З життя
Мені 65, і я ненавиджу, коли хтось приходить до мене додому
Мені 65 років, і я терпіти не можу, коли хтось приходить до мене додому.
Багато хто може засудити мене, але мені байдуже, що про мене подумають. Не подумайте, що я ненавиджу людей або своїх друзів — зовсім ні. Просто я не виношу, коли хтось переступає поріг мого дому. Зустрічатися можна де завгодно — у парку, на вулиці, в гостях у інших, але тільки не в мене. Я втомилася, і крапка.
Нещодавно мені виповнилося 65, і з цього часу все змінилося. Ще кілька років тому я була готова розкрити двері свого дому в маленькому містечку під Чернівцями для всіх охочих. А тепер сама думка про гостей викликає в мене тремтіння і глуху роздратованість. Після останнього зібрання я два дні мила квартиру, ніби після бурі. Перед цим весь день стояла біля плити, готуючи гори їжі, а потім ще два дні вигрібала бруд і хаос. Навіщо мені це? Я більше не хочу витрачати на таке своє життя.
Згадую, як було раніше, і всередині все стискається від туги і втоми. За тиждень до приходу гостей я починала генеральне прибирання: мила вікна, драїла підлоги, чистила кожен куточок. Потім ламала голову, що поставити на стіл, щоб всім догодити. А ці важкі сумки із магазину! Я тягнула їх на четвертий поверх, пихкаючи і проклинаючи все на світі. І ось гості приходять — і починається. Кожного обслужи, стеж, щоб тарілки не порожніли, щоб всім вистачило, щоб все блищало. Принеси, віднеси, подай, прибери — ти і кухар, і офіціант, і посудомийка, і прибиральниця в одній особі. Ноги гудуть, спина ниє, а ти навіть не можеш присісти і спокійно поговорити, бо вічно комусь щось потрібно.
І заради чого? Щоб потім упасти без сил, дивлячись на розгромлену кухню? Досить, я сита цим по горло. Навіщо мені самій себе мучити, якщо є люди, які за гроші зроблять все краще і швидше? Тепер всі свята, зустрічі, посиденьки — тільки в кафе або ресторанах. Це дешевше, простіше і не вимотує душу. Після вечері не треба нічого мити, прибирати, виносити — просто йдеш додому, лягаєш у ліжко і спиш з чистою совістю.
Я тепер за те, щоб жити активно, а не киснути у чотирьох стінах. Дома ми і так проводимо занадто багато часу, а зустрітися з друзями десь поза домом — це рідкість, майже розкіш. У всіх робота, справи, турботи — хто знайде годину, щоб просто посидіти? Я зрозуміла: все життя я тяжко працювала — для сім’ї, для дітей, для інших. А тепер хочу для себе, для свого спокою.
У мене з’явилася звичка: у обідню перерву телефоную подрузі Катерині і запрошую її в кафе неподалік, де подають такі десерти, що пальці оближеш. Чому я не робила цього раніше? Сама собі дивуюсь — скільки років я втратила, загнавши себе у домашню рутину!
Думаю, кожна жінка мене зрозуміє. Варто тільки заїкнутися про прийом гостей вдома, як голова починає розколюватися від думок: що готувати, як прибрати, чим здивувати? Це не радість, а кара. Звісно, якщо подруга загляне на п’ять хвилин, я не вижену її — наллю чаю, побалакаємо. Але краще заздалегідь домовитися і зустрітися в затишній кав’ярні. Це стало моїм порятунком, моїм маленьким щастям.
Всім жінкам скажу одне: не бійтеся, що в ресторані витратите купу грошей. Вдома ви витратите більше — і не тільки гривень, але й нервів, і здоров’я. Я підрахувала: на продукти, на прибирання, на час, що йде в нікуди, — виходить дорожче, ніж рахунок у кафе. А головне — ви збережете себе. У 65 років я нарешті зрозуміла, що життя — це не тільки обов’язок перед іншими, а й право на відпочинок, на легкість, на свободу від чужих тарілок і очікувань. І я не збираюся більше відкривати свої двері для тих, хто хоче перетворити мій дім у поле битви за чистоту і порядок. Досить з мене.
