What happened?” asked Anya, watching her husband’s reaction.
Vitya, clutching his phone tightly in his hand, slowly sank onto the couch.
“Mom’s house burned down,” he managed to say.
“How?” Anya said, bewildered, as she sat down beside him.
“I don’t know—I just got a call. She said there was a fire, and the house burned down,” he replied after a brief pause, then turned to his wife. “What are we going to do?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Anya admitted.
She had never experienced such a tragedy in her family. Once, some local boys had climbed through an aunt’s window, but all they stole was candy. There’d been a row with the neighbors—who loved to blast music—and another with the downstairs neighbors because of their dogs. But for a house to burn…
“And now what?” she asked, though from his look she already guessed his decision. “Talk to me,” she urged.
“My mom and dad will come to stay with us.”
A silence fell. Anya gazed out the window at the evening city, where the first streetlights were coming on.
“Well, what do you say?” Vitya broke the silence.
The woman turned to her husband:
“How long?”
“About a month, I think. By then, my parents will have sorted out their housing problem.”
“A month…” Anya repeated thoughtfully.
She could certainly tolerate her husband’s parents for a month—even though once she’d nearly argued with Antonina Pavlovna. The woman simply nodded. Immediately, her husband dialed his mother’s number and said they were waiting and would prepare a room.
Preparations for the arrival of the uninvited guests began in the apartment.
Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Anya was still lost in thought about the fire, unable to imagine what it would be like to experience it herself. Stepan Yuryevich, her father-in-law, was very proud of his house. It was on the outskirts of the city: a small plot of land, a shed, a bathhouse, a garage, and a spacious brick house.
The owner had already opened the door, and voices belonging to Antonina Pavlovna, Stepan Yuryevich, and someone else could be heard. Anya hurried into the corridor and froze. Her brother-in-law Alexey stepped over the threshold, carrying large bags and pushing ahead, while behind him—like a shadow—her sister-in-law entered carrying a small bundle with a child.
“Come here!” Anya called to her husband.
Vitya dragged a large trunk into the living room and joined his wife.
“It seems you only mentioned your parents. What are your brother and sister doing here?”
“Well, my brother lived with my mother. And my sister, well…” he started, but Anya raised a finger before he could finish.
“No, no—we didn’t agree on that!”
“Then where should they go?” the man protested.
“I have no idea where! I agreed only to host your mother and father!”
Vitya looked at his wife, perplexed.
“Let’s discuss it later,” he said, and quickly went into the corridor to haul more trunks into the room set aside for his parents.
The sister-in-law entered the living room, and her child began crying immediately.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Irina whispered as she started rocking the child.
“Come over here for now,” said Anya. As the mistress of the house, she knew very well that having a child in the living room wasn’t ideal. Opening her bedroom to her husband, she beckoned her sister-in-law over. “Lay him on the bed.”
Alexey set two large bags in the corner and began looking around.
“Please bear with us,” Antonina Pavlovna said as she approached the hostess.
“Thank you for taking us in,” came the voice of the father-in-law.
“You’re welcome,” Anya replied, somewhat flustered.
Her home instantly turned into a beehive: people were walking, talking, handling belongings, moving furniture. She stepped aside, only able to watch what was happening in her apartment.
“We should get something to eat,” her husband approached her.
“Yes, of course, right now,” Anya replied, still bewildered.
Finally, little Dima, the sister-in-law’s child, stopped crying. The father-in-law, without asking permission, grabbed the TV remote and switched it on. Antonina Pavlovna finally unpacked her trunks and, settling on the couch, nodded contentedly.
“Bear with it for just a little while—one or two weeks, and we’ll leave,” she said, addressing her daughter-in-law.
“Would be nice,” Anya thought to herself; perhaps that was the only thing comforting her.
Vitya then approached her.
“My sister has a child,” he hinted.
“So what?” his wife asked, as if not understanding.
“She needs a separate room.”
“Then,” Anya said, looking disapprovingly at her father-in-law—who was pressing the remote buttons like a little boy as the TV screen flashed—“we have three rooms: one is the hallway/living room, one is ours, and one we set aside for your parents. Are you suggesting Irina takes our bedroom?”
“We can’t have her there with the child…”
Anya logically understood everything. But on the other hand, why the hell should she give up her own bedroom?
“So are we going to live in the living room with your brother?” she demanded.
“Alexey will sleep in the kitchen.”
“Bear with it a little,” Antonina Pavlovna interjected.
