa-Bank,” I said, pointing at the payment order. “Our apartment was under threat. You can call the bailiff, Marina Sergeyevna Ivanova, and she’ll confirm it. One million I transferred to our daughter’s account — her education at Moscow State University is paid, in case you’ve forgotten. The rest went to realtor services and taxes.”
“You… you gave our money to some bailiff?” Denis leaned forward. “You could have given it to me! I have a business!”
I looked at him. At his expensive jacket, trendy haircut, self-confident face. And I said calmly, but firmly:
“Your business is a shawarma stand operating at a loss. And you pay the loan with Lenka’s salary. I’m not going to finance another hole.”
“Don’t you dare touch Lenka!” Denis sprang up. The chair crashed to the floor.
“I’m not touching her. Lenka, tell me, am I wrong?” I turned to my sister-in-law.
Lenka flinched as if struck. She looked at her husband, then at my mother-in-law, then at me. I saw in her eyes the same fear that had lived in me for years. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t manage.
“Be quiet!” my mother-in-law barked. “Don’t you dare in front of her! Are you turning her against us? Corrupting her?”
I sighed. From the folder, I took out the deed of gift they themselves had drawn up seven years earlier. Yellowed paper, seals, signatures. A notarized copy.
“Lyudmila Ivanovna, let’s stick to the facts,” I said, placing the deed on the table. “Here is the sales contract. Here is the bank certificate showing the debt has been paid off. Here is the receipt for our daughter’s tuition. The house was sold legally. I had the right to do it. And by the way, when you gifted me the dacha, you confirmed with a notary that it was not jointly acquired property. You did it yourself. So that, and I quote: ‘Sergey doesn’t have to share with that swindler later, if anything happens.’”
My mother-in-law turned crimson. I saw the color flood her cheeks, her neck, even her ears. She remembered that day. I remembered it too. It was the day she wanted to humiliate me. In front of everyone at the table, she said, “I’m giving this to you, but remember: it is only for you. If you divorce, Sergey gets nothing. He has no reason to share anything with you.”
She thought she was making me poor. And now that very paper had become my shield.
“How dare you…” my mother-in-law hissed. “I’ll file a complaint with the prosecutor’s office! You’re a fraud!”
“Go ahead,” I said calmly, gathering the documents back together. “Just don’t forget to attach your signature on the deed of gift. Under Article 159 of the Criminal Code, fraud requires intent. I have proof that all the money went toward paying off your family’s real debts. But your attempts at blackmail and threats fall under Article 119. I’m recording everything.”
I took out my phone and placed it on the table, screen up. A red button glowed on the display. The voice recorder had been running since the moment we entered the house. I had turned it on as soon as I crossed the threshold.
Silence filled the room. So thick that I could hear a fly beating against the glass. Denis froze with his mouth open. Lenka pressed her hands to her chest. Lyudmila Ivanovna looked at the phone, and in her eyes I saw not anger.
I saw fear.
For the first time ever.
“You… you’re recording us?” Sergey finally spoke. He rose from the table, leaning on the back of the chair. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“No,” I answered, looking straight into his eyes. “I simply stopped being a cash cow. You wanted war? I’m ready for it.”
Chapter 3
The silence in the house became almost physical. I felt its weight on my shoulders, my neck, my eyelids. The phone lay on the table, screen up, and the red dot of the recorder glowed steadily, without blinking. I looked at it and, for some reason, remembered the traffic light at the intersection where Sergey and I had almost crashed five years earlier. Back then, the light had been red too.
Lyudmila Ivanovna was the first to come out of her stupor. Very slowly, she lowered herself back onto the chair. Her hands, which only a minute earlier had confidently sliced bread, now lay motionless on the tabletop, as if dead. She looked at the phone, and I could see her feverishly sorting through options. Threaten? Intimidate? Demand that I turn it off?
She chose the third.
“Turn it off,” she said quietly, but there was metal in her voice. “Turn it off right now, before I make a call myself.”
“To whom?” I asked. “You wanted to go to the prosecutor’s office. Now you’ll have material. Do you want me to send it to them myself? Or would the police be better? I believe your eldest son works there. Or does he no longer?”
It was a shot in the dark. I didn’t know for certain whether he had been fired or not. There were rumors, but in Sergey’s family shameful things were never discussed out loud. Still, I hit the target. Lyudmila Ivanovna jerked as if she had been struck. Denis, who was still standing with his mouth open, suddenly snapped it shut with a sound like a lock clicking.
“How do you…” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “What matters is something else. Right now, you are sitting here threatening me. On this table there are knowingly false accusations. You are calling me a thief, a fraud, a swindler. All of it is being recorded. Every word. And if tomorrow I receive a summons or the district officer shows up at my door for an inspection, this recording will go to the Investigative Committee. Along with the deed of gift, the bank payment receipts, and witness statements.”
I nodded toward Lenka. She sat pressed into her chair, looking at me with huge eyes. I saw her clutching the edge of the tablecloth, her knuckles white. Two feelings were fighting inside her: fear of her husband and mother-in-law, and some wild, forbidden hope.
“You think we’re afraid of you?” my mother-in-law tried to smirk, but the smirk came out crooked. “My son is in the police. My eldest. With one phone call, he’ll—”
“Former son,” I corrected. “And former police officer. I made inquiries. He’s been working as a security guard in a shopping center for six months now. So his phone calls are worth no more than whistling into the wind.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna went pale. Not merely pale — she turned that deathly shade where the face becomes gray, like ash. She looked at me, and I saw the confidence go out in her eyes. She was used to being in charge. She was used to everyone fearing her anger, her connections, her protection. And now I was sitting across from her, calmly proving with papers that all of it was nothing but a soap bubble.
“Natasha,” Sergey suddenly spoke. He stood by the window, turned toward me in profile, and I saw his jaw tremble. “Natasha, what are you trying to achieve? Do you want to put my mother in prison? Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want anything,” I answered tiredly. “I want to be left alone. The dacha has been sold. The money was spent on what it had to be spent on. I didn’t steal anything, didn’t hide anything. You can be angry, offended, but the fact remains. And if you stop this hysteria now and go home, I’ll delete this recording. Right in front of you.”
“Delete it now,” my mother-in-law demanded. “Delete it, and then we’ll talk.”

“No.” I shook my head. “First you leave. All of you. Then I delete it. And we go on living. Each of us our own life.”
“This is our house!” my mother-in-law shrieked. “We have the right to be here!”
“This is no longer your house,” I reminded her. “And it isn’t mine either. The house has been sold. The new owners take possession in a week. So if you want to make a scandal, you’d better hurry. And for now, while I’m here, I am the owner. At least until next Friday.”
I stood up. The chair scraped against the floorboards. I picked up my phone without turning off the recorder and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans.
“I’m going outside. You need time to gather yourselves. Lenka, are you coming with me?”
Lenka flinched when she heard her name. She looked at Denis. He stood there, fists clenched, looking at her as if she had already become a traitor simply because I had addressed her.
“Sit down,” he said through his teeth. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Denis,” I turned to him. “You are standing here in front of your wife. Your mother. Your brother. Do you want me to turn on video? Do you want everything happening here to end up on the internet? Do you know how fast clips like that spread? I have forty thousand subscribers on Telegram. Forty thousand, Denis. Your shawarma place will get such publicity that customers will run from it like the plague.”
I was lying. I didn’t have forty thousand subscribers. I didn’t even have a Telegram channel. But they didn’t know that. They lived in a world where everything was measured in connections, acquaintances, power. And numbers were as much a weapon to them as the recorder was to me.