З життя4 хвилини ago
We’re Moving Into Your Flat — Polly’s got a brilliant flat in the city centre. Freshly renovated—can’t ask for more! — It’s a lovely place for a single woman, — Rustam smiled patronisingly at Inna, as if she were a child. — But we’re planning to have two—maybe even three kids, one after another. It’s noisy downtown—not enough air, no parking. And most importantly, there are only two rooms. Here? You’ve got three. Quiet street, nursery right outside. — The neighbourhood is really good, — agreed Sergei, still unsure where his future son-in-law was leading. — That’s why we chose to settle here. — Exactly! — Rustam snapped his fingers. — I keep telling Polly: why should we cram ourselves in, when there’s a perfect solution? There’s three of you—including your daughter—and honestly, this place is far too big. What do you need all this space for? You don’t even use one of your rooms; it’s just storage. It’d suit us perfectly. Inna tried to squeeze the vacuum cleaner into the tiny hallway cupboard… * * * After five years of peaceful family life and a fair inheritance split—Sergei got his gran’s spacious three-bed in a quiet part of town, his sister Polly got a two-bed in the central “Golden Triangle”—Olya and her fiancé Rustam arrive with big news: They’re getting married and have come up with a “fair” proposal: “We’re moving in here, and you can go live in Polly’s flat.” What follows is a tense family standoff, as Rustam insists they swap homes for his future family’s “perspective,” dismissing Inna’s work from home and the couple’s daughter’s routines. Loyalty, inheritance, entitlement, and family bonds are all thrown into the mix as battle lines are drawn—and even Polly starts doubting where her loyalties should lie. We’re Moving Into Your Flat: When Family Drops By With an Unbelievable Proposition and One Pushy Fiancé Tries to Swap Your Life Out From Under You
Were Moving Into Your Flat Emilys got a fantastic flat right in central London. Its practically spotlessmove in and start...
З життя1 годину ago
It Doesn’t Seem Fair That Your Children Have Their Own Flats, While My Son Has Nothing – Let’s Get Him a Home with a Mortgage! Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have their own flats, while his son doesn’t, and now we need to figure out how to make sure his son gets one too. To clarify, my children are both mine and Anthony’s, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it be my responsibility to worry about finding a place for his son to live? Of course, I always knew Anthony had been married before and had a child. That’s one reason I didn’t rush into marrying Anthony. We lived together for three years before we got married. I watched carefully to see what his feelings were towards his ex-wife and his son. A year after we married, I had a boy. Two years later, I gave birth to our second son. I’m perfectly happy with Anthony – both as a husband and a father. He spends time with me and the children. He’s the main breadwinner. Of course, we argue sometimes – but what family doesn’t? We were living in the flat I’d inherited from my father. My mother divorced him when I was still at nursery. She’s now remarried, but had no children with her second husband. Anthony and his first wife always rented. For years they tried to save for a mortgage but never managed it. After their divorce, his ex-wife moved back in with her parents and Anthony rented a flat. When we married, he moved in with me. We didn’t focus on whose name was on the flat. We just lived in my place and did everything together: renovations, new furniture. Then, about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers died in quick succession – my mum’s and my dad’s mothers. Both left me their flats in their wills. While my boys are still small, I’ve decided to rent the flats out. Later, each of my sons will inherit one. For now, the money from one goes to my mum as a pension top-up, and the money from the other supplements my salary. Extra cash is always handy. My husband never interfered with the flat situations – after all, they’re nothing to do with him. I told him from the start that when our boys grow up, I’ll give each a flat. He agreed. That was that, as far as I was concerned. Then suddenly, my husband said to me: —My son will finish sixth form in a few years. He’s nearly an adult; he needs to start thinking about his future! I didn’t really get where he was going, but I listened anyway. —Your children have their own homes. My son doesn’t. Let’s get a mortgage and buy my son a flat!