— Lena, we need to talk.
Elena Vasilievna was standing by the stove, stirring borscht. Pyotr walked into the kitchen, sat down on a stool, and put his hands on his knees. That’s how he always sat when he felt guilty. Like the time he broke her favorite vase. Like the time he took money from their savings jar for fishing without asking.
— Go ahead, she said without turning.
The wooden spoon kept circling. The borscht smelled of garlic and bay leaves.
— I don’t know how to say this.
— Just say it, Elena Vasilievna replied. — When you want to, you always know how to say things straight.
Pyotr Andreyevich cleared his throat. He was a big man, fifty-five, balding, his shoulders once seemed sturdy to her in their youth. Now those shoulders had slumped.
— I’ve met someone else. Her name is Alyona. She’s twenty-eight. I want to leave.
The spoon stopped, then resumed its circles.
— What does she do?
— What?
— Does she have a profession?
— She… does eyelash extensions. She’s a lash technician.
Elena Vasilievna turned off the burner. She turned slowly. Looked at her husband as if he were a stranger she’d just met, already knowing there would be no next meeting.
— Understood, she said.
— Lena, I…
— There’s doctor sausage and half a block of “Rossiysky” cheese in the fridge. That’s yours. Take it.
She took a towel, wiped her hands, and left the kitchen.
Pyotr sat on the stool for another five minutes. The borscht cooled. Outside, tires rustled, somewhere in the yard a dog barked. Thirty years of life side by side with this woman smelled of bay leaf and was so familiar that he stopped noticing it. Maybe that’s when it all began.
Elena Vasilievna signed the divorce papers three weeks later. No tears, no scandal, no plates against the wall. The notary, an older woman in glasses, gave her a look of professional sympathy. Elena gave her a polite smile and put her copy in her bag.
Their daughter Nastya found out over the phone. She yelled, cried, promised to come and sort things out. Elena told her:
— There’s nothing to sort out, it’s already over.
— Mom, how are you?
— Made borscht. Eating alone. Tastes good.
Nastya was silent for a moment, then quietly said:
— Mom, you’re strange.
— Probably.
They talked some more about Nastya’s mortgage, which the parents helped pay off for three years, handing over nearly a third of their combined income. Nastya asked if she needed help. Elena said she didn’t. And that was true.
She packed Pyotr’s things carefully. Not in trash bags like her friends recommended, but in proper suitcases and boxes. His shirts were ironed, socks paired. His garage tools, fishing gear, the 2003 driver’s manual he for some reason never threw out—everything in its place.
Pyotr Andreyevich looked at these boxes like someone who’d been struck hard, but not where he expected.
— You’re not angry, he said.
— No.
— Why not?
— Because anger takes energy. And right now I need my energy for something else.
What exactly, she didn’t say. Pyotr drove away with the boxes. For two days, as it turned out.
On the third day, he rang the doorbell.
Elena opened. Pyotr stood there with his travel bag, staring at the ground.
— I can’t swap the apartment quickly, he said. — Alyona lives in a small room on the outskirts, only eighteen meters and a tough landlord. Can I stay in the back room until things get sorted out?
Elena Vasilyevna glanced down the hallway. Thought for a moment. The back room had been empty since Nastya moved in with her husband.
— Seven thousand a month, she said. Utilities split. I cook for myself, fridge divided. Cleaning goes by schedule; I’ll post it on the fridge.
— Lena, we’re…
— Seven thousand, she repeated. Or rent somewhere else.
He brought in his bag. That same evening, she took a red marker and drew a line straight down the fridge. Underneath, she wrote: “Left shelf — P.A., right shelf — E.V.” Then took an A4 sheet, made a chart, and wrote at the top: “Cleaning schedule for shared spaces.” Bathroom, toilet, hallway, kitchen. Weeks alternated fairly.
She stuck it to the fridge, attaching a pen with a magnet.
Pyotr read it. Said nothing.
Two days later, he brought Alyona.
It happened Friday night. Elena was in her room, reading a mystery and eating an apple, when she heard voices in the hallway. Young, loud, surprised.
— Petya, is she for real? She actually lives here.
— Keep your voice down.
— So what? It’s weird! You said she agreed.
— She agreed.
— Agreed to what?
Elena turned the page. The apple crunched.
The next morning at breakfast was their first real meeting. Elena Vasilyevna was making porridge. Alyona came into the kitchen in a short floral robe, her eyelashes at least a centimeter and a half long, likely extensions she’d done herself. Gray shadows under her eyes. On her fridge shelf: just a bottle of water and a box of cottage cheese bars.
