“Maria Andreevna, there’s a call for you,” the nurse peeks into the office, cautiously looking through the door. “Some woman, she says — urgent, family matter.”
Maria barely tears herself away from the medical record. She’s been sitting with that folder for two hours already! Outside, it’s long since dark, and the ward is filled with a stifling silence. She picks up the phone:
“I’m listening.”
“Maria? It’s… Svetlana, your husband’s brother’s wife,” the voice on the other end trembles as if clinging to her last strength. “Sorry for calling so late… there’s no one else…”
Maria’s heart stops. Svetlana… Igor’s wife, Viktor’s younger brother. They haven’t spoken for over three years, ever since Maria divorced Viktor. Viktor’s family had then closed ranks: implying it was her own fault, that she didn’t save the marriage.
“What happened?” Maria asks cautiously.
“Igor… He’s in intensive care. Heart attack. The doctors…” Svetlana sobs. “They say he might not make it.”
Maria closes her eyes tightly. Igor… Kind, gentle Igor. The only one in Viktor’s family who didn’t turn away from her after the divorce. He even secretly called — asking about how she was.
“Sveta… I’m very sorry. But why are you calling me now?”
“He… he’s asking for you. All the time — ‘Call Masha, call Masha…’ I don’t know why, honestly! But… Masha, please come. I beg you. Maybe it’s his last request…”
Everything tightens inside. Maria glances at the clock: nearly eleven at night. It’s at least a two-hour drive to their city.
“I’m leaving,” she says suddenly, in a voice that feels foreign to herself. “Which hospital?”
The journey feels like a trial. The car is filled with ringing silence, and her mind swarms with sharp, anxious thoughts. Why is Igor calling specifically for her? What could have happened for a dying man to call his former sister-in-law and not his own relatives?
Her mind drifts to their last meeting: a chance encounter in a supermarket. Igor had looked tired, pale. He talked about work, how he was running out of nerves… And Maria, she barely listened — just muttered a few polite phrases.
“I should have paid attention,” she now scolds herself. “Forty-two years old, nerves, work… all the signs were there…”
The hospital is just the same. Hustle and the smell of antiseptics. Svetlana meets her in the corridor: eyes red, face gray from exhaustion.
“Thank you for coming,” she grabs Maria’s hands. “He’s conscious but weak. The doctor said — only minutes, no more.”
The ICU smells of medicine and fear. Igor… He lies tangled in wires and machines. His face gray, lips bluish, but his eyes are alive, searching.
“Masha…” he whispers barely audibly. “You really came…”
“Of course, Igor, I’m here,” she replies softly, sitting down beside him. She takes his cold hand in hers.
“I… have to tell you something…” he struggles to speak. “About Viktor…”
Maria tenses. Viktor. Her ex-husband. Something inside hardens, preparing for the unknown.
“Back then… when you two divorced…” Igor struggles, pausing, swallowing hard. “He came to me… drunk… crying…”
“Igor, not now…”
“It has to be, Masha!” His voice grows a bit stronger. “He said… it was his fault. That you wanted children, and he… he was afraid…”
Maria catches her breath. Children. Their old wound. Five years of marriage, and Viktor was always — “later,” work, apartment, money — not the time, not today…
“He was afraid… to become like our father,” Igor weakly squeezes her fingers. “Our father drank, beat us. Vitya thought he’d become like that himself…”
The words fall like stones. Maria remembers her father-in-law: a grim man, barely talked, died when Igor was still a teenager. But that he drank and beat the children — she would never have guessed. Viktor never spoke of it…
“He loves you, Masha. Truly. He just couldn’t overcome his fear back then — to ruin your life and the child’s…” Igor barely breathes. “Forgive him…”
“Why… why didn’t he tell me anything?” Maria cries, unable to hold back.
“Because… he was ashamed. Men don’t know how to talk about fears… And then it was too late. You left…”
“Igor, why… why now?”
“Because…” he looks straight into her eyes again. “Vitya is still alone. Works, stays silent. Sometimes drinks… not like our father, no. Just… because he’s alone…”
Maria is silent — not because she doesn’t want to respond. She simply doesn’t know what to say. For three years she kept telling herself: Viktor was selfish. Always thought only of himself… But now — suddenly everything is different.
“I… will die soon, Masha,” Igor whispers faintly, his voice growing weaker with each word. “And it hurts me so much… that you both are unhappy… because of foolishness…”
“What do you want from me?” Maria barely recognizes her own voice — empty, tired.
