The inheritance fell on Galya literally like a snowstorm: she was coming out of the entrance when she heard her daughter shouting from the balcony:
“Mom! A letter came for you, I forgot! Wait, I’ll put it in a bag and throw it down now.”
To keep the bag from blowing away in the wind, her daughter put a spoon inside it — something Galya herself wouldn’t have thought of.
The apartment actually belonged to Galya, so the letters came here. She inherited it from her parents: spacious, bright, with two large rooms and one small one. When her daughter got married and had little Varya, they felt cramped in her son-in-law’s tiny one-room apartment, so Galya agreed to give her apartment to the young couple.
“You’re a fool,” her friend Svetka told her back then.
Galya and Svetka had been friends practically their whole lives, even though they were two very different women. Galya was born to a family with a teacher mother and a surgeon father; she was a “proper” girl who knew from childhood how her life would unfold: college — either pedagogy or medicine — a calm marriage, one child, work that helped people — just like her parents. A pretty ordinary life. Galya’s appearance was ordinary too: light brown straight hair, gray-blue eyes, an apple-shaped figure so by fifty her waist was practically gone.
Svetka was different. Her mother was a real model, her father a big shot, and each new stepfather was a celebrity in the art world. She herself was just like her mother: tall, thin, with thick dark curls and brows that went upward. Svetka’s eyes were a rare green, like a sorceress’s, she liked to say, and with those eyes she drove men crazy. Svetka’s life was unpredictable: sometimes she’d waste money in Milan, sometimes she’d raise goats in a remote mountain village.
“You have to live so that everyone envies you,” she said. “Remember my words: you’ll be biting your elbows in old age when it’s already too late.”
Svetka used to call fifty “old age,” but obviously, her opinion had changed by now.
Svetka had no children and didn’t understand why Galya was willing to sacrifice herself for her daughter. Yes, the son-in-law’s apartment was inconvenient and far from the bus stop, but it was better for Galya herself to be uncomfortable than her daughter. And when she gave her daughter money for a car, Svetka scolded her:
“You’d better have bought a trip for yourself to Milan. You’ve wanted it for ages.”
Yes, Galya wanted to visit Milan herself — she didn’t know why, probably her friend’s stories and photos influenced her. But she wanted a dacha (country house) even more, and she confessed this to her friend.
“A dacha?” Svetka grimaced. “You’re such a bourgeois…”
Galya didn’t argue or get offended; she loved her friend and accepted all her biting words. But she kept dreaming about a dacha, so when she read in the letter that her cousin aunt had included her in the will and left some money, she was happy: now she would definitely buy a dacha!
“All right,” Svetka agreed. “A dacha it is. But don’t give the money to your daughter again — let her poor husband earn it himself.”
“Vasya isn’t poor,” Galya defended her son-in-law. “He’s a graduate student; once he writes his PhD thesis, he’ll be a research fellow, and then his career will take off.”
“You make me laugh!” Svetka retorted. “What career? I had one candidate once — he was useless even in bed!”
In the end, Svetka suggested:
“Let’s put the money in an account so you don’t give it all to your Verochka again. You can put it in my savings account — it’ll earn interest while you look for a dacha. Otherwise, I know you — the moment I turn away, you’ll have neither the money nor the dacha. Let her ask her father — you’re not the only one who made her.”
Galya divorced her daughter’s father when Verochka was nine, breaking a family tradition — no one in their family had ever divorced. Her parents, still alive then, were very upset, but Galya couldn’t forgive him for cheating; it hurt her deeply. He confessed everything himself, saying he had another woman and only with her did he understand what love was. It was painful; Galya cried for a whole year at night. Over time she forgot, of course. He later remarried, not to that love but another woman; he even had children, so Verochka wasn’t his priority anymore.
Galya agreed to her friend’s plan. She approached the choice of the dacha wisely: studied the market for a long time and looked at ads. She liked one that was a bit more expensive than she could afford, but she could take a loan. She went to see it.
The owner was about her age, a tall man with a bald spot and sad eyes. His name was Sergey, same as her ex-husband.
“Look, the plot is good, the house is excellent, I built it myself; you won’t find another like it,” he said.
Galya saw that the house was even better than in the photos, and she liked the plot too: there was space for flowers, and lots of trees and bushes. She didn’t like vegetable gardens — she wanted beauty.
“Why are you selling such a nice house?” Galya asked.
“Not sorry,” Sergey answered. “I’m sorry this beauty is standing unused. This dacha belonged to my parents; mine is on the neighboring plot, over there,” he waved his hand. “We bought the plots close together with Lucy and built everything with my father. He’s been gone three years now, and I couldn’t decide to sell. You know, it’s not just about selling: I had to sort out their things with my mom, and it’s not easy. I just buried Lucy recently, and then this happened. It’s hard,” he admitted.
“And the kids?” Galya asked cautiously.
“Oh, my kids are completely city people,” Sergey complained. “They never show up here; my daughter even moved to St. Petersburg, so two dachas are too many for me alone. I just want good neighbors who won’t damage the house or throw wild parties.”
“Well, wild parties aren’t my thing,” Galya waved off. “I’m more into flowers. Actually, I used to have only houseplants, but I think I can handle these.”
