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Застрявши в ліфті, Віка почула голоси – реальність, яка шокує!

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– Нічого не можна вирішити швидко, все потрібно робити поступово… Підготуватися, щоб не втратити половину всього, що нажито.

Я йшла додому, в сумці лежала невелика коробочка. У середині були годинники для Костянтина – елегантні, дорогі, які я вибирала з особливим трепетом.

Довгі місяці я відкладала гроші з кожної зарплати, щоб зробити йому особливий подарунок.

Завтра у чоловіка день народження. Сорок два роки – дата не кругла, але мені хотілося влаштувати цей день насправді запам’ятовуючим. Ми разом уже п’ятнадцять років.

Пам’ятаю, як познайомилися на святі у спільного друга, як поговорили до глибокої ночі, стоячи біля під’їзду.

Ліфт у нашому будинку завжди був примхливим. Старий, ще з радянських часів, з фанерними стінками, написаними графіті.

Я натиснула кнопку виклику. Кабіна повільно спускалася, скриплячи так, ніби їй було важко виконувати свою роботу.

Нарешті двері відкрилися, світло всередині мигнуло. Я увійшла і натиснула на потерту кнопку з цифрою «8».

Двері зачинялися, ліфт повільно поліз угору.

Я уявляла, як завтра проведу весь день з чоловіком. Увечері зберуться друзі та батьки.

Раптом ліфт різко дрижав і зупинився.

Я знову натиснула на вісімку. Потім спробувала інші кнопки. Безрезультатно.

– От тільки цього не вистачало! – бурчала я, зітхаючи. – Ось невезіння.

Натиснула кнопку зв’язку з диспетчером. З динаміка почулося шипіння, а потім голос молодої жінки:

– Диспетчер слухає.

– Я застрягла в ліфті між першим та другим поверхом.

– Повідомила майстру. Чекайте, скоро прибудуть на допомогу.

– А коли саме? – спитала я, але в відповідь почула лише тишу. Зв’язок перервався.

Я дістала телефон. Сигнал ловив погано – одне рівняння.

Зателефонувала Костянтину, але він не відповів. Напевно, був зайнятий на нараді або в метро. Зазвичай у цей час він якраз повертався додому.

Минуло приблизно двадцять хвилин. Я сиділа на корточках, прислонившись до стінки ліфта.

Телефон майже розрядився, і я вирішила його вимкнути.

Раптом почула голоси за дверима.

Жіночий, дзвінкий, з легкою хрипотою.

Це була Інна – сусідка з другого поверху. Молода, ефектна, завжди на високих підборах. Ми вітаємось, але близькими знайомими не були. Один раз я допомогла їй донести пакети, і вона пригостила мене чаєм, проте далі наші стосунки не просунулися.

– Ти обіцяв! – говорила вона з натиском. – Скільки можна відкладати? Я більше не можу терпіти!

Чоловічий голос щось відповів, але надто тихо. Я не розібрала слів, тільки інтонацію – виправдовуючу, трохи роздратовану.

– Твої обіцянки нічого не варті! – продовжила Інна. – У мене більше немає сил це слухати! Ти ж доросла людина, а ведеш себе як дитина!

Я мимоволі прислухалася. Сімейний конфлікт?

В іншій ситуації мені було б незручно підслуховувати, але зараз через нудьгу і безвихідь я мимоволі стала свідком чужої розмови.

– Що ти від мене хочеш, Інночко?

Чоловічий голос став гучніше, і я застигла.

Тембр, інтонації… Це ж Костянтин?

Я притиснулася до дверей ліфта. Не може бути.

Костянтин повинен бути на роботі. Або вдома. Але ніяк не в квартирі нашої сусідки.

– Я хочу, щоб ти нарешті сказав їй правду, – голос Інни тремтів від обурення. – Ти повинен розлучитися. Скільки ще це буде тривати? Скільки можна тягнути час?

– Нічого не можна вирішити одразу, зрозумій, – тепер я точно впізнала голос чоловіка. – Потрібно підготуватися. При розлученні я втратю половину майна: квартиру, машину, дачу…

– А як же наш син? Ти хоч трохи про нього подумав?