— Good morning, Alyona said, uncertain but defiant.
— Morning, Elena Vasilyevna replied.
— Could you… I wanted to ask about your shampoos. There’s a really nice one with argan oil in the bathroom. Can I use some? My hair’s dry.
Elena looked at her closely. Alyona was a pretty girl. Not gorgeous, but with the liveliness that makes youth attractive. Fair hair, a small nose, restless hands.
— No, said Elena. — You can’t.
— Why not?
— Because it’s my shampoo.
That evening, Elena moved all her cosmetics to her room. The argan shampoo, conditioner, body cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and face mask. Only household soap and the shared toilet brush were left in the bathroom.
Life as three in a three-room apartment settled in with a screech and a red marker.
Alyona didn’t cook. In the evenings, the smell of pasta from the back room filled the air; they overcooked it till it was a single clump, poured ketchup from a packet over it, and ate straight from the pot. Elena heard their forks clinking against metal and, once, allowed herself a quiet smile.
She made borscht. Real borscht, with sautéed vegetables, beets, beans. Enough for several days. On Sundays, she baked pampushkas: small, soft rolls brushed with garlic oil. The scent filled the apartment. Just drifted, no hidden intent.
One evening, Pyotr knocked on her door.
— Lena, do you have aspirin? My head hurts.
— Yes, she said.
— May I?
— Go to the pharmacy. Kirava’s open till ten. It’s cheap there.
— Lena…
— Pyotr Andreyevich, we’re neighbors. Neighbors don’t borrow aspirin.
He left. Half an hour later, he came back with a tiny box of pills. Elena Vasilyevna put her own medicine kit in her nightstand and locked it. Inside were diclofenac, vitamins, Corvalol, a dozen other essentials. All hers now.
Two weeks passed. The first Saturday cleaning schedule arrived. Pyotr was on bathroom duty.
At eleven, Elena heard water running. Then silence. Then water again. After an hour and a half, she peeked into the bathroom.
Pyotr Andreyevich stood at the toilet with the brush. He wore the look of a person who just realized how things get clean. He scrubbed the toilet, washed the sink and wiped the mirror — sloppily, with streaks, but still cleaned.
In thirty years of marriage, Elena Vasilyevna had never seen her husband with a toilet brush.
Alyona didn’t join in cleaning.
Next week, when it was Alyona’s turn on the chart, Elena found the stove dirty, a pot of congealed pasta left in the sink. On the fridge next to the chart was a new note, written in red marker: “Kitchen must be cleaned after every meal. Item 3 of our agreement.” Signed and dated.
An hour later, Alyona found her in the kitchen.
— You hang these notes just to humiliate me?
— I put up reminders because agreements need to be followed.
— What agreement? This isn’t an office!
— This is an apartment, and I’m the landlady. If you don’t like the conditions, there are other options.
Alyona slammed the door. Her manicure was perfect, it must be said. Long oval nails, pink and white gradient, neat. Elena looked at her own. Short, no polish. Medical habit. Thirty years as a nurse in a city clinic didn’t allow for luxury.
Then she wondered, why not? That Saturday, she booked a salon visit. Not to Alyona with her lashes, but to a quiet place on a nearby street, where an older nail tech did gel nails with little chit-chat. Tender coral polish. Elena stared at her hands that evening, feeling awkward. Then she grew used to it. She liked it.
It was the start of something she struggled to name for some time after.
Before, her weekends were all for Pyotr. Not because he asked, but because it just happened that way. Borscht for him. Shirts ironed for him. Doctor reminders. Insurance calls. Finding the lost remote, always under the sofa cushion. Thirty years of loving rituals, automatic as breathing.
Now, Saturday was hers.
Her friend Lyudmila suggested Nordic walking. Elena waved it off: “That’s for retirees with canes.” Lyudmila laughed: “Lena, we’re fifty-something. We’re basically retirees.” Elena thought it over and bought poles—orange, lightweight, telescopic.
The first time, they walked through the park at 7am. It was cold, the sky pressed low, leaves yellowed. Elena listened to the gravel crunch, the poles tap rhythmically. Lyudmila chatted about a neighbor and her cat. Suddenly Elena noticed—she didn’t have a single thought about Pyotr. Not one. For the first time in two months.
Afterwards they stopped for coffee — big mugs with milk. The coffee was hot, strong, cost two hundred rubles. Elena paid for herself, because now she could.
Money was more plentiful now. That was unexpected.