—he blurted out. I was shocked! I had so many questions. The first thing I asked was why our children – mine and Anthony’s – were suddenly just “my” children? Anthony told me not to get hung up on wording. —But my son will never inherit anything. I want him to have a place of his own! —That’s good that you care! But your son has a mother and a father. Isn’t this their responsibility? Why isn’t your ex-wife taking care of it? My husband explained that his ex-wife’s income is very low, her parents help her, and he himself can’t afford a mortgage. But if I helped, everything would be fine. It turns out I’m supposed to agree to Anthony taking out a mortgage for his son’s flat, but WE would pay it back, even though the flat would be in his son’s name. “We both have good salaries and rental income! We’ll manage!” said Anthony. We might, but we’d have to tighten our belts. Anthony also pays child maintenance for his son. When the boy goes to uni, Anthony plans to support him again because his ex-wife can’t afford it. So because of his son, my children and I won’t have holidays, won’t travel to the seaside, will always have to save. For what? Just so Anthony looks like the perfect dad? I would understand if Anthony had provided both our children with flats, and now wanted to do the same for his eldest son. But the truth is, I secured homes for our boys with no help from Anthony. Why should I pay for a mortgage on top? I told Anthony straight away – if he’s that worried, let his ex-wife take out the mortgage, and pay it off with the child maintenance money. —But I’m not getting involved!—I said. My husband’s furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me for a week. It’s a shame he can’t see my side.
It doesn’t look right that your children will have their own flats and my son wont. Let’s sort out a...
З життя1 годину ago
He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself to be weak-willed and spineless. Each day depended on the mood with which he woke. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and bright, cracking jokes all day and laughing loudly. But mostly, he spent his days in gloomy contemplation, drinking copious amounts of tea and wandering around the house with a stormy face, as was typical for people in the creative professions. Victor Dudley belonged to that sort: he worked at the village school, teaching art, woodwork, and, occasionally, music lessons when the music teacher was off sick. He had an affinity for the arts. School didn’t let him fulfil his creative ambitions, so the house became his canvas—Victor made himself a studio, taking over the largest and brightest room. Which, as it happened, Sophie had earmarked as a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered paint tubes and clay everywhere, and set to work—painting feverishly, sculpting, creating… He could stay up all night working on a strange still life, or spend the entire weekend crafting a puzzling sculpture. He never sold his “masterpieces.” They filled the house, the walls thick with paintings that—truth be told—Sophie didn’t like; the cupboards and shelves buckled under the weight of his clay figurines. If the things had been truly beautiful, it might have been different—but they weren’t. The few artist and sculptor friends from Victor’s college days who visited would fall silent, avert their eyes, and sigh quietly as they looked at his creations. Not one ever complimented him. Only Leo Peabody—the oldest in the group—burst out, after finishing a bottle of rowanberry liqueur: “My word, what a load of meaningless daubs! What is all this? I haven’t seen a single worthwhile thing in this house—except, of course, your wonderful wife.” Dudley couldn’t stand the criticism. He shouted, stamped his feet, and told his wife to show the rude guest the door. “Get out!” he yelled. “You philistine! It’s you who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, I see it now! You’re just angry that you can’t hold a paintbrush in your shaky drunk hands! You simply envy me, so you belittle everything!” Peabody barely made it down the steps, and paused at the gate, almost tripping, when Sophie caught up and apologised for her husband’s behaviour. “Please don’t mind him. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should have warned you.” “Don’t make excuses for him, dear child,” nodded Leo. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab and head home. I do pity you, though. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings ruin everything! And those horrid figurines… they should be hidden, not shown off. But knowing Victor, I can only imagine how difficult your life must be. You see, for us artists, the things we create reflect our souls. And Victor’s soul is as empty as his canvases.” He kissed Sophie’s hand in farewell and left the unwelcoming house. Victor did not recover emotionally for a long time—he yelled, smashed some of his own “sculptures,” tore up paintings, and raged for a month before he calmed down. *** Still, Sophie never opposed her husband. She decided that, in time, children would arrive and her darling would set aside his hobbies. He’d turn the studio into a nursery, but until then, let him amuse himself with still lifes. Shortly after their wedding, Victor played the part of the model husband—bringing home fresh fruit and his wages, caring for his young wife. But he soon lost interest. He became distant, stopped sharing his pay, and Sophie had to take care of the home, her husband, the vegetable patch, the henhouse, and her mother-in-law. When Sophie became pregnant, Victor was delighted. But their joy was short-lived: a week later, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and suffered a miscarriage. When Victor heard the news, he changed immediately—becoming whiny, nervous, and shouting at Sophie before locking himself in the house. Sophie left the hospital a shadow of herself. No one met her, but the worst was yet to come: Victor wouldn’t let her in. “Open up, Victor!” “No, I won’t,” he sniffled from behind the door. “Why did you come back? You were supposed to carry my child. But you failed! And today my mother ended up in hospital with a heart attack—because of you!” You’ve brought nothing but trouble. Get off the doorstep—I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision went black and she sat down on the porch. “Oh Victor… I’m suffering too, let me in!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie waited until nightfall. Finally, the door creaked open. Victor, thin with grief, locked the door with a bolt, but couldn’t find the key—he never knew where anything was, usually asked Sophie. He mulled it over, then left for the gate, not looking at his wife. When he was gone, Sophie entered quietly. She waited for him all night. The next morning, a neighbour brought dreadful news: her mother-in-law hadn’t survived the heart attack. The loss devastated Victor. He quit his job, took to bed and told Sophie, “I never really loved you. I only married you because my mother wanted grandchildren. But you ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Those words hurt, but Sophie resolved not to leave him. Time passed, but things did not improve. Victor became bedridden, refusing food, claiming he had an ulcer, until finally he stopped getting up at all. And then he filed for divorce; the Dudleys separated. Sophie wept bitterly. She tried to hug Victor, to kiss him, but he pushed her away, whispering that he’d throw her out as soon as he recovered—that she’d ruined his life. *** Sophie couldn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. Her own mother, delighted to have married her daughter off early, quickly moved to the seaside to live with her new husband—after hastily selling the family home. So Sophie was left trapped by circumstance. *** Eventually, the food ran out. She scraped together the last bits, boiled a final egg from the only surviving hen, and fed Victor watery porridge and mashed yolk. Life had dealt her a cruel hand—she might have been feeding a child by now (had she not been hauling water and logs on her own), but instead had to please her ex-husband, who didn’t value her at all. “I’ll pop out for a bit—the market’s in town from the next village. I’ll try to sell the hen, or trade her for food.” Victor, staring emptily at the ceiling, croaked: “Why sell her? Boil her up for broth. I’m sick of porridge, I want a proper meal.” Sophie pulled at her only dress—it was the one she’d worn for graduation, then at her wedding, and now on hot days: she had nothing else. “You know I can’t… I’ll sell or trade. I could give her to the neighbours, like the others, but I think this hen would keep coming back. She’s too attached.” “‘Penny’—” Victor sneered, “you name your hens now? For goodness’ sake… but what can one expect of you…” Sophie bit her lip and looked down. “You said you’re going to market? Take some of my paintings or figurines—maybe someone will buy them.” She tried to refuse, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two whistling clay birds and a large piggy bank—Victor’s pride—and bolted outside, hoping he wouldn’t demand she lug out the paintings as well. Statues she could rustle up the courage to offer; the paintings, never. They were just too awful. She was too ashamed to take them out in public. *** It was a hot day. Despite the light dress, Sophie was slick with sweat. Her face shone, her fringe stuck to her forehead. It was the village fête. Sophie couldn’t remember when she last went out, gazing in wonder at the bustling crowds around the stalls. There was honey of every kind, colourful silk scarves, children’s sweets, the irresistible aroma of barbecue, music, laughter. She stopped by the last stall, holding her hen close. She hated to part with the old bird, but she truly loved her. Years ago, she’d nursed this hen back to health, and Penny had become a beloved pet, always limping after Sophie. Now, she tried to poke her beak out from Sophie’s bag, pecking at her hand curiously. *** An elderly stallholder eyed her. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Stainless steel, silver, even a few gold chains.” “No, thanks. I’m here to sell a live hen, an excellent layer,” Sophie replied politely. “A hen… what would I do with it…” Then a young man at the stall piped up: “Let’s have a look at your hen.” Sophie carefully handed him the bird. “She limps a bit, but she’s a fine layer.” “How much? So cheap—what’s the catch?” Sophie flushed under his steady look, feeling sweat prickle anew. “She’s just lame, nothing else.” “Alright, I’ll buy her. And those?” He gestured at her clay figures. “Oh, these… figurines. Whistles and a piggy bank.” He laughed at the pig. “Handmade, eh?” “Yes, very much so. I’ll sell them cheap—I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller rolled her eyes: “What do you need all that for, Dennis? Off to play with toys now? Your brother could use your help on the barbecue stand.” Sophie backed away, startled: “You—work on the barbecue stand? Then I can’t sell you the hen!” She tried to snatch Penny back, but Dennis dodged and laughed. “Take your money back, please! Penny isn’t for barbecue—she’s not a meat bird!” “I know. She’ll go to my mum—she keeps chickens. And of course you can visit Penny any time.” … Sophie was almost home when Dennis pulled up in a car. “Excuse me, miss—have you any more clay figurines? I’d like to buy them for gifts and such.” Squinting against the sun, Sophie smiled: “You’re in luck! There are plenty more back home.” *** Back home, Dudley lay groaning at voices in the hall. “Who’s there, Sophie? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” The visitor glanced at bedridden Victor and turned away, looking at the paintings. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Who painted this—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she walked past with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor leapt from the bed. “And I didn’t just paint! Children paint with chalk on the pavement—I *compose*!” He sat up, watching the stranger. “What do you care about my paintings?” he demanded. “I like them. I’d like to buy one. And these sculptures—yours as well?” “Of course!” Victor cried, shoving Sophie aside. “Everything here is mine!” He jumped up, limped about, showing off canvases and figurines—all the while, Dennis glanced at Sophie, noting the blush in her cheeks, her shy glance. Epilogue Sophie was surprised by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery.” As it turned out, Dudley had never been ill! As soon as someone paid attention to his “art,” he was a new man. The mysterious visitor—Dennis—came every day, buying painting after painting. When the canvases ran out, he bought up all the figurines. Victor, thrilled, shut himself in the studio to make more. He never realised that Dennis was interested not in the “art,” but in the ex-wife. Each day, Dennis left with another “masterpiece,” then waited at the gate to chat with Sophie. Something blossomed. And soon enough, Dennis walked away from that house with just what he’d wanted—Dudley’s ex-wife. And that was why he’d come at all. Back home, Dennis tossed Victor’s paintings in the fire and bagged up the clay “grotesques,” unsure what to do with them. But he remembered Sophie’s lovely face. He’d noticed her at the fair in that light dress, from the moment she appeared—and he’d known instantly she was his fate. He’d learned of her miserable life with a madcap fool who fancied himself an artist—but nowhere to go. So Dennis visited daily, snapping up “art,” just to see her. In time, Sophie understood everything. Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis vanished once Sophie left with him; Dudley heard they’d married and he was left feeling utterly bitter at being so easily deceived. After all, finding a good wife is no easy thing—and Sophie was just that. It took time for him to realise he’d lost the most precious thing in his life: a caring, loyal wife. He’d never find another one like her—Sophie had not only endured him, but pitied him, cared for him almost like a mother. And what a woman she was! And like a fool, he’d let her slip away. Dudley considered wallowing in self-pity—but then realised: there was no one left to feed him eggs, or bring him water. No one to take over the house and garden…
Coveting Another Mans Wife Living together, Victor Dudley revealed himself to be a man of weak character and little willpower....