Lenka stood up. I saw her legs trembling, saw her cling to the edge of the table so she wouldn’t fall. But she stood. And took a step toward me.
“Lenka, what did I say?” Denis roared.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered. “I’ll just go outside. I can’t breathe.”
She took another step, then another. Denis stepped toward her and grabbed her by the elbow. Hard, with a crunch. Lenka cried out, not loudly, more like a small animal caught in a trap.
“Let her go,” I said.
“Stay out of things that don’t concern you,” Denis snapped.
“This does concern me,” I said, moving closer. “You are using physical force against a woman in front of witnesses. That is assault. Article 116 of the Criminal Code. I’m recording everything, Denis. Your mother and brother are witnesses. Do you want to test how the law works?”
Denis looked at me. At my hand in my pocket, where the phone was. At my face, which was probably very calm and very firm. And slowly he unclenched his fingers.
Lenka yanked her elbow free and almost ran out of the house. I followed her.
Outside, it was fresh. The sky was covered with clouds; the sun appeared and disappeared, making the light shift from bright to gray. Lenka stood by the porch, her back pressed to the railing, breathing quickly, as if she had been running for a long time.
“How are you?” I asked, coming closer.
“I don’t know,” she breathed out. “I… I’ve never done that before. Standing up. Saying something. He’s never hit me, but… but he grabs me often. And my mother-in-law always says it’s my own fault. That I provoke him.”
“You are not to blame,” I said firmly. “Remember that. You are never to blame when a man raises his hand against you.”
Lenka looked at me. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying. She was holding back.
“And do you…” she began, then faltered. “Do you really have forty thousand subscribers?”
“No,” I smiled with one corner of my mouth. “I lied. But they don’t know that. What mattered was that it seemed to them I was stronger.”
“You are stronger,” Lenka said quietly. “I always knew it. I always looked at you and thought: how does she do it? How is she not afraid?”
“I am afraid,” I answered honestly. “Every second. But if I show fear, they’ll devour me. You know this family. They’re like sharks. They smell blood and attack.”
Lenka nodded. She knew. She had lived in this family longer than I had — twelve years. And every day she had felt as if she were at the bottom of the ocean among predators.
A crash came from inside the house. Something fell, scattered, someone shouted an indistinct curse. Then it became quiet. Then the door slammed, and Sergey came out onto the porch. His face was red, his hair disheveled, his sweater twisted to one side. He looked at me, at Lenka, at the sky, at the ground. Anywhere except into my eyes.
“We’re leaving,” he said dully. “Mother isn’t feeling well.”
“I see,” I replied.
“You…” He stopped. “Are you coming home?”
“Home?” I repeated. “Sergey, are you serious right now? After everything that happened here?”
“She’s my mother,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You know how hot-tempered she is. She’ll calm down, and everything will go back to normal.”
“Nothing will go back to normal,” I shook my head. “And you know that.”
He wanted to say something, but didn’t have time. Lyudmila Ivanovna and Denis came out of the house. My mother-in-law walked while leaning on her son’s arm, looking so miserable, so sick, that any outsider would have taken her for the victim, not the aggressor. I knew this trick. She always turned on her “weakness” when she realized she was losing.
“Lena,” Denis threw out as he passed. “To the car.”
Lenka looked at me. In her eyes there was something I had never seen before. A spark. Resolve.
“I’m staying with Natasha,” she said quietly, but firmly. “I’ll come later.”
Denis stopped. Turned around. Lyudmila Ivanovna froze too, forgetting all about her weakness.
“What did you say?” Denis’s voice became quiet, and that was more frightening than shouting.
“I said I’m staying with Natasha,” Lenka repeated. “You go. I’ll take a taxi.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Denis stepped toward her, but I stood between them. “Are you turning her against me?” he shouted at me. “You already destroyed one family, now you’re going after mine?”
“You destroyed your family yourself,” I answered calmly. “Every time you raised your hand against her. Every time you let your mother humiliate her. Every time you spent her salary on your whims. I have nothing to do with it.”
Lenka stood behind my back. I felt her trembling, but she didn’t step away.
“Denis, let’s go,” my mother-in-law said. “Don’t disgrace yourself. She’ll come to her senses and crawl back. Where else will she go?”
“I won’t crawl back,” Lenka said. “For the first time in my life, I won’t crawl.”
Denis clenched his fists. I saw him hesitating: whether to lunge at his wife or obey his mother. His upbringing won. He turned, took my mother-in-law by the elbow, and led her toward the gate. Lyudmila Ivanovna threw me one last look — full of hatred and a promise. I answered her with the same calm gaze.
Sergey stood in the middle of the yard, looking from me to his departing mother. He looked lost. Like a child who had been forced to choose and didn’t know how.
“Sergey,” I said. “Go. Stay with your mother. Then we’ll talk. Calmly. Without shouting.”
“When?” he asked.
“When I say,” I answered.
He looked at me for a long, heavy moment. Then he turned and walked to the car.
Lenka and I stood on the porch, watching two cars drive out of the yard. First Denis’s white Hyundai, then Sergey’s old Ford. They drove down the street, turned the corner, and the settlement sank back into silence.
“They left,” Lenka breathed. “God, they really left.”
“They really did.” I lowered myself onto the step. My legs had suddenly turned to cotton. All the determination that had held me up for the last two hours vanished somewhere, leaving only emptiness and exhaustion.
Lenka sat beside me. We were silent. The wind stirred the currant leaves I had once planted. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
“What are you going to do?” Lenka asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “First, a divorce. Then, a new life.”
“And me?” Her voice trembled. “Where do I go now?”
“With me,” I said. “You’ll stay with me as long as you need. Then we’ll figure it out.”
Lenka began to cry. Quietly, without sobs; tears simply ran down her cheeks, and she didn’t wipe them away. I put my arm around her shoulders, and we sat like that on the porch of the sold dacha — two women who had finally stopped being afraid.
“Natasha,” she said through tears. “The recorder… did you really record everything?”
“I turned it on when I entered,” I nodded. “I recorded everything. From the first word to the last.”
“And what do we do with it now?”
I took out my phone. Pressed the red button. The recorder stopped, and a message appeared on the screen: “File saved. Duration: 2 hours 17 minutes.”
“I’ll save it,” I said. “Just in case. As insurance. If they calm down, no one will ever hear this recording. But if they don’t…”
I didn’t finish. Lenka nodded. She understood.
We stood up and brushed ourselves off. I looked one last time around the yard, the house, the veranda I had painted myself. The apple trees planted by my hands. The currants I had watered every summer.
“Does it hurt?” Lenka asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It hurts a lot. But this was not my home. It was their fortress. And in it, I was only a servant.”
I closed the gate. We walked down the street toward the bus stop.
And I did not look back.
Chapter 4
We returned to the city in a passing minibus. The old gray vehicle, used by local taxi drivers for trips to the settlement, shook along the broken road, and every thud of the wheels echoed in my temples. Lenka sat by the window, staring at the passing trees, silent. I sat beside her, clutching my phone. The voice recording had been saved in three places: on my phone, in cloud storage, and on a flash drive I always carried in my jacket pocket. That habit had stayed with me from the time I worked at a small company where the boss liked changing contract terms verbally.
Lenka came out of her numbness only when we entered the city. She turned to me, and I saw that her face had changed completely. Not beaten down, as always, but confused and somehow lighter.
“Natasha,” she said quietly. “He won’t come, will he? Denis? He knows where you live.”
“He knows,” I nodded. “But he won’t come. First, because he’s a coward. Second, because he knows I have the recording. He’s not stupid; he understands that if he starts breaking in, I’ll call the police. He doesn’t need extra problems. His shawarma place is rented, and the landlord already looks sideways at his constant scandals.”