Before, all family money went through her, but it was never clear where it disappeared: Pyotr’s car repairs, gifts for Pyotr’s colleagues, new fishing rods, covering Nastya’s mortgage for three years. Now Nastya was paying the mortgage herself, Pyotr’s needs had vanished, and her nurse’s salary plus seven thousand for the rented room suddenly gave her a freedom she’d never had.
She joined the theater. Not the philharmonic subscription, which always felt too formal, but the city theater, where they put on good plays and sold sbiten (spiced drink) and gingerbread in the lobby. She went every two weeks. Alone, because that was best. No need to explain why she did or didn’t like the play. Just sit and watch.
In November, she got a haircut.
For thirty years, she’d worn the same style: shoulder-length, straight part, practical, unremarkable. Hairdresser Victoria, who’s cut everyone in their neighborhood for twenty years, suggested a short bob styled nicely.
— It’ll suit you, said Victoria. — You have a beautiful neck, show it off.
Elena looked in the mirror. Saw a woman with a beautiful neck and thought it strange—no one had ever complimented her neck before.
— Cut it, she said.
The bob came out great. Side fringe, soft waves. Elena left the salon, lifted her coat collar, caught her reflection in a shop window. A stranger with a beautiful neck looked back calmly.
She bought a new coat that day. Stopped in a shop just to warm up, came out with a big bag. Dark blue, long, wide lapels. Not her usual style. But now it was hers.
At home, Alyona sat at the kitchen table doing her nails. Pyotr read the newspaper.
Elena hung her new coat in the hallway. Alyona glanced over her shoulder.
— New coat?
— Yes.
— It’s pretty.
— Thanks.
It was their most peaceful conversation in two months.
But it didn’t last. A week later, Elena found three bottles with pink liquid and English labels by the sink. Alyona’s cosmetics, just left for convenience.
Elena gathered them up. Wrote on the bag: “Forgotten items. Room 2.” Left it by the spare room door.
Alyona spotted the bag.
— Seriously? They’re just bottles!
— Only tenants’ things in the bathroom. Everyone has their own shelf.
— What shelf? There’s only one!
— You’re right, so I’ll install another. Two hundred rubles each.
— I’m not paying for another shelf!
— Then keep your bottles in your room. It’s your choice.
Alyona grabbed the bag, stormed off. Through the closed door, Elena heard her voice:
— Petya, she’s crazy. Not an apartment, a prison. You promised a real life. An apartment, everything sorted. Where’s everything? We eat pasta and ketchup out of the same pot!
Pyotr mumbled something in reply.
— I don’t want to keep quiet! How much more?!
Elena closed her door. Picked up her mystery novel, found her page. Outside, snow fell — the first of the year, big and slow.
She read, thinking how good it was that she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone. It was a new feeling. She liked it.
December came with early frosts. The apartment was warm, the heaters worked perfectly, but the windows would be coated with thin patterns each morning. Elena Vasilyevna would rise at six-thirty, cook porridge or eggs, drink coffee by the window, watching the snow-covered courtyard. That quiet morning hour became her own little holiday. A peaceful hour before everything else.
That Friday, she got back from the clinic at six. It was minus eighteen outside. The cold nipped her cheeks even during the short walk from the bus stop.
The hallway greeted her with silence. Then from the back room came a sound she didn’t recognize. Then she realized: Pyotr Andreyevich was moaning in pain.
Elena took off her coat, hung up her bag. Thought for a second. Went to the back room and knocked.
— What happened?
— Lena… — his voice was hoarse. — My back. It’s bad. Since morning.
— Where’s Alyona?
continued in the comments
“Lena, we need to talk.”
Elena Vasilievna stood by the stove, stirring borscht. Pyotr walked into the kitchen, sat down on a stool, and rested his hands on his knees. He always sat like that when he felt guilty. Just like he did when he broke her favorite vase. Just like when he took money from the shared jar for fishing gear without asking first.
“Go ahead,” she said without turning around.
The wooden spoon circled in the pot. The borscht smelled of garlic and bay leaf.
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just say it directly,” Elena Vasilievna said. “You’ve always known how to be direct when you wanted to.”
Pyotr Andreevich cleared his throat. He was a big man, fifty-five years old, balding, with shoulders that used to seem dependable to her when they were young. Now those shoulders were slumped.
“I’ve met someone else. Her name is Alyona. She’s twenty-eight. I want to leave.”
The spoon paused. Then started circling again.
Not taking you back
“What does she do for a living?”
“What?”
“Does she have a profession?”
“She… does eyelash extensions. She’s a lash technician.”
