The long table in the country house smelled of freshly baked pies and forced politeness, though nobody dared mention the second part. Viktor sat at the head of the table as if the chair beneath him were a throne and the fork in his hand a royal scepter.
Nastya placed a plate in front of him, then quietly took her seat beside Artyom.
“Artyom, you’re eating in silence again,” Viktor said, tapping his knife against the edge of his plate. “A real man speaks at the table. He doesn’t sit there chewing like a calf.”
“Dad, I’m just hungry,” Artyom replied with a smile. “At least let me swallow first.”
“Hungry, he says,” Viktor scoffed. “At your age, I was building this family from the ground up. You’re still hiding behind your wife’s skirt.”
Nastya rested her hand on her husband’s arm and answered calmly.
“My skirts don’t have pockets these days, Viktor Petrovich. There’s nowhere for Artyom to hide. He stands perfectly well on his own.”
Someone at the table snorted with laughter.
Kirill, Artyom’s younger brother, quickly lifted his napkin to cover his smile. His wife, Olya, stared down at the tablecloth, smoothing an invisible crease and trying to blend into her chair.
“Quite the comedian,” Viktor muttered through clenched teeth. “I don’t like women with sharp tongues.”
“I do,” Nastya said with a shrug. “At least conversations with them are never boring.”
At that moment, Viktor’s phone lit up on the table. It was lying faceup, and Nastya’s eyes caught the message before she could look away.
“Zhanna: Everything on Lesnaya Street is ready. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow.”
Viktor immediately flipped the phone over and covered it with his palm.
“Curiosity gets people into trouble,” he grumbled.
“Are you talking about yourself?” Nastya asked innocently. “You looked at the screen too.”
Kirill coughed into his fist to hide another laugh.
Larisa, sitting across from her husband, slowly put down her fork and gave him a long, searching look. The air around the table thickened like cooling jelly.
“That’s enough!” Viktor slammed his palm against the table. “I didn’t gather everyone here so you could stuff yourselves with pies. I’ve decided how this family is going to live from now on. You will all sit quietly and listen.”
“Dad, we’re adults,” Artyom said gently.
“Adults?” Viktor twisted his mouth in contempt. “You’re adult enough when you count my money, but your minds are still childish. I make the decisions in this family. Is that clear? Anyone who disagrees is nobody.”
Nastya tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled as though he had just told an amusing joke.
“You know, Viktor Petrovich, I once read that you can judge powerful people by the way they speak to those who cannot answer back. You’ve just shown everyone exactly what kind of man you are.”
“You’re going to lecture me now?” His voice rose. “You were only allowed into this house because I was generous enough to tolerate you.”
The café on the corner was almost empty, and the coffee arrived in mugs large enough to bathe a small dog in.
Nastya got there first. A few minutes later, Kirill rushed inside, pulling off his scarf as he approached the table.
“You really went for him yesterday,” he said breathlessly, dropping into the chair opposite her. “I thought Father was going to explode.”
“But he didn’t,” Nastya replied, sliding the menu toward him. “Greedy men don’t explode. They only slowly deflate.”
“I’m serious.” Kirill lowered his voice. “I’ve noticed strange things for a while. He disappears for half a day, money vanishes, and then there was that message yesterday. Lesnaya Street. You heard what it said, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Nastya took a sip of coffee. “Zhanna said everything was ready on Lesnaya Street and that she would be waiting for him. And do you know what’s interesting? I know that address. A new apartment building opened there recently. The apartments overlook a park.”
“How do you know that?” Kirill frowned.
“By accident, you could say.” Nastya gave a small smile. “A month ago, your father asked me to do him a family favor and collect some keys from a concierge. Number twelve, Lesnaya Street. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
Kirill leaned back in his chair.
“Wait. Does he rent something there? Or did he buy an apartment?”
“That,” Nastya said, drumming her fingers on the mug, “is the million-ruble question. Why would a man who already owns a huge country house and a city apartment need another place?”
“Maybe it’s an investment,” Kirill suggested uncertainly.
“I’m more interested in whom he is investing in.” Nastya narrowed her eyes. “I don’t enjoy guessing. I prefer facts. He is going there tomorrow, and Zhanna is waiting for him. So tomorrow, we will also happen to be near number twelve on Lesnaya Street around noon. Purely by coincidence, of course. Perhaps the coffee in that neighborhood is excellent.”
“You’re suggesting we follow him?” Kirill leaned forward.
“I’m suggesting that we stand near the building at noon,” Nastya replied evenly. “What happens after that depends entirely on him.”
“Does Artyom know?”
“Artyom knows I don’t like watching his father crush him like a hydraulic press.” She paused. “And yesterday, I saw you shrink into yourself the moment he snapped at you. Kirill, both of you are over thirty, yet whenever he is nearby, you turn into frightened schoolboys.”
Kirill lowered his gaze to his coffee.
“He has always been like that. Even when we were children. If he called you a shadow, you became one.”