Світ навколо мене заколихався, наче я втратила опору. Син? Про що вона говорить?

– Йому скоро рік, – продовжила Інна з явним докором у голосі. – Він бачить батька тільки на вихідних, та й тоді не завжди. Як ти можеш називати себе батьком, якщо тебе ніколи немає поруч?

Я хотіла кричати, бити в двері ліфта з усіх сил. Хотіла закричати, що чую кожне слово. Але тіло, немов у камінь, відмовлялося підкорятися.

Я застигла, неначе провалилася в крижану безодню. В голові металися обривки думок, спогадів, питань.

– Почекай ще трохи, – голос Костянтина звучав втомлено і безжиттєво. – Я все вже продумав. Скоро все вирішиться.

– Що саме ти продумав? – Інна фыркнула недовірливо. – Ти завжди говориш одне й те ж. У тебе завжди є відмовки.

– Я почав переводити гроші на інший рахунок, – відповів він діловим тоном. – Машину оформив на брата. Скоро скажу, що їду у відрядження, а сам подам на розлучення. Так буде простіше для всіх.

– Чому не зараз? – у її голосі звучало явне недовіру.

Я повільно опустилася на підлогу ліфта, стискаючи коробочку з годинниками так міцно, ніби це могло вберегти мене від падіння в безодню.

Думки плуталися, зіткалися, розривали одна за одною. Як це сталося? Коли? Адже ми були так щасливими! Ми навіть планували збудувати нову лазню на дачі цього літа.

Костянтин завжди здався таким уважним, таким турботливим. Хіба все це було лише маскою?

І тут пригадалися слова матері. Перед весіллям вона взяла мене за руки і серйозно сказала: «Костянтин – чоловік помітний. За такими завжди багато дівчат ходять. Будь обережна, щоб не зруйнував ваш шлюб».

Тоді я лише засміялася. Її попередження здалося мені смішним і недоречним. Як же я помилялася…

Голоси за дверима вщухли. Здавалося, весь цей великий будинок занурився в тишу, залишивши мене наодинці.

В голові крутилося безліч запитань: як давно це почалося? Знають чи інші сусіди? І найголовніше – що мені тепер робити?

Якщо Костянтин задумав таку зраду, то я зроблю перший крок сама. Рішила розкрити його в його ж день народження. Нехай дізнається, чим обійдеться його брехня.

Через кілька хвилин пролунав стук у двері ліфта.

– Ей, там хтось є? – почувся чоловічий голос.

– Так, я тут! – відгукнулась я, важко піднімаючись. Ноги затекли від довгого сидіння на корточках.

– Зараз відкрию, не хвилюйтесь!

Почувся скрип інструментів, і через кілька хвилин двері ліфта нарешті відкрилися.

На майданчику стояв літній майстер у синьому комбінезоні з емблемою керуючої компанії. Сиві волосся, зморшкувате обличчя, грубі руки.

– Ну от, – він усміхнувся, – свобода! Давно сидите?

– Не знаю точно. Телефон розрядився, а годинник у мене немає, – відповіла я, виходячи з ліфта.

З полегшенням вирівнялася, відчуваючи, як напруга покидає тіло.

– Ці старі ліфти зовсім не годяться, – зітхнув майстер. – Але їх ніхто не хоче міняти. Грошей немає, кажуть.

Я кивнула, подякувала йому і повільно піднялася пішки на восьмий поверх.

Відкрила двері квартири. Костянтин уже був вдома, сидів у вітальні з ноутбуком на колінах. Окуляри сповзли на кінчик носа, волосся розпатлані – він завжди так робив, коли зосереджувався.

– О, ти повернулася! – він усміхнувся своєю звичною теплою усмішкою. – Я телефонував тобі, але ти не відповідала.

– Застрягла в ліфті, – відповіла я, намагаючись, щоб голос звучав зазвичай. – Телефон майже сів.