Elena Vasilievna turned off the burner. She slowly turned around. Looked at her husband the way you look at a stranger you’re seeing for the first time—and you already know there won’t be a second time.
“I see,” she said.
“Lena, I…”
“There’s some doctor’s sausage and half a block of ‘Rossiyskiy’ cheese in the fridge. That’s yours. Take it.”
She picked up a towel, dried her hands, and left the kitchen.
Pyotr sat on the stool for another five minutes. The borscht was getting cold. Tires rustled outside the window, and somewhere in the yard a dog was barking. Thirty years spent side by side with this woman smelled like bay leaves and felt completely ordinary. So ordinary that he stopped noticing it. Maybe that’s where it all started.
Elena Vasilievna signed the divorce papers three weeks later. No tears, no scandals, no plates thrown against walls. The notary, an older woman in glasses, looked at her with a sort of professional sympathy. Elena gave her a polite smile and put her copy away in her bag.
Their daughter Nastya found out over the phone. She yelled, cried, promised to come and sort things out. Elena told her:
“There’s nothing left to sort out. It’s all settled.”
“Mom, how are you?”
“Boiled borscht. Eating alone. Tastes good.”
Nastya was silent for a moment, then quietly said:
“Mom, you’re strange.”
“Maybe I am.”
They talked some more about Nastya’s mortgage, which her parents had helped pay off three years ago by giving away almost a third of their joint income. Nastya asked if she needed help. Elena said she didn’t. That was true.
She packed Pyotr’s things carefully. Not in garbage bags like her friends advised, but in proper suitcases and boxes. His shirts were ironed, socks paired together. The tools from the garage, fishing gear, even the 2003 car manual he for some reason never threw away—everything was in its place.
Pyotr Andreevich looked at these boxes with the expression of someone who’d just been hit—but not where he expected.
“You’re not angry,” he said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because being angry takes energy. And I need my energy for something else right now.”
She didn’t specify what that “something else” was. Pyotr left with the boxes. For two days, as it turned out.
On the third day, he rang the doorbell.
Elena opened the door. Pyotr was standing there with a travel bag, staring at his feet.
“It’s not going to be easy to swap the apartment quickly,” he said. “Alyona is staying in a room on the outskirts, it’s only eighteen square meters and the landlady has quite the personality. Can I stay in the back room until we figure things out?”
Elena Vasilievna glanced down the hallway. She thought for a moment. The back room had been empty ever since Nastya moved in with her husband.
“Seven thousand a month,” she said. “Bills are split proportionally. I cook for myself, the fridge is divided equally. Cleaning is by schedule—I’ll hang it on the fridge.”
“Lena, but we…”
“Seven thousand,” she repeated. “Or find your own place.”
He came in with his bag. That very evening, she took a red marker and drew a line straight down the middle of the fridge. At the bottom she wrote: “Left shelf — P.A., right shelf — E.V.” Then she grabbed an A4 sheet, drew a table, and wrote at the top: “Cleaning schedule for common areas.” Bathroom, toilet, hallway, kitchen. Weeks were switched fairly.
She hung it on the fridge. Next to it, she attached a pen with a magnet.
Pyotr read it. He said nothing.
Two days later, he brought Alyona over.
It happened on Friday night. Elena was sitting in her room, reading a detective novel and eating an apple, when she heard a voice in the hallway. Young, loud, and surprised.
“Petya, is she normal? She actually lives here.”
“Keep it down.”
“So what if I keep it down? This is strange. You said she agreed.”
“She agreed.”
“Agreed to what?”
Elena turned the page. The apple crunched.
The next morning at breakfast, they had their first real introduction. Elena Vasilievna was boiling some porridge. Alyona walked into the kitchen wearing a short, floral robe, with inch-long lash extensions that she must have done herself. There were dark shadows under her eyes. On her fridge shelf sat only a bottle of water and a box of cheese curds.
“Good morning,” Alyona said. Not very confidently, but with a bit of an attitude.
“Good morning,” replied Elena Vasilievna.
“Would you mind… I wanted to ask about your shampoos. There’s a really good one in the bathroom, with argan oil. Can I use a little? My hair is so dry.”
Elena looked at her closely. Alyona was a pretty girl. Not a true beauty, but with the kind of liveliness that makes youth attractive on its own. Fair hair, small nose, restless hands.
“No,” Elena said. “You may not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my shampoo.”
That same evening, Elena moved all her cosmetics to her room. The argan shampoo, conditioner, body cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and face mask. In the bathroom, she left only some soap and the shared toilet brush. The brush.