“And what if Lyudmila Ivanovna comes?”
“Lyudmila Ivanovna is going to be treating her blood pressure now. That’s her favorite tactic: when she loses, she retreats into illness. For three days she’ll drink valerian drops and call her friends, complaining about her ungrateful daughter-in-law. Then she’ll start coming up with a new plan.”
Lenka flinched.
“A new plan? You think they won’t calm down?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Maybe they will. I’ve known them for fourteen years. They’re used to pressing until they break someone. But this time nothing worked. Maybe they’ll draw conclusions.”
I didn’t believe what I was saying. But Lenka needed to hear something hopeful. She was already on the edge.
We reached my building. I paid the driver, and we got out. The entrance was gray and shabby, but clean inside — I washed the stairwell every week. The neighbors respected me, and that too was a kind of protection. If Denis or Sergey made a scene here, there would be a dozen witnesses.
At home, the first thing I did was put on the kettle. Lenka sat on a kitchen stool, wrapping her arms around herself, staring at one point. I poured her tea and added sugar. She took the cup but didn’t drink.
“Have you wanted to leave for a long time?” I asked.
She raised her eyes to me. At first, I think she wanted to lie, but then she nodded.
“For a long time. A very long time. Since Alisa was born. Denis came from the maternity hospital drunk back then because he had ‘celebrated’ with friends. And I was lying there with tears and stitches, unable to get up. Lyudmila Ivanovna came, looked at me, and said, ‘Well, you gave birth? Now sit there and don’t whine. You ruined the man’s celebration.’”
I was silent. I remembered that day. I had gone to see Lenka at the maternity hospital with flowers and baby clothes. I remembered her tear-streaked face and frightened eyes.
“And then everything went downhill,” Lenka continued. “I worked, Denis ‘looked for himself.’ He would open one business, then close it. He took out loans against my salary. The car too — on me. And I endured all of it. I thought: family, a child. Where would I go? I don’t even have my own apartment.”
“You do,” I said. “You have a room in the dormitory that was assigned to you through work. You haven’t privatized it, but it is assigned to you. I checked.”
Lenka stared at me in astonishment.
“You… checked?”
“I’ve wanted to help you for a long time,” I admitted. “But you weren’t ready. Every time Denis promised to change, you backed down. And now, I think, you’re ready.”
She broke down crying. Not quietly, like at the dacha, but loudly, with sobs, her shoulders shaking. I hugged her, and we sat like that for ten minutes until she calmed down.
“Sorry,” she said, wiping her tears. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to anymore.”
“And you don’t have to,” I answered. “That’s it. You took the first step. It gets easier from here.”
The kettle had gone cold. I boiled fresh water and brewed strong tea. We drank a cup each, and Lenka gradually began to come back to herself. She called her daughter — Alisa was at a school friend’s house and was supposed to sleep over there. Lenka said she was with Aunt Natasha, that everything was fine, and asked her not to worry. She spoke evenly, calmly, and only I saw how her hand trembled.
Then we sat in the kitchen, and I told her what documents she would need for a divorce, where to go, what to say. I had studied all this myself over the past three weeks while preparing for the sale of the dacha. The lawyer I had hired had given me an entire folder of instructions.
“You have a chance,” I told her. “You have a room, a job, a daughter. You won’t disappear.”
“And if Denis doesn’t give Alisa back?” Lenka asked.
“He will. Because he doesn’t want her. I’m sorry, but it’s true. He never took care of the child. He needed you — as a nanny, as a breadwinner, as service staff. Alisa is a burden to him. He won’t even remember her until he needs to use her to pressure you.”
Lenka nodded. She knew it was true.
Our conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. We both flinched. I looked at the clock — half past ten at night. Who could come at this hour? Sergey? Denis?
I gestured for Lenka to stay silent, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat.
Sergey stood on the landing. Alone. Without his mother, without his brother. He was pale, disheveled, in the same blue sweater he had worn that morning. He was looking at the door but didn’t ring again. He simply stood there, leaning one hand against the wall.
I opened the door.
“What do you want?” I asked, blocking the entrance.
“We need to talk,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been yelling or crying.
“We already talked. Today. In front of your mother and brother.”
“Natasha, I’m alone. Without them. May I come in?”
I hesitated. On one hand, he was my husband, and we really did have things to discuss. On the other, I didn’t know what he was planning. He could have come in peace, or he could have been carrying out another plan of Lyudmila Ivanovna’s.
“Lenka is here,” I said. “If you start a scandal, she’s a witness.”
“I’m not here for a scandal. I’m serious. Five minutes.”
I let him in. He took off his shoes and went into the kitchen. When he saw Lenka sitting at the table, he stopped. Something like surprise flickered across his face, but he quickly pulled himself together.
“Hello,” he said.
Lenka nodded but didn’t answer. I sat opposite my husband and placed my hands on the table. I put my phone beside me, screen up. Sergey looked at it but said nothing.
“I wanted…” he began, then stopped. “Natasha, I wanted to apologize.”
I stayed silent. He waited for me to say something, but I was waiting for him to continue.
“I’m apologizing for my mother. She went too far. Denis too. I… I should have defended you, but I got confused.”
“Confused,” I repeated. “Sergey, you always get confused when you have to choose between me and your mother. That isn’t confusion. It’s a choice.”
He lowered his head. I saw how tense his shoulders were, how he gripped the edge of the table.
“I don’t want a divorce,” he said dully. “We’ve been together so many years. We have a daughter. Can’t we solve everything peacefully?”
“Peacefully?” I couldn’t hold back a smirk. “Your mother just called me a thief and a fraud. Your brother wanted to hit his wife right in front of me. And you stood there silently. And now you’re offering me peace?”
“I’ll talk to them.” He raised his head, and I saw desperation in his eyes. “I’ll make them apologize.”
“Sergey,” I sighed. “You cannot make your mother apologize. She doesn’t know how to admit mistakes. She’d rather die than say she was wrong. And your brother is her copy. They won’t change. And you won’t change either. Because you will always try to please both sides. And in the end, you will please no one.”
He was silent. Lenka sat quietly, afraid to move. I felt her watching me, catching every word.
“The money,” Sergey suddenly said. “Maybe we can return part of the money? I’ll take out a loan, pay the buyer, and—”
“You want to take out another loan?” I interrupted. “You already owe the bank almost two million. Your car is collateral. You don’t have a job because you were laid off three months ago, and you didn’t tell me. Were you ever planning to tell me?”
He went even paler. I knew that blow would hurt. I had found out about his dismissal by accident when I called his former colleague, trying to ask whether he had seen Sergey — Sergey had disappeared for three days then. The colleague was surprised and said that Sergey hadn’t worked at their company for six months. I checked, and it turned out he had been fired back in April. For three months, he had pretended to go to work while disappearing somewhere. I didn’t know where he had been. I didn’t want to know.
“How did you…” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “What matters is that you lied to me. Lied when you took out loans. Lied when you said everything was under control. Lied when you promised you wouldn’t drink with Denis anymore. You live in lies, Sergey. And I don’t want to live in them anymore.”
He stood up. The chair scraped against the linoleum. Lenka flinched and pressed herself against the wall.
“So that’s it?” he asked. His voice was empty.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’ll file for divorce. Peacefully, without scandals. The apartment is mine, and you know it. Our daughter stays with me, and you can see her whenever you want. I won’t ask for alimony because you won’t be able to pay it anyway.”
He stood there, looking at me, and I saw something break inside him. Not love. Love had been gone for a long time. Habit was breaking. The habit of there being a home, a wife, someone who would solve problems.