– Знову цей ліфт, – похитнув головою Костянтин. – Треба вже писати колективну скаргу. Скільки можна терпіти?

Я дивилася на нього і не розуміла, як він навчився так майстерно брехати. Кожен його жест, кожна інтонація тепер здавалася фальшивою, наївною.

– Вечеряти будеш? – спитала я, направляючись на кухню. – Приготоую пасту.

– Звичайно, – відповів він. – Допомогти?

– Ні, справлюсь, – відмахнулась я і почала діставати продукти з холодильника.

Вечір пройшов, як завжди. Ми вечеряли, обговорювали новини, дивилися серіал. Костянтин розповідав про робочі моменти, я уважно слухала, кивала, сміялась над його жартами.

А всередині зростав мій план.

Ранок наступного дня почався з мого навмисно бадьорого:

– З днем народження, дорогий!

Костянтин відкрив очі, потягнувся і усміхнувся.

– Дякую, люба.

– У мене для тебе сюрприз, – загадково усміхнулася я. – Але спочатку тобі потрібно закрити очі.

– Що ти задумала?

– Побачиш, – я дістала з шафи його темно-синій галстук. – Повернись, я зав’яжу тобі очі.

Костянтин послушно повернувся. Я акуратно зав’язала галстук на його очах, перевіривши, щоб він нічого не бачив.

– Куди ти мене ведеш? – спитав він, коли я вивела його з квартири.

У його голосі звучали цікавість і легке занепокоєння.

– Сподіваюся, не на стрибок з парашутом? Я ж висоти боюся, ти знаєш.

– Скоро дізнаєшся, – відповіла я, ведучи його до ліфта. – Прив’язані мені.

Ми спустилися на другий поверх. Я вивела Костянтина з ліфта і привела до дверей квартири Інни.

Я натиснула кнопку дзвоника.

Кожна секунда очікування тяглася безкінечно.

У голові малювалися картини: ось двері відкриваються, і на обличчі Інни з’являється вираз шоку. Я уявляла її здивування.

Нарешті двері трохи відкрилися. На порозі стояла сусідка в домашньому халаті, з рушником на ще мокрих волоссі. Її обличчя виражало лише легке недоуміння.

— Забирай його, — промовила я і трохи поштовхнула Костянтина вперед.

— Що? — Інна дивилася на нас з явним непорозумінням.

Я провела чоловіка всередину квартири. Він ще нічого не розумів, але слухняно рухався за мною.

— Можеш зняти пов’язку, — сказала я впевнено.

Костянтин зняв галстук з очей, моргнув і почав оглядатися.

— Де ми? Що відбувається? — він переводив погляд з мене на Інну, явно не впізнаючи обстановки. — Чия це квартира?

Я склала руки на грудях, готуючись до розв’язки.

— Запитай у своєї Інни, — холодно бросила я.

Костянтин витріщився на сусідку з таким щирим недоумінням, що на мить я засумнівалася.

— Про що ти взагалі говориш? — він питався, дивлячись то на мене, то на Інну. — Віка, поясни, будь ласка.

Інна також виглядала збентеженою.

— Ви що, зовсім з глузду з’їхали? — спитала вона.

— Хватит притворятися, — притиснула я. — Я все чула вчора. Вашу розмову біля ліфта.

Інна нахмурилася.

— Яка ще розмова? Вчора я цілий день була на роботі. Повернулася лише о дев’ятій вечора. У мене зміна в магазині до восьми.

Я відкрила рот, щоб відповісти, але тут з кухні вийшов чоловік.

Він тримав на руках маленького хлопчика, який з апетитом гриз печиво.

— Що тут відбувається? — спитав він, і я застигла.

Його голос… Цей тембр, ці інтонації… Практично точна копія голосу Костянтина. Навіть манера вимови здавалася знайомою.

Мені стало гаряче. Чоловік зовсім не був схожий на Костянтина зовнішньо, але їх голоси… Вони були практично ідентичними.

Я розсміялась, взяла Костянтина за руку і потягнула до виходу.