Life together as three in a three-room apartment fell into a rhythm—albeit a bumpy one—with the red marker as the main rule.
Alyona could not cook at all, not even a little. In the evenings, the back room would be filled with the smell of pasta, always sticking together in one big lump, which they drenched in ketchup from a packet and ate straight from the pot. Elena heard the clinking of forks on metal and once allowed herself a quiet chuckle.
She made borscht herself. The real deal—with sautéed veggies, beets, and beans. Enough to last for days. Every Sunday, she baked pampushki: small, soft buns brushed with garlicky oil. The delicious aroma filled the entire apartment. It just happened, with no special reason or plan.
One evening, Pyotr knocked on her door.
“Lena, do you have any aspirin? I’ve got a headache.”
“I do,” she replied.
“Can I have some?”
“Go to the pharmacy, they’re inexpensive. The one on Kirova is open till ten.”
“Lena…”
“Pyotr Andreyevich, we’re neighbors. Neighbors don’t borrow aspirin.”
He left. Half an hour later, he came back with a small box of pills. Elena Vasilevna put her own medicine kit away in her bedside table and locked it. Inside were diclofenac, vitamins, Corvalol, and a dozen other essentials. All of it had become just hers now.
Two weeks went by, and it was time for the first Saturday of the cleaning schedule. Pyotr’s turn to clean the bathroom.
At 11 a.m., Elena heard the sound of running water. Then silence. Then water again. After about an hour and a half, she stepped out into the hallway and peeked into the bathroom.
Pyotr Andreyevich stood by the toilet with a brush in his hand. He had the look of a man discovering for the first time where cleanliness comes from. He scrubbed the toilet, washed the sink, and wiped down the mirror. A little crooked, leaving streaks, but he did it.
In thirty years of living together, Elena Vasilevna had never once seen her husband with a toilet brush.
Alyona didn’t take part in the cleaning.
The next week, when it was her turn according to the schedule, Elena found the stove still dirty and a pot of hardened noodles in the sink that morning. Next to the schedule on the fridge, a new note appeared. Elena wrote on it in red marker: “The kitchen must be cleaned after every meal. This is item 3 of our agreement.” She signed it and dated it.
An hour later, Alyona found her in the kitchen.
“Are you putting these up on purpose to humiliate me?”
“I put up reminders because agreements are meant to be followed.”
“What agreement! This isn’t an office!”
“This is an apartment, and I am the hostess here. If you don’t like the rules, there are other options.”
Alyona left, slamming the door. Her manicure was perfect, by the way. Long nails with a pink and white gradient, neat and stylish. Elena glanced at her own hands. Nails cut short, no polish. A nurse’s habit. Thirty years working at a city clinic as a nurse didn’t let you relax about things like that.
Later, she thought: why not? That very Saturday, she booked an appointment at a salon. Not at some flashy place Alyona went with her eyelash extensions, but a quiet little spot on the next street where an older woman worked, giving gel polish without any small talk. She picked a soft coral shade. All evening, she felt awkward looking at her hands. But eventually, she got used to it. She liked it.
That was the beginning of something she’d spend a long time struggling to name.
Before, her weekends were always for Pyotr. Not because he asked, but because that’s just how it always ended up. Borscht for him. His shirts. Doctors’ reminders. Calling the insurance company. Hunting for the missing remote, which always turned up under the sofa cushion. Thirty years of small, caring routines she did on autopilot, like breathing.
Now Saturday belonged to her.
My friend Lyudmila invited me to try Nordic walking. At first, I brushed it off, joking, “That’s for retirees with sticks!” Lyudmila just laughed and said, “Lena, we’re both just over fifty. We’re basically retirees ourselves!” After thinking it over, I decided to buy the poles—bright orange, lightweight, and telescopic.
Our very first walk in the park was at seven in the morning. It was chilly, the sky was low and gray, and the leaves had already turned yellow. As I walked, I listened to the crunch of gravel underfoot and the rhythmic tap of our poles on the path. Lyudmila chatted beside me about her neighbor and that neighbor’s cat. For the first time in two months, I realized my mind was completely free of thoughts about Petr. Not a single one.
Afterwards, we stopped at a café and each had a large mug of coffee with milk. The coffee was hot, strong, and cost two hundred rubles. I paid for mine myself, simply because I could now.
There was more money now. It was an unexpected feeling.