“My mom loved flowers too. And Lucy couldn’t stand them, can you imagine? I remember my first date: I brought a bouquet, all proud, thinking I’d surprise her. She grimaced and almost left it on a bench. I thought she didn’t like me. Only a year later did she confess: ‘Don’t bring me flowers, I hate them. Better chocolate.’ Yeah, she loved sweets, and so do I, to be honest…”
He spoke about his wife so warmly that Galya even felt a bit envious. No one would say that about her. Maybe Svetka was right: Galya hadn’t spent her life the right way.
“Come on, Galina, I’ll show you which flowers grow here. You can’t see them now, they haven’t sprouted yet, but I’ll show you anyway. Oh, I even have photos!”
They walked around the plot for an hour, talking about flowers, children, and how life accelerates every year.
“Before, you’d wait for birthdays and New Year’s — couldn’t wait,” Sergey said. “Now, the year’s gone like a cow’s tongue flick.”
“Yes,” Galya agreed. “I work at a school, and I think children used to grow slower. Now you barely get a class, and it’s time to graduate them.”
“My Lucy was a teacher too — Russian and literature. What subject do you teach?”
“Biology. I first wanted to go to med school like my dad but got scared of blood.”
Talking with Sergey was easy and pleasant. Galya felt a warm glow inside — the anticipation of something important she no longer expected.
“I’ll take it,” she said on parting. “Let’s agree on the date of the deal, I’ll withdraw the money, and I’ll buy it.”
She didn’t mention the loan but decided she’d get it quickly.
That’s how it went: Galya got the loan, set the deal date, and called Sveta.
“Transfer the money, I found the dacha. Deal on Friday.”
Sveta started muttering something; Galya couldn’t understand for a long time.
“You know, I wanted to multiply the money — your money. I’m not just going to keep it in my account for nothing. I need profit too. I bought stocks; my Yarik said they’d go up soon. But they just fell. It’s not my fault.”
Galya understood one thing from all this: she no longer had money to buy the dacha.
Her chest burned so much she got scared and went to measure her blood pressure. It wasn’t money she felt sorry for but the dacha she couldn’t buy and the neighbor she wouldn’t get to know.
It was hard for Galya to tell Sergey that the deal wouldn’t happen. She even tried to get another loan but was denied. She called him and told the truth:
“Sorry, my money disappeared. That’s how it happened. It’s a pity, of course, but looks like I won’t get the dacha. You can look for a new buyer.”
“Too bad,” Sergey said. “I liked you so much, thought we’d be good neighbors.”
Galya got sick from disappointment. She didn’t sleep at night, thinking about where to get money. But she couldn’t come up with anything.
When her daughter found out from her mother that the dacha wouldn’t be, she got angry.
“I always told you: don’t trust that Svetka! And you defended her!”
“Verочка, it’s not her fault; she meant well.”
“Yeah, and when she was fooling around with Dad, was that also ‘meant well’?”
“What do you mean?” Galya was frightened.
“That everyone but you knew: he left us because of your Svetka; he was in love with her!”
Galya didn’t want to believe her daughter. Her best friend couldn’t have done that, just couldn’t!
“All right,” her daughter said. “Looks like you’re hopeless.”
Galya’s life stopped resembling the pictures she imagined in childhood. She’d been wrong everywhere: she chose the wrong husband, the wrong friend, and even raised her daughter wrong, since she only knows how to accuse. Even her beloved job stopped bringing joy; Galya didn’t want to get up in the morning, she might as well quit.
Vera arrived unannounced. She rang the doorbell; Galya didn’t even want to open. Vera started knocking loudly.
“Mom, open up!”
No hat, though it was still cold; jacket unzipped.
“And where’s Varya?”
“At home, with Vasya.”
Her daughter took a bag from her purse and handed it to Galya.
“What’s this?”
“Money. I sold the car. Buy that dacha you liked.”
Galya was speechless. She looked at her daughter, confused.
“But how… Without a car, you…”
“Vasya has one; he’ll drive us,” her daughter cut her off. “Or the bus, we’re not diabetics, Varya’s already grown up. That’s it, Mom, don’t whine anymore, take the money and call Sergey.”
A lump rose in Galya’s throat. She stepped forward, pulled her daughter close, and hugged her.
“Oh, stop it. It’s your money anyway, don’t cry.”
Her daughter was always like this: sharp, bold, not a tear in sight.
“Thank you, Verочка.”
“You’re welcome. Sue Svetka, okay? Make her pay you back and for moral damages too.”
Galya feared Sergey had already sold the dacha; nearly a month had passed. She checked the listings — it wasn’t there. Almost cried again. But just in case, she called him.
“Have you sold the dacha yet?” she asked timidly.
“No,” he laughed. “It’s waiting for you.”
“What do you mean?” Galya was surprised.
“Your daughter called and asked to wait. She told me about the money and that she wants to sell the car. You have a good daughter.”
“A good one,” Galya agreed, still not believing her luck. “So, can we set the deal?”
“Of course, even tomorrow! I’m taking care of your flowers; some have sprouted and are blooming. Want me to send photos?”
“I do…”
The flowers were wonderful, just like pictures in a biology textbook. Galya remembered how much she loved her job, the children, the flowers, and her daughter Verочка with granddaughter Varya — and even liked son-in-law Vasya; her daughter got lucky with him. Everything was good for her, and her life had not been lived in vain. Though, what does “lived” mean? It’s all just beginning…