The phone call woke Olga. Looking at the clock, she saw it was still not even six in the morning. On the other end of the line, her father’s voice trembled, unlike his usual tone, as if he was holding back tears.
— Olyenka, dear… They took mom to the hospital. Something with her heart…
Olga didn’t remember how she got dressed or ran out of the house. The car sped through the deserted streets toward the city hospital, and in her head, the young woman played out dozens of different scenarios.
Her father met her at the emergency room, looking defeated, his eyes dull. Grigory Mikhaylovich sat on a bench with his head down.
— What happened? How is she? — Olga rushed to him.
He only shook his head and turned away. She couldn’t get any details from him: for every question, he either remained silent or muttered something vague about the “doctors are taking care of it” and “it’s unclear.”
Olga had to wait a couple of hours until visiting hours were announced. Together with her father, they went up to the second floor. Olga immediately recognized her mother among the others lying in the ward. She was pale, small under the gray hospital blanket, as though trying to hide from the world.
Irina Pavlovna turned her face to the wall as soon as she saw her husband.
— Mommy… — Olga whispered, approaching. — We’re here…
But her mother rasped:
— I don’t want to talk to him!
— Well, Ira… — her father said, stepping forward, confused.
— Let him go! — she almost shouted, sobbing. — I beg you, let him go!
Olga, not understanding what was happening, silently took her father by the elbow and gently but insistently led him out of the room. He followed without a word. Returning to her mother, Olga cautiously sat on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s cold hand in hers.
— Mommy, what happened? — she asked softly.
Irina Pavlovna didn’t respond immediately. Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes. Finally, through her sobs, she managed to say:
— He betrayed me, Olga… With his colleague… He’s been lying to me for years… And now she’s pregnant… He’s fifty-four years old, and he… Olga, do you understand?!
Olga looked at her mother, hearing every word, but unable to believe what was happening. She had always thought their family was strong and reliable. Her parents already had grandchildren — her children, the old house at the summer cottage, familiar summer trips, gatherings, and friends. She couldn’t comprehend how her father had managed to have an affair.
Olga stroked her mother’s hand, comforted her as best as she could, whispered soothing words, all the while barely holding herself together. Inside, she was overwhelmed by a hurricane of emotions: pain for her mother, anger at her father, shame, confusion, and bewilderment.
Olga left the ward. Her father was waiting at the door. She silently waved her hand, signaling, “Not now.” But he still followed her down the corridor, unable to remain silent.
— Olga, please listen… I didn’t mean to… I love your mother… — he gasped, clutching his chest. — It just happened… Forgive me… I’ve told her everything!
Olga suddenly stopped:
— And her heart couldn’t bear your “truth”! — she shouted with such force that a heavy echo rolled through the corridor.
Grigory Mikhaylovich shrank. He looked at his daughter like a beaten dog, but Olga, holding back tears, turned away and walked off.
After her discharge, Olga took her mother home with her. Irina Pavlovna barely spoke, spending most of her time lying with her face buried in the pillow, as if shutting out the world. The whole family’s life froze in uncertainty: no one knew how to move forward, how to piece together the shattered routine.
One day, there was an insistent ring at the door. Olga opened it, and her father stood there, disheveled, gaunt, with bags under his eyes.
— Ira… Come home… I beg you… — he started shouting so that his wife could hear.
Olga was already about to slam the door, but her mother suddenly came over. Her face remained cold.
— Why should I return to you? — she asked dryly.
And then Grigory Mikhaylovich squeezed out:
— My mother is coming…
These words hung in the air. Vitalina Arkadyevna, Irina’s mother-in-law, was a stern, authoritarian woman. Everyone in the family trembled before her — both children and adults. She was strict to the point of cruelty, especially toward her only son.
Realizing he had no choice, Grigory Mikhaylovich fell to his knees in the hallway. Bowing his head, he grabbed his wife’s hands, kissing them while pleading:
— Forgive me… Please… Come back… She shouldn’t know all this! My mother will curse me!
Irina Pavlovna looked at him with bitterness. This man had once been the most beloved and closest to her, but now she felt nauseous at the thought of him. Finally, she sighed and nodded:
— Fine… I’ll come back. But only until her departure, understood?
Olga stood aside, fists clenched, feeling a strange, sharp feeling rising within her — she too was repulsed by her father.
At first, everything surprisingly went well, or rather, as usual. Vitalina Arkadyevna, visiting, held herself royally. She methodically criticized everything she saw:
— There’s dust on your windowsills, Ira… And who’s cleaning like this?
Irina remained silent.
— Grisha, what’s with that beard? You look like an alcoholic! Get a haircut and shave immediately.
Grigory only sighed.
— Olga, dear, why are you serving such bland soups? Where’s the flavor?