“Shadows only exist when there is a strong light,” Nastya said, setting down her mug. “So your father clearly thinks too highly of himself. Tomorrow, we’ll find out exactly what kind of light he has waiting for him on Lesnaya Street.”
Artyom and Nastya’s apartment was quiet.
Artyom sat on the sofa while Nastya paced in front of him with her arms crossed.
“I went there today,” she said. “To Lesnaya Street. Kirill came with me.”
“And?” Artyom’s shoulders tensed.
“Your father arrived exactly at noon. He was carrying flowers. A huge bouquet. Then a woman came out of the building. About forty, elegant coat, well dressed. Zhanna.”
Artyom slowly exhaled.
“Are you sure they were…”
“Artyom, he kissed her in the middle of the courtyard,” Nastya said gently. “And not on the cheek. Then he gave her the keys to the apartment. After that, he said something so sickeningly sweet that I couldn’t even repeat it to Kirill.”
“So he is having an affair.” Artyom pinched the bridge of his nose. “How long has it been going on?”
“Judging by the way they behaved, it didn’t begin yesterday.” Nastya sat beside him and took his hand. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain. I’m not interested in gossip. But I could no longer watch him humiliate you and Kirill while he secretly lived a second life.”
“What about the apartment?” Artyom looked at her. “Who owns it?”
“That is the interesting part.” Nastya took out her phone. “I asked the concierge while pretending to be a delivery courier. The ownership paperwork is still being completed. The apartment is not being registered in your father’s name.”
“In Zhanna’s?” Artyom whispered.
“It looks that way.” Nastya nodded. “But I don’t think the apartment is the end of it. I think it is only the beginning. A man who buys property for his mistress may eventually reach for something more valuable.”
“You mean the country house,” Artyom said grimly.
“I’m not making accusations without proof,” Nastya replied, squeezing his fingers. “But I don’t like how often your father has recently talked about transferring everything while he is still alive. He claims he wants to take care of the family. Very touching.”
Artyom stood and began pacing across the room.
“What are we going to do?”
“Not what are we going to do,” Nastya corrected. “What are we going to accomplish? I’m not the kind of person who spends months sighing and worrying. Tomorrow, I’m going to speak to your mother. Larisa is not stupid. I’m almost certain she knows more than she lets people see.”
“My mother?” Artyom stopped. “You want to tell her everything?”
“I want to listen to her,” Nastya said, putting on her coat. “Sometimes the quietest person in a family is carrying the loudest secret. And I would very much like to know what your mother has been keeping silent about.”
Larisa greeted Nastya at the door to her apartment with surprising calm, almost as though she had been expecting her.
She led Nastya into the kitchen, put the kettle on and remained silent for a long time.
“You didn’t come here to borrow a pie recipe,” Larisa finally said.
“No,” Nastya agreed. “Larisa Ivanovna, I won’t waste time circling around the subject. I know about Zhanna. I know about the apartment on Lesnaya Street. And I believe you know too.”
Larisa slowly lowered herself onto a stool.
“I do,” she said quietly. “I have known for almost a year.”
“A year?” Nastya lifted her eyebrows. “And you said nothing?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Larisa gave a bitter smile. “I have spent my entire life beside that man. He is like a tank. He drives forward and never looks behind him. I thought he would eventually come to his senses.”
“Tanks don’t come to their senses, Larisa Ivanovna,” Nastya said softly. “They roll over people. Yesterday, he called me a shadow. Before that, he spent years treating both his sons as shadows. I suspect he has treated you the same way.”
Larisa wrapped both hands around her cup.
“He always said everything in the family belonged to him. The house, the car, the summer property. He used to say I was there only to make things look respectable.”
“And legally, who owns the country house?” Nastya asked.
“We both do,” Larisa said, looking up. “We built it while we were married.”
“There it is.” Nastya leaned forward slightly. “Now tell me the most important thing. Has he recently mentioned transferring the house, selling it quickly or giving it to someone?”
Larisa went pale.
“He has,” she whispered. “About a month ago. He said he had found a profitable arrangement and wanted me to sign some document at a notary’s office. I didn’t really understand it. I kept putting him off.”
“Did you sign anything?” Nastya asked quickly.
“No.” Larisa shook her head. “I became ill, so we never went.”
Nastya exhaled and smiled with quiet confidence.
“Larisa Ivanovna, you have no idea how fortunate that illness was. Your cold may have saved the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“The property belongs to both of you,” Nastya explained. “That means he cannot sell it or give it away without your agreement. Not to Zhanna. Not to anyone. The law is on your side, no matter how loudly he shouts.”
Larisa slowly lifted her eyes. For the first time, there was something alive in them.
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that tomorrow, he will gather everyone around the table and once again try to make decisions for all of you.” Nastya placed her hand over Larisa’s. “And this time, we are all going to discover who in this family is truly a shadow and who is a human being.”
The country house gathered the family around the long table once again.