“And if I don’t agree?” he asked.
“Your disagreement changes nothing. We have no jointly acquired property except the dacha, and the dacha has already been sold. There’s nothing to dispute.”
“You thought everything through,” he said bitterly.
“Yes. I thought everything through. Because if I hadn’t, we would now be living in a rented apartment while the bailiffs inventoried our furniture.”
He turned and went toward the exit. At the door, he stopped.
“Lenka,” he said without turning around. “You should go home. Denis is worried.”
Lenka raised her head. I saw her gathering her strength.
“Tell Denis,” she said firmly, “that I am not coming back. Tell him I’ll file for divorce. And Alisa stays with me. If he wants to see her, he can call and arrange it. But I won’t let him lay hands on me anymore.”
Sergey turned around. He looked at her, at me, at the phone on the table. Then he sighed.
“You women are fools,” he said tiredly. “You’ll be lost without us.”
“We will,” I agreed. “But differently.”
He left. The door closed quietly, without a slam. I heard him going down the stairs, heard the entrance door close. Then silence. Lenka sat with her arms wrapped around herself, trembling slightly.
“I said it,” she whispered. “I really said it.”
“You did,” I came over and hugged her. “Well done.”
“What if he comes? What if they both come?”
“They won’t,” I said confidently. “They’re scared. You saw how Sergey looked at the phone? He knows I have the recording. They’ll be careful now.”
I wasn’t completely sure of that. But Lenka needed to feel safe.
We went to bed after midnight. I made up a bed for Lenka in the living room, and I lay down in the bedroom. But I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. I tossed and turned, thinking about the day, about what I had said to Sergey, about what would happen next. Divorce is not just a piece of paper. It is the end of something that once seemed important. I remembered how Sergey and I had met, how we married, how we built the dacha. And I couldn’t understand when everything had gone wrong. Or had it always been this way, and I simply hadn’t noticed?
I had almost fallen asleep when the phone rang. The number was unknown. I looked at the screen — eleven o’clock. Who calls at that time? I rejected it. A minute later, the call came again. I answered.
“Natalya Sergeyevna?” A woman’s voice, official and stern.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is the psychoneurological dispensary. We have an order for an examination. Tomorrow at ten in the morning, you must appear before a doctor for a commission evaluation.”
I sat up in bed. My heart dropped.
“What commission? On what grounds?”
“On the basis of a statement from your husband, Sergey Ivanovich Gromov. He contacted us with a statement that you pose a danger to yourself and others. Tomorrow at ten. Do not be late. If you fail to appear, we will be forced to call a team for an involuntary examination.”
I was silent. My ears rang.
“Do you hear me?” the woman asked.
“I hear you,” I answered. “I’ll come. But with a lawyer. And with documents proving that the statement is false. Tell your management: if they don’t cancel this farce, I’ll sue the dispensary for defamation and abuse of authority.”
The woman on the other end was silent for a moment.
“That is your right,” she said dryly. “We’ll be expecting you tomorrow.”
She hung up.
I sat in the darkness, clutching the phone. Sergey. He had left, said he didn’t want a divorce, and immediately gone to the psychiatrists. Or was it Lyudmila Ivanovna? It didn’t matter. They had decided to play dirty after all. They had decided that I could be broken by threatening me with a psychiatric hospital.
I got up, poured water, drank. My hands were shaking. I knew it was illegal, that it was a fabrication, that I had certificates proving I was healthy. But fear was still there. Because in our country, a certificate can be bought, and a psychiatrist can be persuaded. Because if someone wants to lock you away, they will find a way.
I looked at the clock. Half past eleven. I dialed my lawyer. He answered after the third ring.
“Hello?” His voice was sleepy but attentive.
“Viktor Pavlovich, I’m sorry it’s so late. We have a problem. My husband filed a statement with the psychiatric dispensary claiming I’m mentally incompetent. The examination is tomorrow at ten.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Understood,” the lawyer said. “I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll be there by ten. Don’t worry, Natalya Sergeyevna. We have all the documents. And your voice recording. They made a big mistake.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”
I hung up. It was dark outside. Somewhere far away, a dog barked. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing.
They had declared war.
Fine. I would accept the battle.
Chapter 5
I didn’t sleep all night. I lay in the dark, listening to the alarm clock ticking on the nightstand, to Lenka occasionally turning over behind the wall. She wasn’t sleeping either — I heard her uneven breathing, sometimes quiet sobs. But we didn’t talk. Each of us was alone with her own thoughts.
The conversation with the lawyer kept replaying in my head. Viktor Pavlovich had said everything would be fine, but I knew the price of those words. Fine happens only in movies. In real life, fine is when you’re not in a psychiatric hospital but at home. Even if that home is a rented apartment and someone else’s debts are hanging over you.
I got up at six. Washed my face with cold water and dressed. I chose something strict: black trousers, a white blouse, low-heeled shoes. I had to look confident and calm. The lawyer had said appearance is half of success. Psychiatrists look not only at documents, but also at the person. If I came disheveled, with red eyes, they might believe I wasn’t myself. I put on light makeup and gathered my hair into a bun. A stranger looked back at me from the mirror — composed, cold, ready for battle.
Lenka came out of the living room while I was already making tea. She was pale, with circles under her eyes, but neatly dressed: jeans, a light sweater, hair combed.
“Are you coming with me?” I asked.
“May I?” Her voice was quiet, but firm.
“You need to. You’re a witness. You heard the threats yesterday at the dacha. You saw how Denis and Lyudmila Ivanovna behaved. Your testimony may be useful.”
She nodded. We drank tea. I gathered the folder of documents: the sales contract, bank certificates, receipts for my daughter’s tuition, extracts from the bailiffs, a work reference, a psychiatrist’s certificate I had specifically obtained three weeks earlier when preparing for a possible conflict. And the flash drive with the voice recording. And a spare flash drive. And my phone, which also had the recording.
At eight thirty, the lawyer called. He said he would be at the dispensary by nine forty and told me not to be afraid.
I wasn’t afraid. I felt sick.
We left the apartment a little after nine. Outside it was overcast, with a fine drizzle. Lenka stayed close, as if afraid someone might snatch her right off the road. I took her by the arm, and we walked to the bus stop.
The psychoneurological dispensary was on the outskirts of the city, in an old two-story building with peeling paint. A high fence, wrought-iron gates, a sign with office hours. I had been there once, three years earlier, when I needed a certificate for work. Back then it had been empty and quiet. Today several cars stood by the entrance.
We arrived exactly at nine forty. Viktor Pavlovich was already waiting for us by the door. He was a man of about fifty-five, short, in a gray suit, with a briefcase and thin-rimmed glasses. He had been handling my affairs for the last three weeks and knew everything: the dacha, the loans, the threats. I trusted him because he was the only person who hadn’t said to me, “It’s your own fault. Why did you marry a man like that?”
“Natalya Sergeyevna,” he said, shaking my hand. “Don’t worry. I reviewed their statement. It is written with errors and has no legal force. We will challenge it.”
“And what if they’ve already made arrangements with the doctor?” I asked. “What if someone paid them?”
“Possible,” the lawyer nodded. “But we have your documents. And the recording. If the doctor tries to act subjectively, we’ll file a complaint against him personally. No psychiatrist wants to lose a license for a few thousand rubles.”
We went inside. The hallway smelled of medicine and chlorine. A schedule hung on the wall; beneath it was a bench where two women in identical headscarves sat. They looked at us with dreary curiosity. The registration desk was on the right, behind thick glass. I went up and gave my name.