And what was there to do but endure? She couldn’t simply kick them out. Perhaps they did have somewhere to go, but now it seemed unreasonable—and would surely lead to a fight with her in-laws.
Biting her lip, Anya silently nodded. Vitya immediately went off to inform his sister that his wife had agreed to give up the bedroom for her.
Half an hour later, the door rang. At that moment, the mistress of the house stood by the stove when her husband approached.
“That’s your sister-in-law, your own sister,” he said, nodding toward the corridor.
“Keep stirring the potatoes,” Anya said, stepping away from the stove.
Olya entered the living room and looked at the guests in surprise. Stepan Yuryevich and Alexey greeted her, while Antonina Pavlovna didn’t even come out of her room—and Irina was nowhere to be seen.
“Wow!” Olya exclaimed upon seeing her sister.
“Yes, that’s how it is,” Anya answered with a heavy sigh. “They’ve had a tragedy; their house burned down.”
“Good grief,” Olya added, “I’m sorry. And will they be staying long?” she asked, referring to the guests.
“Antonina Pavlovna says one or two weeks.”
“Yes, one or two weeks!” came a voice from another room—that of the mother-in-law.
Anya was surprised at her own sharp hearing, realizing that she was now speaking to her sister in whispers.
At that moment, the cry of a child came from the nursery.
“Oh dear,” Olya said, “you’ve practically turned your home into a daycare!”
“Yes,” agreed Anya.
“Listen, if it’s just for a week or two, maybe you could come live with me? It’ll be too hard to live here.”
Hearing this, Anya sighed with relief. The idea hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully, kissing her sister on the cheek.
After gathering her things, the mistress of the house bade farewell to the uninvited guests, asked her husband to keep order, and, if necessary, to call her. Vitya didn’t even see his wife off, so Anya and Olya had to carry two bags.
The next day, closer to evening after work, Anya stopped by the house. Now it was hard to recognize: the couch had been moved, the TV was in a different spot, and there was an odor… the smell of tobacco smoke. Anya went into the kitchen and flung the windows open.
Looking at her brother-in-law, she declared disapprovingly:
“In my house, no one smokes!”
“Then where am I supposed to smoke?” Alexey replied, implying it was his problem.
“That’s your problem,” she retorted irritably, “but in my house, no one smokes.”
“Alright, alright, calm down,” her husband approached her.
Taking him by the arm, she led him into the corridor:
“By Monday, neither your brother nor your sister is allowed in my house!”
“Come on, relax,” Vitya replied with a sour expression.
“I only agreed to host your parents, not them.”
“You’re such a hard-hearted person!” came a voice from the living room—her mother-in-law.
‘Big-eared,’ Anya thought, meaning that Antonina Pavlovna had been eavesdropping again.
“If you had a problem, we’d gladly take you in. And now you’re ready to kick us out!”
“Not you,” Anya replied in a measured tone, though she didn’t specify whom she wanted to evict. “Your brother,” the mistress of the house addressed her husband, “is an adult man who can rent an apartment, and Irina has a husband—what is she doing here?”
“Well…” Vitya began uncertainly.
“They must leave by Monday!” the woman declared firmly as she began to dress.
And in that house, there was nothing left for her to do—she wasn’t going to ghost around or clean up after the guests.
A minute later, Anya left.
A week passed. The mistress of the house visited several times and talked with her husband, who kept promising that his brother would leave soon and that his sister was having conflicts with her husband. After the twentieth of each month, when Anya paid the utilities, she noticed that the apartment fee hadn’t been paid. Immediately, she turned to her husband:
“Why didn’t you pay the apartment fee?”
“I don’t have any money right now,” Vitya replied.
“And where did all your money go?” Anya asked, curious.
“Everything goes to food.”
“Hold on—why don’t your parents buy groceries? They have a pension. And why doesn’t your brother? After all, someone used to feed them. And what about your sister?”
In his characteristic uncertain manner, Vitya began to stutter.
Irritated, Anya walked to the kitchen window and flung it open:
“I asked that no one smoke here. Is it really so hard to understand?”
Alexey simply shrugged in silence.
“If you live in my house, then respect it.”
A voice from the TV announcer sounded in the living room.
At least once a day, the mistress of the house would come by to check if everything was alright, just to greet the relatives—and for as long as she could remember, the father-in-law had always been sitting in front of the TV. And then she wondered: “What is happening with this house?”
“You’ve promised me for the tenth time that your brother and sister would leave,” Anya said, hurt.
“They will, they will leave,” Vitya replied discontentedly.