Viktor sat at the head, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He tapped his fingers against a stack of documents lying beside his plate.
“I have called everyone here to announce something,” he began ceremoniously. “I have decided to sell the country house. The buyer is reliable, and the price is excellent. The money will be put to good use. Anyone who objects is nobody in this family.”
“What use?” Artyom asked, frowning.
“That is none of your concern,” Viktor snapped. “I said we are selling. Larisa, we’ll have your consent notarized on Monday.”
“Is the buyer’s name Zhanna, by any chance?” Nastya asked evenly.
The room became so silent that everyone heard Viktor’s fork tremble in his hand.
“What did you say?” he rasped, his face darkening.
“I asked about Zhanna,” Nastya repeated more loudly. “The woman at number twelve on Lesnaya Street. The flowers, the keys, the apartment being registered in her name, the kisses. Shall I continue, or has your memory returned?”
“You’ve been sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you!” Viktor shrieked. Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You filthy gossip! I will destroy you. I will throw you out of this family!”
“I’m not a bird, Viktor Petrovich. I don’t fly out of houses,” Nastya replied without losing her composure. “You, however, are twisting around like a snake on a hot frying pan.”
“Is it true, Dad?” Kirill asked quietly. “About Zhanna?”
“It’s a lie!” Viktor shouted, leaping to his feet. “She invented everything! The woman is insane!”
“She isn’t lying,” Larisa said.
She rose slowly, but there was new strength in her posture.
“I have known about Zhanna for a year, Vitya. I stayed silent. But I’m finished being silent.”
Viktor opened his mouth, yet no sound came out. His eyes darted from his wife to his sons and back again. His confidence dissolved like sugar dropped into boiling water.
“Larisa, sit down,” he finally managed. “This is between you and me. We shouldn’t discuss it in front of the children.”
“You handled our private affairs on Lesnaya Street,” Larisa replied calmly. “And I am not selling the house. I will not sign anything. Not on Monday. Not ever.”
“You have no choice!” he roared. “I’m the head of this family! I have spoken!”
“There is one small problem with that, Viktor Petrovich,” Nastya said. “This property belongs to both of you. It was acquired during the marriage. Without Larisa Ivanovna’s consent, you cannot sell it or give it away. You can pound the table a thousand times, but the law doesn’t care who shouts the loudest.”
Viktor struggled for breath.
“You… you interfering little…” He searched for an insult but failed to find one. “I supported all of you! Everything here is mine!”
“The only thing that belongs entirely to you is your voice,” Nastya replied, meeting his stare. “The house belongs equally to you and your wife. You may spend your own money buying apartments for Zhanna if that is what you choose. But you will not touch family property.”
“Artyom!” Viktor spun toward his eldest son. “Make your wife shut her mouth! Are you a man or some obedient fool under her heel?”
Artyom stood.
He did it slowly and calmly. For the first time in his life, he looked at his father not like a frightened boy but like an equal.
“I am a man, Father,” he said quietly. “That is why I stand beside my wife. And beside my mother.”
“So do I,” Kirill said, rising from his chair. “We have had enough of being treated like shadows. We are people.”
Viktor looked from one face to another. What appeared in his expression was no longer anger but confusion.
He was accustomed to being feared.
Now the fear was gone, and there was nothing underneath it.
“So everyone is against their father,” he hissed. “Fine. Live however you want. Live without me.”
“Vitya,” Larisa said wearily, “we are not against you. We are against the man who calls property love and treats his family like possessions. You chose Zhanna. So go to her. Number twelve, Lesnaya Street. You already have the keys.”
“You… all of you…” Viktor lurched forward, but his voice cracked into a thin, almost pitiful sound. “You won’t survive without me!”
“We’ll manage somehow, Viktor Petrovich,” Nastya said, folding her hands on the table and smiling calmly. “You said it yourself. In this family, you are the shadow now. So you had better leave before nightfall. Shadows only grow longer after dark.”
He stood in the middle of the room, still physically imposing yet suddenly hollow. He did not know what to do with his hands, his voice or himself.
Nobody argued.
They simply watched him.
Viktor swept the papers off the table, turned and walked out. The door closed quietly behind him, without even a dramatic slam.
Larisa lowered herself back onto her chair and released a breath as though she had been holding it for an entire year.
“Thank you, Nastya,” she said softly. “I never would have found the courage alone.”
“You would have,” Nastya replied, sliding a cup toward her. “You only needed someone beside you to say no first. After that, it becomes easier. File for divorce, and he will probably become terrified of losing the apartment on Lesnaya Street. He may agree to leave the country house to you.”
“What happens now?” Kirill asked.
“Now,” Nastya said, pouring tea for everyone, “we start living. Peacefully. Also, the pies are getting cold, and cold pies are a tragedy far more serious than any father-in-law.”
Around the long table, where only an hour earlier Viktor’s voice had filled the room like smoke, everyone began to laugh.
Quietly at first.
Then together.
And genuinely, for the first time in many years.