During the times when she wasn’t criticizing, Vitalina Arkadyevna went to theaters, museums, and visited relatives. At eighty years old, she was energetic, and everyone, except for herself, was exhausted by her plans.
One evening, Vitalina Arkadyevna returned from a museum, and upon entering the apartment, gasped: a beautifully set table was in the living room. A pristine tablecloth, shiny porcelain dishes, silverware, an array of appetizers, hot dishes, desserts, glasses, and even a bottle of wine.
— Ira! — she exclaimed, eyeing the setup, — Is it a celebration?
Irina Pavlovna calmly nodded, adjusting the folds of the tablecloth:
— Yes. It’s about to start.
Grigory Mikhaylovich, who had come back from work by then, turned pale. He shifted his gaze between his wife, the table, and his mother, sensing that something was wrong.
— Ira, what’s going on? — he mumbled.
But she only smiled mysteriously. At that moment, there was a ring at the door.
— Oh, guests! — Vitalina Arkadyevna perked up.
Olga dashed to the door. A woman about thirty-five stood at the threshold: dressed in an unusual outfit, with her hair tightly tied in a bun. In her hands was a box with a cake.
Irina Pavlovna approached the guest and ceremoniously turned to her mother-in-law:
— Meet, Vitalina Arkadyevna. This is your new daughter-in-law.
— What?! — she screamed, almost dropping her purse.
— Yes, yes, — Irina Pavlovna confirmed sweetly, — you heard right. This is Grisha’s mistress. And you’ll soon have a new grandson.
It was as if the ground had been ripped out from under Vitalina Arkadyevna. Her face turned crimson, then purple. Grigory Mikhaylovich rushed around, stammering:
— Mom, Ira’s joking! It’s a joke! Ira, tell them it’s a joke!
Irina Pavlovna, with an impassive expression, grabbed the confused woman’s hand and gently sat her at the table.
— Am I joking, Elena? — she asked, looking her in the eye.
Elena opened her mouth but couldn’t make a sound, only blinking in panic. At that moment, Vitalina Arkadyevna, in a fit of rage, grabbed the nearest plate of herring under a fur coat and threw it at her son.
The plate flew over Grigory’s head, and a purple-pink mess of beets and mayonnaise spread across his face.
— What a scoundrel you are, Grisha! — Vitalina Arkadyevna shouted, grabbing the next plate.
Shouting, crashing dishes — the living room turned into a theater of absurdity in seconds. Elena sobbed quietly, unable to move. Only Irina Pavlovna stood amidst the chaos, calm, with a faint smile on her lips.
That evening, Vitalina Arkadyevna didn’t waste time thinking. She went into the bedroom of her son and daughter-in-law, opened the wardrobe, and started pulling out his clothes, throwing them into a suitcase.
— Mom, what are you doing?! — Grigory Mikhaylovich shouted, running after her.
— I’m helping you, grown-up man, to set up your personal life!
Half an hour later, a stuffed suitcase and sports bag with shoes stood in the hallway. A taxi was already waiting downstairs.
Grigory Mikhaylovich panicked, pleading:
— Mom, please! Don’t throw me out! It’s my apartment!
Vitalina Arkadyevna, adjusting her hair, suddenly laughed.
— My apartment, son! — she said crisply, enjoying the effect. — And as long as I’m alive… I’m not planning on dying until tomorrow.
She paused, looking at the pale Grisha, and added:
— And tomorrow, if you want to know, everything in this house will be left to Ira and Olga. So! Good luck with this childish poor fellow, — she addressed Elena standing behind Grigory.
Elena tried to mumble something, but Vitalina Arkadyevna ruthlessly slammed the door in their faces. Silence filled the house.
Vitalina Arkadyevna, sighing deeply, sank into an armchair by the window. She took a neatly folded handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. Then she turned to Irina Pavlovna, who had been standing nearby the whole time.
— Oh, Ira… Ira! — Vitalina Arkadyevna said tiredly. — Forgive me! I didn’t think I raised such a nasty creature! I’m ashamed, ashamed…
Irina Pavlovna laughed for the first time in days.
— It’s okay, Vitalina Arkadyevna, — she replied softly. — Life doesn’t end at fifty-four… I’ll come up with something!
Vitalina Arkadyevna responded with a cheerful laugh:
— Oh, look at me! Still so much energy!
Irina Pavlovna stepped into the kitchen.
— Would you like some tea? Then I’ll clean everything here, — she called over her shoulder.
— Me?! Of course, I’ll have some! — Vitalina Arkadyevna cheered up. — But only with cake! I’ll have a few pieces! Life, Ira, goes on. And let anyone try to take our pleasures away! And I’ll help with cleaning, don’t worry. Olga! Let’s go have some tea! With cognac. Granny wants to rest.