— Вибачте, будь ласка, — звернулася я до сусідки. — Це непорозуміння. Ми вже йдемо.

Дома я розповіла чоловікові всю історію. Костянтин слухав мене з інтересом, неначе спостерігав за розвитком сюжету в фільмі.

Потім похитав головою і обняв мене.

— Віка, як ти могла подумати, що я здатний на таке? Після п’ятнадцяти років разом? Ти ж знаєш, як сильно я тебе люблю.

— Повіриш, коли сама опинишся в такій ситуації, — усміхнулася я. — Прости за цей спектакль.

— Нічого страшного, — Костянтин усміхнувся у відповідь. — Тепер у нас є смішна історія для сімейних вечорів.

Нарешті я дістала з сумки коробочку і простягнула її йому.

Костянтин був у захваті від подарунка, одягнув годинники одразу ж і весь день милувався ними.

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З життя33 хвилини ago

Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a gentle chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but a booming, belly-clutching roar wholly inappropriate for a hospital ward, a sound she’d despised all her life. The culprit: her bed-neighbour, phone pressed to ear, waving her free hand in the air as if her caller could see the gesture. “Len, you’re having a laugh! Seriously, he actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Fifteen precious minutes of peace before the day’s bustle—a last chance to gather herself for surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, the neighbour was already here, briskly tapping at her phone. A curt “good evening” was their entire exchange. Helen had been grateful for the quiet—until now. “Excuse me,” she said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down?” The neighbour swiveled. Round face, short grey hair unapologetically natural, a garish red-polka-dot pyjama set—honestly, in hospital! “Oh, Len, I’ll ring you back—someone’s schooling me in manners.” She popped her phone away, beamed. “Sorry. I’m Kate. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before surgery. That’s why I ring round everyone.” “Helen. If you can’t, others might still want to rest.” “But you’re not sleeping now, are you?” Kate winked. “Right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She didn’t. By breakfast she’d made two more loud calls. Helen buried herself under her blanket, furious. “My daughter rang,” Kate explained over uneaten porridge. “Poor thing—she’s worried silly. I have to calm her down.” Helen stayed silent. Her own son hadn’t called. She hadn’t expected it—he’d said he had an early meeting. It was how she’d raised him: work first, work is responsibility. Kate went in for surgery first, breezing down the corridor and waving, cracking jokes at the nurses. Helen rather hoped she’d be in a different room after the operation. Helen’s own surgery was difficult, as always. She woke aching, sick. The nurse reassured her: all went well, it would pass. Helen was stoic; she always was. By evening, Kate was back, ghostly pale, silent for once, drifting between sleep and pain. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking. Kate managed a wan smile. “Alive. You?” “Same.” They drifted into silence. The IV dripped. The light faded. “Sorry about this morning,” Kate whispered into the dusk. “It’s nerves—I babble when I’m nervous. Drives people mad.” Helen wanted to retort but was too tired. “That’s all right.” Neither slept that night—the pain was too much for both. Kate stayed hushed, but Helen could hear her sniffling. Once, she might have been crying into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor came, checked their wounds, declared them both model patients. Kate immediately grabbed her phone. “Len! I’m fine, honestly. How are my lot? Kirky still got a temperature? Oh, it’s gone? See, I told you it wasn’t serious.” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My lot” meant grandkids, she realised. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s things?” and “Text me when you’re up to it.” Last night, when she’d still been too dizzy to reply. She texted: “All fine.” Added a smiley. Her son liked those; said messages came off as cold without them. Three hours later, a reply: “Great! Big hugs.” “Your family not coming?” Kate asked after lunch. “My son’s working. Lives miles away. And really, there’s no need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Kate nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll cope.’ Why bother visiting if all’s well, right?” But her eyes were strangely sad behind the smile. “How many grandkids have you got?” Helen asked. “Three. Kirky’s the oldest—he’s eight. Then Mash and Leo—three and four.” She fished for her phone. “Want to see photos?” For twenty minutes, Kate scrolled through snaps—kids at the beach, at home, with cake. In all of them, Kate was there—hugging, pulling faces, part of the action. Her daughter was never in a single pic. “She takes the photos,” Kate explained. “Hates being in them.” “Do you see them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter works, my son-in-law too, so I…well, I help. School runs, homework, dinner.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same in the early days with her own grandson. Now visits were infrequent, maybe once a month—if schedules aligned. “And you?” “One grandson, nine. Bright, sporty. I see him…sometimes Sundays. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Right,” Kate murmured, turning to stare out the rainy window. “Busy.” Later, Kate said quietly: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Kate sat, knees hugged to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve been thinking, and I don’t.” She faltered. “Why would I? I get there, and it’s Kirky with his homework, Masha with her sniffles, Leo’s torn his trousers, daughter working late, son-in-law away as always. And then it’s: cook, clean, fetch, fix…and they don’t even—” she paused, voice cracking, “don’t even say thank you. Because it’s just Grandma—it’s her job.” A lump formed in Helen’s throat. “Sorry,” Kate wiped her eyes. “I’m being silly.” “Don’t apologise,” Helen whispered. “I… when I retired five years ago I thought at last, time for me. I wanted the theatre, exhibitions, signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “Daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, asked for help. I’m Gran, I don’t work, it’ll be easy. I couldn’t say no.” “And then?” “Three years, every weekday. Then nursery—every other day. Then school—once a week. Now… Now I’m hardly needed. They’ve got a nanny. I’m just at home, hoping they’ll ask. If they remember.” Kate nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit last November. I scrubbed the house, baked. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kirky’s got club, can’t come.’ Didn’t come. Gave the cakes to my neighbour.” They sat in a hush as the drizzle tapped the glass. “You know what hurts?” Kate murmured. “Not that they don’t come. That I still wait. Clutching the phone, hoping—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need a favour.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Whenever the phone goes, I hope…maybe he just wants a chat. But it’s always for something.” “We always say yes,” Kate smiled ruefully. “Because we’re mums.” The next days passed in pain and slow recovery. Dressing changes were brutal; both lay silent afterward. Then Kate said: “I always thought I had the perfect family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, happy grandkids—I was needed. Irreplaceable. Turns out, they manage just fine. My daughter’s chirpy, not complaining. They’re just…fine. A granny is simply convenient—free childcare.” Helen pushed up on her elbow. “Know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son Mum’s always available, always waiting, her plans don’t matter, yours are everything.” “I did the same. Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Helen said slowly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Kate let that sit. “So what now?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Helen was up unaided. Day six she made it down the corridor and back. Kate was always a day behind but stubbornly kept up. They shuffled together, clinging to the rails. “When my husband died, I felt so lost,” Kate admitted. “My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids.’ So I made that my purpose. Only…it’s a one-way street. I’m there for them; they’re there for me only when it suits.” Helen talked about her divorce—thirty years ago, raising a boy alone, studying at night, working two jobs. “Thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. Give everything, he’d be grateful.” “He grew up, got his own life,” Kate finished. “Yes. Maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel this lonely.” “Me neither.” Day seven, Helen’s son turned up, unannounced. Tall, well-coiffed, smart coat, bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! The doctor says you’ll be discharged in a few days. Fancy staying with us? Guest room’s free, Olesia says.” “Thanks—but I’ll be fine at home.” “As you like. But ring anytime; we’ll fetch you.” He talked about work, grandson, a new car, offered money, promised to visit next week. Left briskly—almost relieved. Kate pretended to sleep through it all. When he’d gone: “That was yours?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as marble.” Helen couldn’t reply. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Kate whispered, “I reckon we need to stop waiting for their love. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, got their lives. And we need to find our own.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what else is there? Keep sitting, hoping they’ll remember us?” “What did you tell your daughter?” Helen found herself switching to ‘you’, as if an old friendship had begun. “Told her I’d need at least two weeks’ rest after discharge—doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “How did she react?” “Furious at first. I said, ‘Len, you’re an adult, you’ll cope. I can’t right now.’ She sulked.” Kate grinned. “But you know what? I felt lighter. Like dropping a heavy load I never wanted.” Helen closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no and they get offended—they’ll stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “See? Can’t get worse. Might get better.” On day eight they were discharged—together, as if fate had arranged it. They packed in silence, as if saying a final farewell. “Let’s swap numbers,” Kate suggested. Helen nodded. They tapped contacts into their phones, gazed at each other. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “And you. I’ve not had a heart-to-heart with anyone in thirty years,” Kate smiled. “Not like this.” “Me neither.” They hugged, awkwardly, careful of the stitches. The nurse brought discharge forms, called a taxi. Helen left first. The house was quiet, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Ring when you get in”, “Don’t forget your meds.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set her phone aside. Rising, she opened a folder untouched for years: French course brochure, a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the flyer, thinking. Her phone rang. Kate. “Hi. Sorry I’m ringing so soon. Just—I wanted to hear your voice.” “I’m glad. Really glad.” “Listen, fancy meeting up? When we’re up for it. Coffee, or just a walk.” Helen eyed the course brochure, then her phone. Back to the brochure. “I’d love that. Actually…let’s not wait. How about Saturday? I’m sick of this sofa.” “Saturday? Are you sure? Doctors said—” “They said. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to do something for me.” “Then it’s a date. Saturday.” Helen ended the call and picked up the French flyer again. Classes started next month. Enrollment was still open. She opened her laptop and started filling in the registration form. Her hands trembled, but she kept typing, right to the end. Outside, the rain still fell—but a pale shaft of autumn sun broke through the clouds. And for the first time, Helen thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. She clicked ‘submit’.