З життя2 години ago
Recently, I Met a Woman Taking a Stroll Down the Street with Her 18-Month-Old Daughter, Completely Oblivious to Everything Around Her
Not long ago, I met a woman strolling down the street with her eighteen-month-old daughter, seemingly lost in her own...
З життя2 години ago
For Better, For Worse (A Story of Love, Loss and New Beginnings in the English Countryside)
Both in Sorrow and in Joy Charlotte was widowed early, at forty-two. By then, her daughter, Emily, had already married...
З життя3 години ago
A Fiancée and a Father Karina only pretended to want to meet Vadim’s parents. Why would she need to bother with them? She wasn’t planning on living with them, and as for his supposedly well-off father, he seemed like nothing but a source of problems and suspicion. Still, if you’re going to play the part, you have to play it to the end—especially when you’ve decided to get married. Karina dressed up, but kept it understated, wanting to come across as the sweet, girl-next-door type. Meeting your future in-laws is always a minefield, but navigating clever and perceptive parents is a true test of character. Vadim believed she just needed some reassurance. “Don’t worry, Karina—seriously, don’t. Dad’s a bit moody, but he’s reasonable. They won’t say anything horrible, and I just know they’ll love you. Mum’s the life of the party, of course, and Dad’s… well, a bit odd,” he said as they stood outside his parents’ house. Karina only smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her shoulder. So, Dad was gruff, Mum was a social butterfly—a classic combination. She stifled an inward laugh. The house held no surprises. She’d been to grander ones before. They were met at the door straight away. Karina felt little anxiety. Why fret over meeting ordinary people? She knew from Vadim that his mum, Nina, was a lifelong housewife, who sometimes went on girly trips but otherwise wasn’t particularly noteworthy. His father, Valery, was reputedly rather dour but at least silent—a mixed blessing. Only his name had sounded oddly familiar… They were greeted… And Karina froze at the threshold. This was the end. She didn’t know her future mother-in-law, but she recognized her future father-in-law in an instant. They’d met before—three years ago. Not many times, but enough, and on mutually agreeable terms. In bars, hotels, restaurants. No one—neither Valery’s wife nor his son—knew about their past. Well, this was a disaster. Valery recognised her too. A flash of something—surprise, alarm, or a deeper, more calculating look—crossed his eyes, but he said nothing. Vadim, blissfully unaware, beamed as he introduced her. “Mum, Dad, this is Karina. My fiancée. I’d have brought her sooner, but she’s just so shy.” Oh dear… Valery offered his hand. His handshake was firm—verging on harsh. “Very pleased to meet you, Karina,” he said, and there was a note in his voice Karina couldn’t immediately decode. Was it anger? A warning? Or something else? Karina wondered how long she had before Valery revealed her past. “It’s a pleasure, Valery,” she replied, matching his tone, doing her best not to give the game away. She squeezed his hand and adrenaline surged. What would happen next? But… nothing. Valery forced a polite smile and even pulled a chair out for her at the table. Maybe he’d bring the drama later… But nothing happened. Then it dawned on Karina—he wouldn’t say anything. If he exposed her, he’d expose himself to his wife. Once she relaxed, the atmosphere was oddly relaxed. Nina told childhood stories about Vadim, while Valery seemed to take a genuine interest in Karina, asking about her job. Ha—he already knew plenty. His subtle irony didn’t bother her anymore. Once or twice he even cracked a joke, and, to her own surprise, Karina laughed. But there were double entendres only she and he understood. For example, while looking at Karina, Valery remarked: “You remind me of a former… colleague. Very clever. She had a knack for handling people—all sorts of people.” Karina didn’t miss a beat. “Everyone has their own talents, Valery.” Vadim, giddy in