“Gromova Natalya Sergeyevna, for the commission at ten.”
The woman behind the glass looked at me with professional indifference.
“Room eighteen. You’ve already been assigned.”
We went up to the second floor. The corridor was quiet; only muffled voices came from behind closed doors. Room eighteen was at the end of the hallway. A chair stood beside the door. We sat down. The lawyer took a folder from his briefcase and leafed through the documents. Lenka sat with her fingers interlaced, staring at the door as if a monster were about to come out.
At exactly ten, the door opened. A woman in a white coat stood on the threshold — about forty, short haircut, sharp eyes.
“Gromova?” she asked.
“Yes,” I stood up.
“Come in. And who are these people with you?”
“My lawyer and a witness,” I said calmly, though everything inside me was shaking. “They will be present during the examination.”
The doctor frowned.
“That is not provided for by procedure.”
“It is provided for by law,” the lawyer intervened. “Under Article 48 of the Constitution, everyone has the right to legal assistance. And under the Law on Psychiatric Care, an examination without the patient’s consent is conducted only in the presence of a lawyer if the patient insists. My client insists.”
The woman looked at him, at me, at Lenka. She was silent for a moment.
“Fine. Come in, all of you. But the witness sits quietly and does not interfere.”
The office was small: a desk, a computer, an examination couch in the corner, several chairs. On the desk lay an open file. I noticed my surname written on the folder. So they had prepared in advance.
We sat down. I sat opposite the doctor, the lawyer beside me, Lenka against the wall. The doctor — her name was Galina Petrovna, I read it on the nameplate — opened the folder and scanned the papers.
“Natalya Sergeyevna,” she began. “Your husband, Sergey Ivanovich Gromov, contacted us with a statement that lately your behavior has caused concern. He indicated that you sold jointly owned property without his consent, are hiding from the family, and are threatening relatives. Is this true?”
“No,” I answered. “The property was my personal property, which is confirmed by the deed of gift. I am not hiding; I live at my registered address. And the threats came not from me, but from members of his family toward me.”
The doctor looked at me over her glasses.
“You understand that this is a serious statement? Your husband claims that you suffer from a chronic mental disorder, that you have aggressive episodes, and that you refuse treatment.”
“My husband is lying,” I said firmly. “I have a certificate from a psychiatrist dated two weeks ago, stating that I am healthy and not registered for psychiatric care. I have a reference from my workplace, where I have worked for seven years. I have an audio recording in which his family members threaten me with physical violence and promise to have me put in a psychiatric hospital using forged documents.”
I took the certificate from the folder and placed it on the table. The doctor took it, read it, frowned.
“This certificate…” she began.
“Was issued legally,” the lawyer interrupted. “The doctor who signed it has the appropriate license. If you doubt its authenticity, we can request verification.”
Galina Petrovna set the certificate aside. Her face became unreadable.
“I must conduct an examination. It is standard procedure. I will ask you several questions, Natalya Sergeyevna. Please answer honestly.”
“I will answer honestly,” I said. “And I want my answers to be recorded. I have a voice recorder.”
I took out my phone and placed it on the table. The doctor looked at it, then at me. Something flickered in her eyes — irritation, perhaps, or fatigue.
“That is not necessary,” she said.
“For me, it is necessary,” I answered. “I want a recording of this conversation in case it is used against me.”
She sighed.
“Fine. Then I will also keep a protocol. Let’s begin. Your full name, age, place of work?”
I answered. She asked standard questions: how I sleep, how I eat, whether I have hallucinations, whether I hear voices, whether I feel I am being watched. I answered calmly, clearly, looking her in the eye. The questions were stupid, but I understood that much depended on my answers.
“You claim your husband is lying,” she said after half an hour of questioning. “Why might he have done this?”
“Because I sold the dacha,” I answered. “The dacha was my personal property. I sold it to pay off my husband’s debts, debts he created by taking out loans without my knowledge. His family believes I had no right to do that. They demanded the money back, threatened me, and when I refused, they filed this statement.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.” I pulled from the folder a transcript of the voice recording. “Here is a transcript of a conversation that took place yesterday at the dacha. In it, my mother-in-law, Lyudmila Ivanovna Gromova, threatens me with a psychiatric hospital. She says verbatim: ‘We have a certificate saying she is unstable. That she is registered. Psychiatrist. Women’s clinic. We have everything ready.’ That is a direct quote.”
The doctor took the paper and read it. I saw her face change. She set the transcript down and removed her glasses.
“Natalya Sergeyevna,” she said in a different voice, no longer official but almost human. “I must tell you. Your husband’s statement came to us yesterday evening, marked urgent. Attached to it was a certificate from a private clinic stating that you had been observed by a psychiatrist with a diagnosis of…”
She stopped.
“What diagnosis?” I asked.
“Paranoid schizophrenia. The certificate is dated the year before last, signed by a doctor I do not know. But if this certificate is real…”
“It is not real.” I took out my own documents. “Here is my medical record for the last five years. Here are extracts from the women’s clinic. Here is a certificate from my therapist. I have never seen a psychiatrist except to obtain work-related certificates. The latest such certificate is from two weeks ago. I already showed it to you.”
The doctor took the documents and studied them for a long time. Then she leaned back in her chair.
“I must conduct an independent verification,” she said. “That will take time.”
“How much time?” the lawyer asked.
“Five to seven days.”
“And what happens to my client during that time?” he leaned forward. “Will she be hospitalized? Will a travel ban be imposed?”
“No,” the doctor shook her head. “Not at this point. I see no grounds for involuntary hospitalization. The patient is adequate, lucid, oriented. If the statement proves false, we will close the case.”
“And if it doesn’t prove false?” I asked.
The doctor looked at me. There was something like sympathy in her gaze.
“Then we will have to conduct a more thorough examination. But I am inclined to trust your documents.”
I exhaled. Not loudly, but probably everyone heard. Behind me, Lenka sobbed.
At that moment, the office door opened without a knock. A woman in a white coat stood in the doorway, looking anxious.
“Galina Petrovna, some people have arrived…” she began.
“I’m busy,” the doctor cut her off.
“But they insist. The patient’s husband and his mother. They say they must be present during the examination.”
I turned to the lawyer. He shook his head.
“That is impossible,” he said firmly. “The examination is conducted only in the presence of people admitted by the patient. My client does not consent to the presence of her husband or his relatives.”
Galina Petrovna stood up.
“Tell them to wait in the corridor,” she said to the woman at the door. “I will come out to them myself when I finish.”
The door closed. The doctor looked at me.
“They’re here,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she nodded. “They arrived early this morning. Your husband said you might be aggressive, so they wanted to be present for your own safety.”
“For my safety?” I smirked. “They want to make sure I don’t get out of it.”
“Natalya Sergeyevna,” the doctor paused. “I have no right to make judgments, but… I have worked here for fifteen years. I have seen many false statements. And judging by your documents and what I have heard, your case appears to be one of them. I will write in the conclusion that there are no grounds to register you for psychiatric care. But formally, I must verify the certificate your husband provided.”
“And if it turns out to be forged?” the lawyer asked.
“Then I will forward the materials to the prosecutor’s office. Forging medical documents is a criminal offense.”
I closed my eyes for a second to gather myself.
“Galina Petrovna,” I said, opening my eyes. “Will you allow me to speak to my husband? Here, in your presence?”
She was surprised.
“Why?”
“So he can hear the truth. So he understands that his plan has failed. And so you can see for yourself which of us truly needs a psychiatrist.”
She hesitated.
“That is unusual…”
“It is legal,” the lawyer said. “If my client wants to speak to her husband in the presence of the doctor conducting the examination, that is her right.”