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Even when married, she kept hunting for a “real man,” and never hid it, not even after Alena’s father died suddenly. When she was widowed, Tamara grieved only briefly. She packed up, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat inherited from her first husband, and vanished. Grandmother Raya had pleaded in vain for her conscience. Tamara only visited rarely and showed no interest in Alena. When Alena was twelve, Tamara showed up with a seven-year-old Svyatoslav and demanded her mother sign the house over to her. ‘No, Toma! You’ll get nothing!’ her mother refused. ‘Once you die, it’ll be mine anyway!’ Tamara shot back cruelly, glancing with irritation at her daughter, who watched from another room, collected Svyatoslav, and slammed the door on her way out. ‘Why do you always fight when she visits?’ Alena asked. ‘Because your mother’s a selfish woman! I didn’t raise her right! Should’ve been stricter!’ Raissa Petrovna snapped. 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She won’t sign anything for now.’ Tamara exploded with insults but left empty-handed, which only made Andrew more suspicious. Days later, as promised, Andrew accompanied Alena to the solicitor: ‘Listen closely to everything, but double-check what you sign!’ he said. The solicitor was diligent—it turned out a probate case had already been opened in Alena’s name. Raissa Petrovna had also left a savings account to fund her granddaughter’s education, about which Alena knew nothing. ‘What about the house?’ Andrew asked. ‘The property was gifted to the girl some time ago. There are no other documents.’ ‘Gifted? How?’ Alena was stunned. ‘Your grandmother came here years ago to deed the house to you. Now you’re eighteen, it’s yours outright.’ ‘But what about the will?’ ‘That was made seven years ago and later revoked. Your mother probably doesn’t know. 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Furious but helpless, Tamara and her family had no choice. Alena, finally, returned to her home. Paul refused to leave her alone, worried her stepfamily might threaten her, so he moved in with her. And he was right—Tamara and Oleg continued to harass her. When Tamara found out about Raissa Petrovna’s savings, she tried to claim them, and though she managed to get some of the money as a legal share, she never did get the house. Eventually, after countless failed legal attempts, Tamara gave up and left with her family for good. Alena never spoke to her again. Alena and Paul married. The following year she was admitted to university to study her dream subject, and in her third year had her first child. She remained grateful to Paul and his family for helping her in her darkest hour, and lived out her life in happiness. Author: Odette — — The Puzzle The cottage was old but well tended. 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