“I want to remind you—this is my house.”
Vitya lowered his head, swaying her for a few seconds before replying:
“Yes, they will leave.”
“When?” she pressed, but Vitya said nothing.
Out of habit, Anya picked up a sponge and began washing the dishes, barely noticing as she tidied up the kitchen.
“I’m just thinking,” she said to Vitya, “why do I even have such a husband?”
When Anya had moved into this apartment (long before she was married), she had rejoiced over the home, but now that joy had vanished.
“I’m leaving,” she told him. “Pay the apartment fee, the utilities too. I don’t know where you’ll get the money—maybe shake down your brother or sister.”
After saying goodbye to her in-laws—who hadn’t even looked up from the TV—the mistress of the house left.
At the end of the second month, her husband’s relatives were still living in her house. Every day she called, asking when his brother and sister would leave. In the end, she couldn’t live with them forever—she had her own family. And every time Vitya said that Alexey now lived in the living room and Irina was still in their bedroom.
Anya had argued with her husband several times but couldn’t find a way out of the situation. She couldn’t simply kick them out, though she was beginning to think: just come in and throw them out. Let them argue, be hurt, shout, curse—but in the end, this was her house. Once she even considered kicking her husband out—so that he’d finally understand what it was like to live in a house that wasn’t his.
One Saturday, Anya decided to go to her mother-in-law’s house to see the burned house for herself. However, when she arrived, she was surprised—the house was still standing. She approached the gate, opened it, and entered the yard. Nearby stood a burned shed; the entrance to the house was also damaged. It seemed that the firefighters had removed part of the roof, but the house itself looked quite normal: windows were intact, and even the walls hadn’t blackened.
Then a woman approached her.
“Hello,” Anya greeted.
“And who are you?” the woman asked.
“I’m Antonina Pavlovna’s daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, I see,” the woman said with a shake of her head. “I’m a neighbor—Antonina asked me to keep an eye on things.”
“Is it really that bad?” Anya asked about the house’s condition.
“No, it’s normal. Come on,” the neighbor said as she took out some keys and, stepping over scorched beams by the entrance, opened a perfectly normal door.
They entered the house. Yes, there was a burnt smell, and the ceiling was a bit charred, but the floor was fine. In every room, everything was in place: the TV, the refrigerator, the beds, the sofa—everything was as it should be.
“The electricity is off; they need to change the wiring,” the neighbor explained.
“But can people live here?” Anya asked, curious.
“Yes, of course you can. It’s only a matter of a couple of days: fix the roof, whitewash the ceiling, and do a few minor things. My husband could have it done in a week.”
“A week?” Anya repeated, surprised. In that very moment, anger flared in her chest toward her husband, her in-laws who were always glued to the TV.
“Thank you for the tour,” the daughter-in-law said, and stepping outside, she nearly called her husband—then changed her mind.
An hour later, Anya entered her own home and immediately noticed that Stepan Yuryevich was once again sitting in front of the TV, and the kitchen reeked of tobacco. Opening the window, the mistress of the house addressed her mother-in-law:
“In my house, no one smokes!”
A voice from the TV responded, “It’s impossible to live here now,” according to Vitya.
“And I’m not talking to you,” Anya replied coldly.
Hearing this, Antonina Pavlovna was taken aback:
“The house is fine, so I’m asking you to leave.”
“You’re so heartless!”
“Your house is fine!” Anya raised her voice, declaring.
“I’ll repair it in the summer,” the father-in-law stated.
“In the summer?!” the mistress of the house was horrified. Four months still remained until summer.
“Are you really sorry if they live here?” her husband interjected.
“Am I in your way?” Alexey’s voice piped up.
At that moment, Irina emerged from the bedroom with her child, who immediately began to whimper.
“I can’t live there—it stinks!”
“And you have a husband,” Anya declared sharply. “Go live with him! And you,” she turned to Alexey, “a grown man, rent an apartment and leave!”
Oh, what ensued! The mother-in-law began to wail, the father-in-law flailed his arms and cranked the TV volume even higher, and Vitya didn’t lag behind: he ran from his mother to his father, from his brother to his sister, dashing between the kitchen and back, shouting at his wife.
At that point, talking was futile. Anya backed away toward the corridor as accusations of heartlessness rained down on her—as if she were to blame for their inability to live in her own house.
Returning to her sister’s place, Anya huddled in a corner. Olya didn’t ask what had happened; she simply made tea and, placing a cup on a tray along with some pastries she’d baked that morning, brought them into the living room so her sister could nibble something.