Galina Petrovna sighed.
“Fine. I will call them in. But if a scandal starts, I will ask everyone to leave.”
She went out. The three of us remained. Lenka came over and took my hand. Her fingers were icy.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“I’m sure,” I answered. “Enough hiding.”
A minute later, the door opened. Sergey and Lyudmila Ivanovna entered. My mother-in-law wore her best custom-made coat and had perfect hair. She looked as though she were going to a meeting with a minister. Sergey was gray-faced, rumpled, staring at the floor.
“Natasha,” my mother-in-law began in a sugary voice. “We were so worried about you. When Sergey said you weren’t yourself, we immediately—”
“Sit down,” I interrupted. My voice was harsher than I expected.
They sat. Lyudmila Ivanovna opposite me, Sergey beside her. I looked at my husband. He did not raise his eyes.
“Sergey,” I said. “Why did you do this?”
He was silent.
“I’m asking you,” I repeated. “Why did you file a statement claiming I am mentally incompetent? You know I’m healthy. You know I have certificates. Why?”
“It was Mom…” he began.
“I am not asking Mom,” I raised my voice. “I am asking you. You are my husband. We’ve been together for fourteen years. You know me better than anyone. And you decided to lock me in a psychiatric hospital. For what?”
He raised his head. His eyes were red and wet.
“I didn’t want to,” he said quietly. “Mother said it was the only way to get the dacha back. That if you were declared legally incompetent, the deal could be canceled. I didn’t want to, Natasha. But she said otherwise you would ruin us all.”
“I will ruin you?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “I am ruining you? You owe the bank two million! You lost your job! You lied to me for three months, pretending to go to the office! And I am ruining you?”
“Don’t you dare yell at my son!” my mother-in-law interfered. “Because of you, he wanted to take his own life! You drove him to a nervous breakdown!”
“I drove him?” I turned to her. “Lyudmila Ivanovna, you are sitting in a psychiatrist’s office, where you came to have me declared insane. You have a forged certificate in your hands. You threatened me with a psychiatric hospital yesterday at the dacha, and I have a recording. Do you think this will go unpunished?”
She turned pale.
“What recording?” she asked, but her voice trembled.
“An audio recording,” the lawyer said. “We have the full recording of yesterday’s conversation, including your threats, Lyudmila Ivanovna. And yours, Denis Gromov’s. And witness testimony. Threats of physical violence, threats of unlawful hospitalization, defamation. Everything is documented.”
My mother-in-law clutched her heart. Theatrically, but convincingly.
“I feel ill,” she whispered. “I feel ill. Call an ambulance.”
“Galina Petrovna,” I looked at the doctor. “You are a psychiatrist. Assess Lyudmila Ivanovna’s condition. Perhaps she needs hospitalization?”
Galina Petrovna looked at my mother-in-law with undisguised contempt.
“In my assessment,” she said dryly, “the patient is fully sane and is simulating a heart attack. If she is truly unwell, she should see a therapist. We don’t treat that in my department.”
My mother-in-law lowered her hand. Anger and fear fought across her face.
“You are all against me,” she hissed. “You have all conspired.”
“No one conspired against you,” I said tiredly. “You created this situation yourself. You wanted to destroy me, but you overdid it. Now you’ll have to answer for it.”
“What do you mean, answer?” Sergey’s voice became frightened.
“Exactly what it means,” the lawyer said. “Forgery of medical documents is Article 327 of the Criminal Code. Knowingly false denunciation is Article 306. Threats are Article 119. My client has every right to file a police report. And she will do so if you do not stop your attempts to pressure her.”
Sergey jumped up.
“Natasha, don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t go to the police! Mother is old, she won’t survive it! Denis will be imprisoned! You’ll ruin us all!”
“I’ll ruin you?” I stood up. “You tried to ruin me! You and your mother! You wanted to make me insane! You wanted to take everything I have! And now I’m the guilty one?”
“Forgive me,” he collapsed back into the chair. “Forgive me, I didn’t want this. It was all her.” He nodded toward his mother. “She forced me.”
“Sergey!” my mother-in-law shrieked. “Are you blaming everything on me?”
“And who said we should go to the psychiatrist?” he shouted back. “Who said a certificate could be arranged? Who said that if Natasha was put in the hospital, we could sue to get the dacha back? You! It was all you!”
“I was trying for your sake!” my mother-in-law jumped up too. “So you wouldn’t be destroyed by that—”
“Enough!” I slammed my palm on the table so hard the pens rattled. “Enough. I won’t go to the police. For now.”
Everyone fell silent. Sergey looked at me with hope. My mother-in-law with hatred.
“But on one condition,” I continued. “You leave me alone. Forever. No calls, no threats, no attempts to get the dacha back. I file for divorce, and you sign all the papers without arguments. Our daughter stays with me. You see her by agreement, but without trying to turn her against me. If I find out that you are trying to get at me again — through court, through the police, through acquaintances — this recording and all the documents go to the prosecutor’s office. And then I will not ask for mercy for anyone. Not for you, Sergey, not for your mother, not for your brother. You’ll all go down for it. Is that clear?”
Sergey silently nodded. My mother-in-law stood with her lips pressed tight, staring at the wall. She was not used to losing. But now she had no choice.
“Is that clear?” I repeated, looking into her eyes.
“Clear,” she forced out through clenched teeth.
I looked at Galina Petrovna. She sat with her hands folded on the table, observing the scene with professional calm.
“I wrote everything in the conclusion,” she said. “The patient is healthy and does not need to be registered. The certificate provided by the husband will be sent for verification. If it proves forged, the materials will be forwarded to the prosecutor’s office. That no longer depends on the patient’s wishes. It is my duty.”
My mother-in-law turned even paler. Sergey grabbed his head.
“What do you mean, forwarded?” he asked.
“It means,” the lawyer answered, “that your mother and the doctor who issued the fake certificate will be summoned for questioning. If you don’t want a criminal case, I advise you to find that so-called psychiatrist today and convince him to confess voluntarily. That is the only chance to avoid serious consequences.”
Sergey grabbed his mother by the hand.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Immediately. Before it’s too late.”
They left. They didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look at me. They simply walked out, leaving behind the smell of expensive perfume and fear.
I stood in the middle of the office, looking at the closed door. My legs were shaking. I leaned on a chair.
“You did well,” Galina Petrovna said. “You held yourself together excellently.”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
“I’ll prepare the conclusion today. Come for it tomorrow. And…” she paused. “I would advise you to change the locks in your apartment. Just in case.”
“I will,” I nodded.
We left the office. The corridor was empty. Sergey and Lyudmila Ivanovna had already gone. I went down to the first floor, past the registration desk, past the bench where the two women in headscarves still sat. They looked at me with the same dreary curiosity, but I felt no pity for them. I felt only emptiness and a strange relief.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Sunlight broke through the clouds, and the wet asphalt shone, reflecting the light. Lenka walked beside me, holding my arm. The lawyer walked on the other side.
“Viktor Pavlovich,” I said. “How much will this cost? The divorce filing, the documents…”
“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Today you need to rest.”
“I can’t rest,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ll come up with tomorrow.”
“They won’t come up with anything,” he said confidently. “They lost. And they understood that. Now they’ll be saving their own skins. They don’t have time for you.”
I stopped. I looked at the gray building of the dispensary, the wrought-iron gates, the sign with office hours. I had come there afraid they would lock me in a psychiatric hospital. And I was leaving after destroying their entire system of lies and threats.
“Lenka,” I said. “How are you?”
“My legs are shaking,” she admitted. “But I’m glad we went. I’m glad you weren’t afraid.”