love, gazed at Karina, oblivious to the undercurrents. He truly loved her. That was perhaps the sweetest—and the saddest—part. For him, anyway. Later, when talk turned to travel, Valery looked at Karina and mused, “I’m fond of quiet places. Somewhere you can sit and think—with a good book, of course. How about you, Karina? Where do you like to go?” He was baiting her. “I prefer crowds and noise—life and energy,” Karina replied coolly. “Although, sometimes too many ears can be dangerous.” For a moment, it seemed Nina noticed something and frowned, but she brushed off the thought. Valery knew Karina wasn’t one who craved peace and quiet. And he knew why. When the evening wrapped up, and they prepared for bed, Valery hugged Vadim. “Take care of her, son. She’s… special.” It sounded both like praise and a warning. Only Karina understood the hidden meaning. She felt the room’s temperature plummet. “Special.” He’d chosen his word carefully. *** That night, when the house fell silent, Karina couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, thinking over this unforeseen encounter and wondering how to navigate her new reality. The future was looking bleak. Karina suspected Valery was just as sleepless as she was—he, over this sudden reckoning; she, over the difficult conversation looming. Everything, really. She got up, threw on her favourite hoodie over top and quietly padded downstairs. She deliberately let her footsteps fall just heavily enough that anyone else awake would notice. She slipped outside to the veranda, anticipating this would lure out Valery. She didn’t have to wait long. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, approaching from behind. “Not tonight,” said Karina. A faint breeze carried Valery’s distinctive cologne. He examined her closely. “What do you want from my son, Karina?” His pleasant mask was gone. “I know what you’re capable of. I know how many men like me you’ve known. And I know you’ve always chased money. You never hid your price—however discreetly stated. Why Vadim?” If he wouldn’t reminisce, she wouldn’t play nice. “I love him, Valery,” she purred. “Why not?” He didn’t buy it. “Love? You? That’s a joke. I know your type, Karina. And I’ll tell Vadim everything. What you did. Who you really are. Think he’ll marry you then?” Karina closed the distance between them, stopping just out of reach. She tilted her head, scrutinizing him as if she hadn’t seen enough already. “Go ahead, Valery. But then your wife will learn our little secret too.” He hesitated. “This isn’t blackmail. It’s equality. If you reveal how we met, you can’t hide what we did. Trust me, I’ll fill in the details.” “It’s not the same…” “Really? Is that what you’ll tell your wife?” Valery froze. Karina’s bluff had succeeded—he realized he was trapped with her in this. “What would you tell her?” “Not just her. Everyone. Vadim, too. I’ll tell them what kind of family man you are, where you really spent your late nights. The whole story. I’ll have nothing left to lose. You want to save your son from me? Try it.” A tough call—getting his son to call things off would trigger his own divorce. “You wouldn’t dare.” “You think I wouldn’t?” Karina scoffed. “You’d dare, but I wouldn’t? Try me—if you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you. You know NIna values loyalty above all.” Once, far too drunk, he’d confessed to Karina his guilt about cheating on his faithful wife. Nina would never forgive him—ever. Which meant he really would have to choose. He knew Karina wasn’t bluffing. “Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll keep quiet. And you…. you too. No one says anything. We forget the past.” That’s why Karina hadn’t been worried. He stood to lose much more than she did. “As you wish, Valery.” The next morning, they left Vadim’s family home. Under Valery’s venomous gaze, Karina said goodbye to his wife—who now called her “daughter.” Valery twitched. He longed to warn his son about this scheming bride-to-be, but he couldn’t risk exposing himself. Losing Nina would cost him more than a wife—it would cost him much of his wealth. She’d never leave the marriage empty-handed. And Vadim might never forgive him… Another time, Karina and Vadim stayed another fortnight with his parents. The holiday was in full swing. Valery avoided Karina, claiming endless work. But one day, alone at home, curiosity got the better of him. He decided to snoop through Karina’s handbag. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find leverage. He rummaged through her things—makeup bag, diary, notebook—and then he spotted something blue and white. A pregnancy test. Two clear lines. “I thought my son’s marrying you was a catastrophe,” he muttered, replacing the test. “No, THIS is a catastrophe!” But he hadn’t closed the bag before Karina entered. “Really, Valery, you shouldn’t poke about in a lady’s belongings,” she scolded wryly—though she didn’t seem bothered. Valery didn’t try to hide his snooping. “You’re pregnant by Vadim?” Karina took her bag from him, looked him in the eye and said, “Well, you’ve spoiled the surprise, Valery.” Valery was furious. Now Karina would never leave his son. If he told the truth now—well, that would bring everything crashing down. Now he had to keep silent. Hard as it was to bite his tongue, watching his son walk into a trap. *** Nine months passed… and then six more. Vadim and Karina were raising Alice. Valery did his best to stay away. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn’t consider the child truly his granddaughter. Karina unsettled him—her coldness to Vadim, her shady history. And now, again… Nina decided to visit Vadim and Karina. “Valery, are you coming?” “No. I’ve got a headache.” “Again? You know, I think this might actually be serious.” “It’s just tiredness. You go ahead.” Valery, as ever, played the invalid—migraine, cold, earache, weak legs—always some excuse. He even popped a few pills for effect. He couldn’t bear seeing Karina, but he couldn’t tell the truth either. The evening dragged, interrupted only by his anxious thoughts. He lounged. He read a bit. Eventually, he realised how late it was. Past eleven, and Nina wasn’t home. No answer on the phone. He called Vadim in alarm. “Vadim, is everything okay? Has Nina left already? She’s not home yet.” “Dad, you’re the last person I want to talk to right now.” Click. Valery was about to drive over when, outside, Karina’s car pulled up. Seeing her almost made his knees give way. “What are you doing here? Tell me—what’s happened?” he demanded, shaken. Karina seemed unbothered. She poured herself a glass of his wine, took a sip, then settled in. “Everything’s collapsed.” “What do you mean?” “Our shared disaster. Vadim found old photos of us on the website of a café he was going to book for our anniversary. That party at The Lily, remember? Some blasted photographer uploaded every picture. Vadim’s hit the roof. Your Nina’s threatening divorce. And, well—you got your wish, I’m probably divorcing Vadim too.” Valery stared, replaying the events in his head. That party, those photos… He’d warned them not to take pictures, but who’d have predicted this? He sank onto the floor beside her. “So why come to me?” “I needed to get out for the evening.” Karina smiled. “It’s chaos at home. Alice is with the nanny. Want some wine?” She offered him his own bottle. They sat on the veranda, drinking. Only the hum of crickets united them. “This is all your fault,” Valery muttered. Karina nodded, eyes on her glass. “Yup.” “You’re insufferable.” “That’s true.” “You don’t even pity Vadim.” “I do—but I pity myself more.” “You only love yourself.” “I won’t deny it.” He reached out, lifted her chin, made her look at him. “You know I never loved you,” he whispered. Karina shrugged. “I believe you.” *** In the morning, when Nina finally arrived—ready to forgive her husband, even if it cost her half her sanity—she walked in on Karina and Valery asleep together. “Who’s there?” Karina stirred. “It’s me,” said Nina, gazing at the ruin of her life. Karina just smiled serenely. Valery woke up a moment later, but he didn’t go after his wife.
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