Before, I handled all the family finances, but the money always seemed to disappear: fix Petr’s car, buy gifts for his colleagues, pay for his fishing gear. And for three years, there was Nastya’s mortgage. Now, Nastya was paying off her mortgage on her own, Petr’s needs were gone, and my nurse’s salary plus seven thousand a month for a rented room suddenly created a sense of space that simply hadn’t existed before.
I started going to the theater—not a philharmonic subscription, which always felt too formal, but our city theater where they put on great plays and served sbiten and gingerbread in the foyer. I went every two weeks. I went alone because it was simply better that way. I didn’t have to explain why I did or didn’t like something. I could just sit and enjoy the show.
In November, I got a haircut.
For thirty years, I’d worn the same hairstyle: shoulder-length hair with a straight part. It was practical, convenient, and went unnoticed. Victoria, the hairdresser who’d been cutting everyone’s hair in our neighborhood for twenty years, suggested a short bob with some styling.
“It’ll suit you,” Victoria said. “You have a beautiful neck. You should show it off.”
I looked in the mirror and saw a woman with a lovely neck. It felt strange. No one had ever complimented my neck before.
“Go ahead, cut it,” I told her.
The bob turned out great. The bangs swept to the side, with soft waves. When I left the salon, I lifted the collar of my coat and caught my reflection in a shop window. A stranger with a graceful neck looked back at me—calm and self-assured.
That same day, I bought the coat. I’d only gone into the store to get warm, but left with a big shopping bag. The coat was dark blue, long, with broad lapels. Not my usual style. Except now, it was.
At home, Alyona was sitting in the kitchen painting her nails. Petr was reading the newspaper.
I walked into the hallway and hung up my new coat. Alyona glanced over her shoulder.
“Is that a new coat?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
That was the most peaceful conversation we’d had in two months.
But the peace didn’t last. A week later, I found three bottles of something pink with labels in English by the sink—Alyona’s cosmetics. She’d just left them there, because it was convenient.
I gathered everything into a bag. On it, I wrote: “Forgotten items. Room 2.” I left it by the door of the far room.
Alyona came out and saw the bag.
“Are you serious? They’re just bottles!”
Only items belonging to each tenant are allowed in the bathroom. Everyone has their own shelf.
What shelf? There’s only one tiny shelf!
You’re right. That’s why I’ll put up a second one. It’s two hundred rubles, we’ll split it equally.
I’m not paying for some extra shelf!
Then keep your bottles in your room. The choice is yours.
Alyona grabbed her bag and left. Through the closed door, her voice could still be heard:
Petya, she’s crazy! This isn’t an apartment, it’s a prison camp. You promised me a normal life. You talked about an apartment, about everything being sorted out. Where is it all? We eat ketchup out of the same pot!
Pyotr replied, but his voice was low and quiet.
I don’t want to talk quietly! How much longer?!
Elena Vasilievna closed her door. She took out her detective novel and found her bookmark. Outside, snow was falling—the first snow of the year, big and unhurried.
She read and thought about how nice it was not to have to explain herself to anyone. This was a new feeling for her—and she liked it.
December came with frosts earlier than usual. The apartment was warm, the radiators working fine, but in the mornings, thin patterns formed on the glass. Elena Vasilievna got up at half past six, made porridge or boiled eggs, drank coffee at the window, and gazed at the snowy yard. This morning solitude became its own kind of celebration for her—a quiet hour before everything else.
That Friday, she returned from the clinic at six in the evening. Outside it was minus eighteen. The cold stung her cheeks even on the short walk from the bus stop to the building.
The corridor greeted her with silence. Then, from the far room, a sound started that at first she didn’t recognize. Then she did. Pyotr Andreevich was groaning in pain.
Elena took off her coat, hung up her bag, and hesitated for a moment. Then she walked toward the far room and knocked on the door.
What happened?
Lena… his voice was hoarse. My back. It seized up. Since morning.
Where’s Alyona?
She left to see a friend. I asked her to stop by the pharmacy, but she said she just did her manicure. Then she called a cab.
Elena opened the door. Pyotr was lying on the bed, curled up on his side. His face was gray. Sweat beaded on his forehead. She recognized the look—probably lumbago or his hernia acting up again. He’d had it three years ago, and she was the one who treated him then.
Her professional instinct kicked in before she had time to argue with herself. After thirty years as a nurse, you simply can’t walk past someone lying there, face gray from pain.
Where does it hurt? Show me.
Lower back. To the left.
She carefully felt the area. The muscle was tense, hard as a board. A classic muscle spasm from exposure to cold or overexertion.
Can you stand up?
Barely.
Stay put. I’ll be back.