“I was afraid,” I said honestly. “Very afraid. But now it’s over.”
We walked to the bus stop. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and it became warm, springlike. I thought about my daughter, who was now at lectures at Moscow State University, about the money lying in her account — her future, my victory. About the fact that the dacha was gone, but so were the debts. About the possibility of starting a new life.
“Natasha,” Lenka suddenly said. “Are you really not going to the police?”
I was silent for a moment.
“I won’t,” I said. “For now. If they calm down, let them live. If they don’t, I have the recording. And now I have the psychiatrist’s conclusion. They buried themselves.”
We got on the bus. The city drifted past the window, wet, shining, ordinary. I looked at it and felt the weight leaving me with every kilometer. Not all of it, but a large part.
At home, the first thing I did was call my daughter. I told her everything was fine, that the dacha had been sold, that her father and I were divorcing, that we would manage. She was silent, then said, “I knew, Mom. I knew for a long time. You’re strong.” I cried. For the first time that day.
Lenka made coffee, and we sat in the kitchen. Outside, it grew dark; the streetlights came on. An ordinary evening. An ordinary life.
A life that was only beginning.
Chapter 6
A year passed.
A whole year that contained more than the previous ten years I had lived side by side with Sergey’s family.
I am sitting in the kitchen of my apartment. It is May outside, and the sun floods the windowsill where a geranium stands. Lenka bought it last month, saying flowers make a home cozy. I never used to like flowers on windowsills — they reminded me of my grandmother’s apartment. Now I like them. Probably because this is my apartment and my flowers.
The door opens with a key. Lenka comes in with a bag of groceries, kicking off her shoes as she walks.
“Natasha, can you imagine, I called the management company today, and they finally fixed the faucet in the dormitory. Alisa said now she can wash normally, not in a basin.”
She smiles. Over this year, Lenka has changed. The constant tension in her shoulders has disappeared, along with that frightened look with which she used to glance around, afraid someone might hit her or call out in an angry voice. She has become calmer, more confident. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I don’t recognize her. And that is a good change.
“A faucet is important,” I say. “How is Alisa? Has she gotten used to the dormitory?”
“She’s getting used to it. The room is small, but it’s hers. She says she likes it. The neighbors are good, girls from her group. I sometimes worry that it’s cramped for her, but she says, ‘Mom, this is my first apartment of my own, even if it’s small. I’m happy.’”
I nod. The dormitory room Lenka had received through work many years earlier went to her after the divorce. Denis didn’t argue. In fact, Denis stopped arguing after the story with the psychiatrist.
My divorce was finalized quickly. I filed three days after visiting the dispensary. Sergey came to court with a lawyer but didn’t fight. The apartment remained mine — it had been bought before marriage, and there was no way to challenge that. The dacha, as we established, had been my personal property under the deed of gift, and its sale did not require my husband’s consent. The only thing Sergey asked was that I not go to the police about his mother.
I didn’t. But not because he asked. I was simply so exhausted by that war that I didn’t want any more courts, interrogations, or scandals. I wanted silence.
The certificate forged by the familiar psychiatrist was still sent for verification. Galina Petrovna kept her promise. But as the lawyer later told me, Sergey and Lyudmila Ivanovna acted in time. That same psychiatrist who had issued the fake certificate for money submitted a confession. He admitted that he had been asked to “help the family,” that he had not checked the documents, that he repented. He received a suspended sentence, and the criminal case against my mother-in-law and Sergey was closed due to lack of evidence, since they were not recognized as organizers and had supposedly merely “misled” him.
I didn’t believe they had merely misled anyone. But the lawyer said that pursuing it further would mean spending nerves and money with no guaranteed result. I agreed. Sometimes it is better to step back than to finish off an enemy who has already been defeated.
After that day when Lenka left with us, Denis called several times, threatened her, demanded that she return. But when Lenka filed for divorce and attached a copy of the voice recording where he threatened her with physical violence, he immediately deflated. He saw Alisa twice in a year. Both times he arrived drunk and demanded that his daughter persuade her mother to come back. Alisa told him, “Dad, I don’t need you.” He took offense and stopped calling.
Lenka sighs as she puts the kettle on the stove.
“Have you seen Sergey?”
“No,” I shake my head. “He called a couple of times, asked me to come back. Said his mother had moved in with him, that they now live in her apartment, that he found a job. But I don’t believe him. He’s always like that: first he promises, then he falls apart.”
“And what if he really changed?”
I look at Lenka. She isn’t asking out of curiosity, but out of some kind of female solidarity. It had been hard for her to let Denis go too, even after everything he had done.
“He won’t change,” I say firmly. “He is his mother’s son. And his mother is a woman who doesn’t know how to lose. She will spend the rest of her life turning him against me. Even if we’re no longer together. She needs him to suffer and blame me for everything. It makes her life easier.”
Lenka is silent. She knows what I mean.
The kettle boils. Lenka makes tea and takes out cookies. We sit in the kitchen the way we have so many times over the past year and talk. Sometimes about trivial things, sometimes about serious ones. I have grown used to her, and she to me. We have become not just friends — we have become family. Not the kind of family that presses and humiliates, but the kind that supports.
“Lena, what happened with the dacha?” I ask. “Do you know?”
“I do,” she says, biting into a cookie. “Denis called once, swearing. The new owners tore down the veranda and uprooted the apple trees. They say they want to build a big house to rent out. Lyudmila Ivanovna nearly had a heart attack when she drove past. She still thinks that land is hers, that house is hers.”
“There’s nothing of hers there anymore,” I say.
And I feel a strange emptiness. The apple trees I planted. The currants I watered. The veranda I painted. Everything was destroyed. As if nothing had ever existed.
“Do you regret it?” Lenka looks at me carefully.
“I do,” I admit. “Not that I sold it. I regret that it all happened this way. That it couldn’t be done peacefully. That it had to go through scandal, threats, that psychiatric hospital business. But there was no choice. If I hadn’t sold it, we would have lost the apartment. And now… my daughter has money for university, I have my home, you have your room. We survived.”
“We survived,” Lenka repeats. “And that’s the main thing.”
We drink tea. Outside, the sun is warm and May-like. Down in the courtyard, children are playing football, shouting, laughing. Ordinary life. A life that, at last, seems to be mine.
In the evening, I call my daughter. She is in Moscow, preparing for exams. She says everything is fine, that the semester will end soon, that she’ll come for the summer. We discuss whether we should go to the sea or rent a little house outside the city. I suggest renting because I don’t want anything to do with property anymore. She laughs: “Mom, now you’re afraid of ownership.” I laugh too. But there is some truth in the joke.
After talking to my daughter, I go out onto the balcony. The city hums below; streetlights come on; music plays somewhere. Everything is as always. But I feel different. Free. And a little sad.
Sad that fourteen years of life went nowhere. That I believed, built, hoped, and in the end turned out to be a stranger to those people. That the love I once felt for Sergey turned into fatigue and indifference. That I’m not even angry at him anymore. I simply don’t care.
Lenka comes out onto the balcony and wraps herself in a cardigan.
“It’s cold, and you’re standing here without a jacket.”
“I got lost in thought,” I say.
“About what?”
“About the fact that we never did make shashlik.”
She laughs.
“Then let’s make some. Tomorrow. It’s Sunday, the weather will be good. I’ll buy meat, we’ll call a taxi, go to the park. They have grills there. We’ll cook it like normal people.”
“Let’s,” I say. “Should we invite Alisa? She arrives in a week.”
“We will. And Svetka from work. And her husband. We’ll have a proper picnic, no drama. No mothers-in-law, no scandals. Only people we choose ourselves.”