Only after everyone had gone to bed did Anya take her phone and call her husband:
“I missed you,” she said honestly—simply because she truly missed her Vitya, even though lately he had become not the man she loved—he’d grown heartless and always defended the interests of his relatives while she was pushed aside.
“I missed you too,” he replied.
“I’ve already forgotten the smell of your body,” Anya confessed.
“Well, don’t worry—spring is coming…”
“No spring!” Anya interrupted.
“Father said he’d repair the house in the spring.”
“No spring,” she repeated, and her romantic mood vanished immediately. “Today is Wednesday, and by Sunday there must be no one in my house—not even your parents.”
“No,” Vitya replied firmly.
“Think about what you’re saying!”
“I’m not going to kick anyone out,” he repeated.
For a moment, Vitya ranted—blaming both his mother and his wife—and then, without even saying goodbye, he ended the call.
Anya’s sister sat down beside her. They had talked about this so many times; there were many proposals—from the simplest, to talk and explain that the house belonged to Anya, to more drastic ideas. Olya even suggested simply changing the locks and evicting them, but Anya couldn’t agree—it was too drastic.
“What are you going to do?” Olya asked.
“I don’t know,” Anya admitted frankly.
She truly didn’t know what to do: her husband wouldn’t listen, and talking directly with her in-laws was pointless—they immediately assumed the role of the offended—while Alexey and Irina, seeing how Vitya and their mother behaved, simply ignored her.
Thus, three months passed. Anya visited her mother-in-law’s house several times, and from a neighbor she learned that no repairs were even planned. From conversations with her husband, she understood only one thing: that her father-in-law would start the repairs not in the spring, but in the summer. It was time for drastic measures.
One morning, Vitya went outside to drive to work. He walked through the parking lot, then turned around and retraced his steps—shaking his head—but his car was nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell!” he thought, straining to recall where he might have left it, but no—he always parked it there, even yesterday.
“Stolen!” the cold thought flashed in his mind.
“Stolen,” he repeated aloud.
He hadn’t heard of anything being stolen from his neighbors. Yes, in the past boys might have come by, scratched or even broken a mirror, but for a car to be stolen—it was unprecedented.
With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and called the police. To his surprise, they arrived quickly, took a few photos, and demanded his documents.
“Here,” he said, handing over his passport.
“And the car documents?” asked the traffic officer.
“They’re in the car.”
“Both the passport and the insurance?”
“Everything is there.”
The officer didn’t ask further questions. He returned to his car, where his partner was already checking data on the display, then showed the screen to him.
“Are you familiar with Zueva Anya Nikolaevna?” the officer asked Vitya.
“Yes,” Vitya replied immediately and approached the police car.
“They didn’t steal the car,” the officer said, “it was sold today.”
“What?!” Vitya’s eyes widened in shock, his face blanching.
“Yes, and this Anya Nikolaevna is listed as the owner in the database, and you…?”
“I’m her husband.”
The officer smirked.
“Well, I can only say this: the car wasn’t stolen. Contact your wife.”
“So she sold it?” Vitya asked.
“Yes, she sold it this morning.”
Vitya glanced at the spot where his car used to be, then at the officer—who sat behind the wheel with a mysterious smile.
“Looks like his wife taught him a lesson,” the officer murmured to his partner.
At that moment, Vitya’s phone rang. He didn’t immediately notice, only feeling the vibration in his pocket. Retrieving the phone and placing it to his ear, he heard his mother’s angry shout.
“We’re leaving—good luck,” the officer said, and the police car started moving.
“Don’t yell!” Vitya snapped into the phone. “What happened?”
“The police came to our house, hurry over!” his mother’s voice trembled with distress—he couldn’t recall the last time she’d shouted like that.
Cursing under his breath, Vitya hurried to the house. He quickly climbed the stairs and saw two men in blue uniforms and a woman in epaulettes.
“Here!” Antonina Pavlovna burst into the corridor. “Here’s the owner!” she exclaimed, pointing at her son.
“Are you Zuev Viktor Stepanovich?” asked the uniformed woman.
“Yes, what happened?” he replied, addressing all the officers.
The woman opened her folder and took out a sheet of paper.
“A court order for eviction.”
“What eviction order?” Vitya took the paper and began to read. “What eviction?”
“Why aren’t you answering your calls?” the woman asked coldly.
She took out her phone, set it to speaker, and dialed Vitya’s number. After a few seconds, only short beeps were heard.