She went to her room. Opened her nightstand. Took out a vial of diclofenac, a syringe, gloves, and brought a heating pad. She drew up the medication. Her hands did it all automatically—skilled and steady.
I’m giving you the injection in your hip, don’t move.
Lena, I…
Later.
She administered the shot professionally—quick, almost painless. Then she took heat cream from her drawer, rubbed it between her hands, and started massaging his lower back. Slowly, along the spine. Pyotr’s breathing was heavy.
After about ten minutes, he finally began to relax. The muscle eased up a bit. He turned his head to look at her.
Lena.
What?
Forgive me.
She kept on massaging.
“I’m such a fool. I ruined everything. You were… you’re the best person I’ve ever known. And I…”
“You got tired of the routine,” she replied in an even tone. “It happens.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No. Not an excuse.”
She put her hands away. Wiped them off with a towel.
“Lie down, you’ll feel better in the morning. If it doesn’t go away, tell me—I’ll give you another shot. It’s a three-day course.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Old nurse’s habit. No need to make it into something more.”
She stood up, took all her things, and went to the door.
“Lena,” he called after her. Quietly, his voice hoarse.
“What?”
“I miss you. I miss your borscht. I miss how things used to be.”
She stopped at the door. Didn’t look back.
“Go to sleep, Pyotr Andreyevich. You can talk tomorrow.”
And she closed the door.
In her room, she stood by the window. It was dark and freezing outside. A streetlamp glowed orange through the snow. She thought how he probably felt a little better there now, that the injection would start working in twenty minutes and the pain would ease. It was the right thing to do. Not because she still loved him. Not because she hoped for anything. Simply because she was a nurse, and leaving someone in pain when you could help was something she just couldn’t do.
She put the kettle on. Brewed some chamomile tea. Picked up a detective novel. Couldn’t bring herself to read. She stared at the page and thought about thirty years. About when they moved into this apartment with just two mattresses and one frying pan. When Nastya was born in February, tiny and red, and Pyotr was holding her, not knowing what to do with such a small being. The fights about money—because there was never enough. The times they made up. How thirty years slipped away just as water boils off when you forget to turn down the heat.
There was no anger. Just that old, faintly weary feeling that all of it happened long ago and to other people.
She fell asleep around half past eleven.
At four in the morning, voices in the hallway woke her. Alyona had come back.
Elena lay in the darkness, listening. She didn’t plan on getting up or eavesdropping, but old apartment walls are thin.
“Where were you? It’s four in the morning.”
“At a friend’s. What’s the problem?”
“I asked you to stop by the pharmacy. I was alone all day. My back’s killing me.”
“Petya, I told you—I just got my nails done. Next time.”
“Next time. Got it.”
“Are you upset now? Seriously?”
“I was lying there and couldn’t get up. Lena gave me a shot. My ex-wife. And you…”
“Oh, perfect! So now she’s taking care of you. How convenient. So why did you leave her in the first place if she’s so wonderful?”
“Alyona.”
“What, ‘Alyona’? Did you really think we’d all just live together in this apartment with your ex-wife and her red marker on the fridge? You promised me a real life! Our own place, vacations, everything sorted! Where’s it all sorted?! I’m living in a dorm here!”
“You could have stopped by the pharmacy.”
“I’m not obligated to run errands for you!”
“When someone isn’t well…”
“I don’t feel well here either! I constantly feel bad in this place! I’m a young woman, I want a normal life, not this. You old miser.”
Silence.
Elena Vasilyevna could hear the ticking of the clock on her nightstand.
“Pack your suitcase.”
“What?”
“Suitcase. You’re leaving in the morning.”
“You… you can’t be serious. After everything?”
“Go sleep in your room. We’ll settle it tomorrow.”
“There is no tomorrow. You’re as broke as your name suggests. I thought you were at least a decent man, but you’re just like all the rest. That’s it, I’m done here.”
The sound of footsteps. A rustle. The slam of a door. Then the front door slams, too. After that, only silence, broken by the soft whisper of snow outside the window.
Elena closed her eyes. She thought about how tomorrow was Saturday, and she could sleep in until eight instead of getting up at six.
She got up at eight. Washed her face, brushed out her new bob haircut, and put on her warm robe. In the kitchen, she started brewing coffee—not instant, but ground coffee in the cezve, just how she liked it. While it was brewing, she sliced bread and got out the butter and honey.
Petr appeared when the coffee was ready. He moved carefully, but he was obviously in better shape than yesterday. He made his way to the stool and sat down. He looked like someone whose night had been long.