I look at her. There is no fear in her eyes. None of that hunted look she had a year ago. She looks at the world openly and calmly. And I understand that we both won. Not in the sense that we won a war. But in the sense that we stopped fighting. For ourselves, for our rights, for our lives. We stopped being people who could be humiliated, deceived, frightened.
“Lenka,” I say. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not being afraid back then. For standing up and walking out. For being here now.”
She hugs me. And we stand on the balcony, two women who lost a lot but found each other.
A week later, on Sunday, we really do go to the park. Alisa flew in the day before, cheerful, sun-kissed after Moscow. We bring meat, vegetables, disposable grills. We find a clearing by the river and spread out blankets.
Svetka from work comes with her husband and children. The children run and make noise. Lenka’s Alisa — little Alisa — already grown a bit, helps set the table. I grill the shashlik and watch them. Lenka laughing at someone’s joke. My daughter telling stories about Moscow. Svetka’s kids catching grasshoppers.
And suddenly I feel good.
Not the way I once did at the dacha, when I was waiting for someone to say something hurtful, or for Sergey to pour one drink too many, or for my mother-in-law to arrive with complaints. Just good. Peaceful. Truly good.
“Mom,” my daughter comes up to me. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing much,” I say. “I’m looking at all of you and thinking: we managed.”
She smiles.
“Of course we managed. We’re Gromov women. We can’t be broken.”
I laugh. We are no longer Gromovs. We returned to our maiden names. But from her lips it sounds like a battle cry.
The shashlik turns out excellent. The meat is tender and juicy. We eat, talk, laugh. The sun sets behind the river, and the water turns gold. Lenka takes out a guitar, and we sing old songs. The ones we sang in our youth, when everything still lay ahead.
In the evening, as we are gathering our things to go home, I walk to the river. I stand on the bank and look at the water. The events of the last year run through my mind. The dacha, the scandal, the threats, the dispensary, the divorce. It feels as if an entire life has passed.
“Natasha, what are you doing?” Lenka comes up behind me.
“Looking. Thinking. You know, I sometimes remember that day when Sergey came in with the shashlik and said we were going to the dacha tomorrow. If I had known then how it would all end…”
“What would you have done?”
I am silent. Thinking.
“I would have sold it anyway. Maybe earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have waited until the last minute. But I would have sold it. Because that dacha was not my home. It was a cage.”
Lenka nods.
“My cage was Denis’s apartment. I couldn’t decide for a long time either. And now I look at Alisa, at her dorm room, at her eyes, and I understand: I did the right thing. We all did the right thing.”
We return to the group. Alisa — my daughter — waves to us. She is already grown, independent. Her future has been paid for with the money from the sale of the dacha. And there is some higher justice in that. What they wanted to take away became her ticket to a new life.
A month later, I receive a letter. Paper, by post. I open it and see familiar handwriting.
Sergey.
He writes that he found a job, that he is being treated for addiction, that his mother moved in with him and that they live peacefully. He writes that he regrets what happened. He asks for forgiveness.
I read the letter twice. Then I put it on the table and think. Forgive or not? I don’t know. Maybe one day I will forgive. But not now. Right now, I am only learning to live without pain, without fear, without the constant feeling that I must prove something to someone.
I don’t answer the letter. I put it in the desk drawer, with the documents. In the same place where the copies of the sales contract, the bank statements, and the psychiatrist’s certificate lie. My victory, paid for with nerves and tears.
Lenka comes into the kitchen and sees the envelope.
“From Sergey?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
“He asks for forgiveness.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She sits opposite me and looks at me.
“You know,” she says. “I forgave Denis. Not because he deserved it. But because I got tired of carrying that weight inside me. Anger is heavy. And I want to feel light.”
I look at her. She is right. Anger is a burden we drag behind us while the people who hurt us don’t even know it. But forgiving now would mean opening the door. And I don’t want to open the door. Not now.
“Maybe later,” I say. “When more time has passed.”
She nods. She doesn’t insist.
It grows dark outside. We drink mint tea made from mint Lenka grew on the windowsill. I look at the street, at the lamps, at the passersby. And I think that life goes on. That I managed. That we managed.
On the nightstand in my bedroom stands a photograph. In it, my daughter and I are in the park last summer. We are laughing, hugging each other. In the background are the river, trees, sunlight. No dacha. No scandals. Just us.
I pick up my phone and open the messenger. I find the chat with the lawyer. The last message was three months ago: “Viktor Pavlovich, thank you for everything. I transferred the money. I hope I won’t need you again.” He answered: “I hope so too. But if anything happens, contact me.”
I put the phone away. I hope I won’t have to contact him again.
Lenka goes to her room — she is living with me now while her dorm room is being repaired. We are in no hurry. We are good together.
I remain alone in the kitchen. I turn on the radio quietly so as not to disturb anyone. Some old song is playing, one of the ones we sang by the river. I close my eyes and remember everything. Not to hurt, but to remember. So I won’t repeat my mistakes.
The doorbell rings.
I look at the clock — ten at night. Who could it be? Lenka comes out of the room and looks at me questioningly.
“I’ll open it,” I say.
I go to the door and look through the peephole. On the landing stands my neighbor, Aunt Masha, holding a bag.
“Natasha, open up,” she says. “I baked pies for you and Lena.”
I open the door. Aunt Masha comes in and places the bag on the cabinet. She is old and kind, always helpful.
“I heard you sold the dacha,” she says, taking off her scarf. “You did the right thing. You had no business there. Bad people there.”
I smile.
“Thank you, Aunt Masha. You’re right. Bad people. But now it’s all behind us.”
“Behind you,” she nods. “And life goes on. You’re young, beautiful. Everything will be all right for you. And for Lenka too.”
She leaves, leaving the pies behind. The kitchen fills with the smell of baking. Lenka comes out and sniffs.
“Pies?”
“Pies,” I say. “Cabbage ones. Lyudmila Ivanovna used to make the same.”
We look at each other and laugh. Because now we can laugh. Because now they are just pies, not weapons in a family war.
We sit down at the table, pour tea, and eat warm pies. Outside it is May, almost summer. Ahead are many days, many plans. My daughter will come for the whole summer. Lenka wants to visit her aunt in the village. I am thinking about changing jobs, finally doing something I actually like.
And at night, when Lenka is already asleep, I stand by the window and look at the sky. Stars, moon, clouds. Everything as always. But I feel different. Strong. Not because I won a war. But because I stopped being a soldier.
I am simply living.
And that is what matters.
In the morning I will wake up, make coffee, go to work. In the evening I will call my daughter and ask how she is. On the weekend I will go to the park with Lenka. And in a month, to the sea. Without looking back at the past. Without fear of the future.
I remember the day Sergey walked in with a bag of shashlik. If only he had known how it would end. If only I had known.
But maybe it had to happen exactly this way. So that the old could collapse, and the new could be built.
I close the window and go to the bedroom. I lie down, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the silence.
My silence.
The silence I fought for.
No dacha. No family councils. No falsehood.
Sometimes, to save yourself, you simply have to say “no.” Even if that “no” is followed by scandal, shouting, and war. Even if they call you insane. Because sometimes the truly insane are the ones pretending everything is fine. And those who dare to tell the truth finally become healthy.
And free.
I close my eyes and fall asleep.
My dreams are good.
In them, I walk through a green field, and apple trees bloom all around me.
My apple trees.
The ones I once planted.
They bloom even if they were uprooted.
Because roots remain.
The roots are me. And Lenka. And our daughters. And everything we built again.
From nothing.
From ashes.
From the silence that came after the war.