“You blocked the call,” she said, her voice as cold as ice.
Vitya retrieved his phone and saw that, indeed, the number had been blocked.
“I get loads of advertising calls,” he explained, tucking his phone away.
“You never showed up in court.”
“Where was I to know about your court?” he retorted. “I live here!”
“You are registered,” the officer said, reciting the address of his mother’s house.
“I don’t live there!”
Oleg Yuryevich paused for a second, then, opening his folder, handed over a copy of the court decision:
“Zueva Anya Nikolaevna filed for divorce, but you never appeared in court.”
“Divorce?” Viktor’s voice emerged, clearly surprised. “Divorced?”
“You were supposed to just show up in court. But you ignored it.”
Vitya looked at his mother with a pallid face, and hers went pale upon hearing this. Stepan Yuryevich, his father, swore and stormed into the living room.
“If you had been in court, you would have known that the apartment legally belongs to Zueva Anya Nikolaevna. And since you refused to leave voluntarily… Letters were sent to you at that address—I’m guessing you never even checked your mailbox. You had time—five days, and they expired. Now you must vacate the apartment.”
“Are you kidding me?” Vitya tried to make sense of the situation. Just half an hour ago he’d learned that his wife had sold the car, and now he and his parents were being evicted.
Vitya took out his phone again and tried calling his wife, but once more he only heard short beeps. Antonina Pavlovna realized what he was trying to do and attempted to call the daughter-in-law—but her number was also blocked.
“We’re starting to move out,” the bailiff said firmly.
“No, no,” Antonina Pavlovna cried in distress.
A man in uniform stepped away from the wall.
“Then I’m calling a police unit, or we’ll do it by force,” his tone promised nothing good. It seemed he wasn’t just a law enforcement officer, but someone from a security force, and he wouldn’t be gentle with anyone in that house.
Vitya realized he’d lost. Squeezing past the people in the corridor, he entered the living room.
He immediately saw his mother, who glared at him, his father still cursing and pacing, his brother sitting silently on the couch, and his sister Irina—holding little Dima close—standing like a ghost in the bedroom’s depths.
“Pack your things,” Vitya said quietly, “and leave.”
“Your wife has lost her mind!” Antonina Pavlovna roared.
“Zueva Anna Nikolaevna is divorced,” Oleg Yuryevich announced as he entered the living room, addressing the woman standing near the guest room door.
At last, everyone realized that the former daughter-in-law had filed for divorce, and Vitya—ignoring basic rules—had never appeared in court and even managed to block calls from the bailiffs.
“How dare she get a divorce!” Antonina Pavlovna screamed.
Vitya snorted and looked at the woman with contempt.
“All because you behaved like pigs!” Stepan Yuryevich was about to lunge at the offender, but seeing the uniformed officers enter the living room, he backed off.
“We have nowhere to go!” wailed the elderly woman. “Our house burned down!”
“Don’t lie,” said Oleg Yuryevich, pulling a photograph from his folder and showing it to the bailiffs. “Your house is intact.”
Cursing, Antonina Pavlovna went to pack her things in a room. Stepan Yuryevich followed her. Alexey had no choice but to gather his belongings into a large bag and step out into the yard.
Irina tried to call her daughter-in-law for the hundredth time, and each time all she heard were short beeps.
“Fool!” she scolded, realizing her number was blocked.
“Get ready!” Antonina Pavlovna entered the room and began helping her daughter pack.
Vitya didn’t know what to do. This was his home; he had come to live there with his wife—but now it turned out he was no longer the husband, and the house was no longer his. He looked at his mother, who, turning away from him, said nothing. His father continued to curse, blaming both his daughter-in-law and his son for now having to leave.
“I live here!” Vitya finally gathered himself and addressed the bailiff.
“Not anymore,” Oleg Yuryevich said. “You have no share in this apartment; you aren’t registered, the divorce is final, and there is a court order for eviction. Please—” he stepped aside, clearing the way for Stepan Yuryevich, who was dragging a large trunk with his belongings.
The bailiffs did not interfere. The woman sat on the couch, while two men stood aside like a support group. About an hour later, Antonina Pavlovna left the apartment. Alexey departed without even saying goodbye or thanking his brother for the shelter. Stepan Yuryevich dragged his daughter’s suitcase into the corridor. Irina stood in the bedroom for a while—having nothing left to do there. She gathered her child in her arms and, giving her brother a withering look, followed her mother.