“How’s your back?” Elena asked.
“Better. Thanks.”
“One more shot tonight, and you’ll be fine by Monday.”
She poured herself some coffee. He stayed silent. She gazed out the window. Rare, fluffy snowflakes floated down.
“Lena,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
“She left.”
“I heard.”
“I was a fool. From the start to the end. I thought… I don’t even know what I thought. That life wasn’t over yet. That I could turn everything around. That I needed something new.”
“That’s called a midlife crisis,” Elena said calmly. “It’s a common story.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She raised her mug, took a sip. The coffee was good—the right strength, the right temperature.
“Lena, let’s try again. I realize now what I lost. I see what you… what we had. We’ve spent thirty years together. That has to mean something.”
Elena set her mug down. She looked at him—at his receding hairline, his tired face, his hands resting on the table. She knew those hands well.
“Petr Andreevich,” she said. “I don’t need to put someone else before myself anymore. I figured that out over these last few months. Last night I gave you that shot because that’s what any decent person would do for someone in pain. Out of respect for what we shared. But that doesn’t mean we have a future together.”
“Why not? I’ve changed.”
“Maybe. But I’ve changed too. I go for walks on Saturdays now. I go to the theater. I bought a coat I actually like. I sleep as much as I want, and eat what I want. I don’t spend Sundays looking for your remote. It might sound trivial, but it isn’t. This is who I am.”
“Lena.”
“I’ve already taken out a small loan. It’s enough to buy out your share of the apartment. You’ll get the money and can buy a studio, or maybe a little place in the country, like you always wanted. A house with a bit of land. Remember how you used to dream about that?”
Petr looked at her. Something like understanding started to show in his eyes—slowly, reluctantly.
“You’ve made up your mind already.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A while ago. Probably the day you mentioned the eyelashes. I didn’t know exactly what I’d decided then, but something changed in me.”
“And you’re not sad? Thirty years…”
“Of course I’m sad. There was a lot of good. Nastya turned out well. We had a decent life. But this was your choice.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But that’s not my problem anymore.”
She stood up, put her mug in the sink. Rinsed it. Dried it.
— I’ll have all the paperwork ready in a week. I know a lawyer. It can all be settled peacefully, no court involved. You really won’t have to do anything.
— Lena. Are you really okay?
She turned around. Looked at him with that same calm gaze he hadn’t been able to read since October.
— I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine.
He nodded. Slowly, like someone coming to terms with something they don’t agree with, but have no more words to argue.
— I really have wanted a one-bedroom for a long time, — he said quietly. — Near the park. There was one I looked at in the spring.
— Go see it. You’ll have the money in a month, as soon as we get the papers done.
— Okay.
He stayed sitting at the table. She went to her room.
In her room, she opened the closet and looked at her new coat. Dark blue, with wide lapels. Tomorrow was Saturday, and she and Lyudmila had made plans to walk at eight in the morning. Maybe a café after. Then Elena thought about stopping by the bookstore. They’d just stocked new detective novels by the Scandinavian author Lyudmila recommended.
Outside, the world of Petya’s childhood was gone. There was only snow, the yard, the streetlamp, and her own reflection in the glass.
A woman with a graceful neck looked back at her and smiled slightly. Fifty-two years old. A new coat. Orange Scandinavian walking poles in the corner. A locked first-aid kit, ground coffee, theatre on Saturdays.
In the past few months, she’d learned something important about herself. That she could live alone. That borscht tastes better when you make it just for yourself. That money, which used to disappear without a trace, can become a new coat and a season pass. That you can live thirty years honestly and with dignity, and let it all go—without hatred, without tears. Simply because a new life is already here, waiting beside you.
She picked up her phone from the nightstand and texted Lyudmila: “Tomorrow at eight. I’ll bring coffee in a thermos.”
Lyudmila replied a minute later: “I’ll bring gingerbread.”
Elena put her phone away. She lay down on the bed, on top of the blanket. Closed her eyes.
No more dirty socks on the bathroom floor. No more tiptoeing around someone else’s moods. No more quiet, familiar tiredness that builds up over years and is so normal you forget it’s there. No more feeling like your life exists just to make things easier for someone else.
Just a quiet apartment, snow outside the window, and morning coffee.
A new life was starting. She could feel it as clearly as she had when she first put on her new coat and saw her reflection in a shop window.
Clear, calm, and a little strange. Like morning in a completely unfamiliar city, where everything is ahead of you and no one is waiting. That might have scared her before. Now, it just felt like freedom.