A few minutes later, only Vitya and the law enforcement officers remained in the apartment—but he had nothing more to do. Yes, he could have gathered his belongings, but Isakov said he could come back later when the apartment’s owner was home. Vitya did just that: he took one last look at the apartment in which he had spent a couple of years, then left.
Outside, Vitya saw his ex-wife. Anya stood aside, watching as one by one her former in-laws exited the building. None of them greeted her or thanked her for taking them in. Each cursed the daughter-in-law, blamed, and even spat.
“Are you upset because my parents lived here?” Vitya asked.
“No,” Anya replied calmly, “I’m upset about your piggish behavior.”
A look of disdain appeared on his face.
“And you shouldn’t have skipped court. I told you I filed for divorce, but you laughed. And now look.”
“Why didn’t you say there was a hearing?” Vitya asked, his face paling with fear.
“All documents were sent to your registered address. In my house, you are nobody.”
Vitya stood silently, wanting to yell at his wife but fearing it would only make things worse.
“I’ll come for my things tomorrow.”
“No,” Anya replied, “tomorrow at twelve we’re in court.”
“What court?” Vitya’s face went even paler.
“You hid from me that you bought land and started building a house,” she said. “Twenty acres in a pine forest. We’re going to divide it—it was bought during the marriage,” she stated affirmatively without a question.
Vitya muttered a curse under his breath. His mother had once offered to register the plot in her name, but he hadn’t believed her—she was too often on Irina’s side. Fearing that one day she might give the land to her, he took the risk and registered it in his own name.
“I have an offer,” Anya continued, “you can sell it to me.”
Vitya said nothing.
“You have no money now; your mother won’t let you in, and you need to rent an apartment. I’m willing to buy this land from you,” she said, pausing before adding, “at a discount. And if not—tomorrow the court will issue a decision, and the land will go to auction. Decide.”
Vitya stood in indecision for a minute; indeed, he had almost no money left in his pocket.
“Oh, I forgot to mention—there will be another court hearing.”
“What for?” Vitya managed to ask.
“Because you lived in my apartment with your relatives and didn’t pay the apartment fee. I’ll calculate the average rent for your stay and send you a bill. And that comes to roughly three hundred and fifty thousand, plus the apartment fee and utilities. So decide about the land, and please don’t be late for court tomorrow.”
An hour after Vitya left, a cleaning crew arrived to give the apartment—once home to his relatives—a thorough deep cleaning.
And the next day, Vitya did show up in court. His appearance was a sorry sight—apparently, his mind had been thoroughly muddled all night by his mother, father, brother, and sister.
At court, Vitya agreed to sell his share of the plot to his ex-wife because he desperately needed money just to survive during this period. He lost everything: the wife he loved—now who despised him; the home where he had hoped to raise his children; the land plot; and, to top it off, he received the curse of his parents and the contempt of his brother and sister.
A late summer evening cloaked the city in a damp chill. In a cozy apartment on the fifth floor of an old brick building, Anya tidied up. After a thorough cleaning, the space filled with freshness and cleanliness. In the corridor lay a neat stack of her ex-husband’s belongings and the haphazardly packed items of her in-laws. She called a transport company and sent everything off to Antonina Pavlovna’s home.
Later, in the kitchen fitted with modern appliances, two sisters sat at a round table. Olya, the younger with a mischievous smile, sat close to Anya:
“So, are you on the hunt again?”
Olya always joked like that when Anya started looking at men.
“Oh no!” Anya said, spitting over her shoulder. Seeing this, her sister giggled:
“I do have someone in mind…”
“Don’t start,” Anya said firmly, taking a photograph from the bookshelf and crossing out Vitya’s face with a thick marker.
“He wasn’t bad, though,” she added softly.
“Yeah, he was,” Anya agreed, “exactly as he was.”
It hurt that it had turned out this way—she had loved her husband, truly loved him, and never imagined he would betray her like this. But what’s done is done. In the end, she had put so much effort into fixing the situation, yet every step only led to worse consequences.
Always ready to support her, Olya pulled a bottle of red wine from her bag, set it on the table, and went to fetch a corkscrew.
Outside, it had long been dark by the time the sisters, comfortably settled on the soft sofa in the living room, sank into their memories. They sat and laughed, reminiscing about their childhood—but this time they avoided talking about men, a taboo, a temporary ban. Only well past midnight, tired and satisfied with the evening, did they disperse to their rooms.
Anya sat on the bed, ran her hand over the empty covers, and then, hugging a pillow, fell asleep.