“Talk to him… Not to get back together. Just… finally understand each other. Forgive, maybe…”
Igor closes his eyes. His hand in Maria’s palms — icy, alien. She sits, unable even to stand. The machines beep steadily, and a duty doctor enters, casting a worried, compassionate look.
“How is he?” Maria asks, looking at the monitors.
“Stable. Looks like the crisis has passed. But his condition is very serious,” the doctor adjusts the IV drip, checks the readings. “Are you family?”
“Used to be… once,” Maria replies quietly and leaves, carefully closing the door behind her.
In the corridor, Svetlana is dozing, nodding off on an uncomfortable plastic chair.
“How is he?”
“The doctor says stable,” Maria sits down carefully next to her, feeling the same familiar heaviness inside. “Svetlana, may I ask?.. Viktor… does he really drink?”
Svetlana sighs:
“No, he doesn’t… But, you know, he’s become kind of sad. All work, work: home only to eat and sleep. Doesn’t talk to anyone much. He met with us — a couple of times in a year.”
“Does he have a woman?..” Maria asks, as if not about her ex-husband — but some distant acquaintance.
“No, no one. Igor said — he tried going on dates, but it doesn’t work out. He remembers you… all the time.”
Maria is silent. Somewhere inside, an icy shell seems to crack: three long years of resentment, three years of certainty — she was right, he was wrong…
“I have to go,” she stands and exhales. “Sveta… tell Igor when he wakes up — let him know: I understand everything.”
At home — her own apartment, which has become far too quiet. Maria pours herself tea and sits for a long time, hugging the cup like a talisman. Somehow she remembers not the quarrels with Viktor, but all the good things: how he met her after shifts, how he made Saturday breakfasts, how they dreamed of a house outside the city… And how all of it then fell into an abyss — through talks about children, through silence, irritation, coldness…
“If only I had known about his fears then…” Maria thinks. “If only we had talked honestly! But instead — we shouted, blamed…”
In the morning she dials a familiar number. Long rings — and then a voice so familiar, slightly hoarse:
“Hello?”
“Vitya? It’s Masha.”
A long, stifled pause.
“Masha? What… happened?”
“Igor is in the hospital. He had a heart attack. But… he’ll pull through,” Maria hastens to ease the tension, hearing Viktor sigh heavily into the receiver. “Vitya, we need to talk.”
They meet at a café — for some reason, both choose “neutral ground,” as if they were strangers meeting for the first time. Viktor looks… older, somehow: gray at the temples, tired shadows under his eyes.
“How are you?” Maria asks cautiously, not quite sure where to start.
“Fine,” he shrugs, briefly looking down. “Working. And you?”
“Working too… Vitya… Igor told me… about your father. About your fears…”
Viktor’s face freezes, changing in an instant.
“Don’t…” he says wearily, almost resigned.
“I have to,” Maria interrupts gently but firmly. “Why did you keep silent? We were husband and wife…”
“And what difference would it have made?” His voice is dull, slightly cracked. “You wanted children. And I… couldn’t give them to you. What difference does it make — selfishness or fear?”
“A huge difference, Vitya…” Maria, for the first time in many years, speaks a little louder than usual. “Fears can be worked through. You can go to a psychologist, try together… With selfishness — hardly…”
Viktor is silent. He spins his cup as if looking for answers at the bottom of the coffee.
“I thought… it would pass on its own. With time, everything would settle, I’d manage. But time went on, you pressured more, I withdrew more… It all ended with me losing you.”
“We both lost each other,” Maria quietly admits, hiding her eyes. “I was also to blame. I tried to change you more than to understand…”
“Forgive me, Masha. For everything.”
“And you forgive me.”
They sit in the café, and between them — not just a table and cups with cold coffee, but a whole chasm of years, pain, frustrating mistakes, and unspoken words. And suddenly the resentment disappeared, and anger is no longer there. As if the air smelled fresh: a time of silence has come.
“So what now?” Viktor finally asks, a bit confused, as if he’s forgotten how to think about the future.
“I don’t know,” Maria answers honestly, not trying to pretend to be stronger or wiser than she is. “Probably nothing. Too much water has flowed under the bridge… But now I understand: we’re both not to blame. We just… didn’t know how to talk.”
“What if… we try to learn?” Viktor’s voice sounds uncertain, hopeful like a grown-up child.
Maria looks him straight in the eyes — the very same eyes she once fell in love with instantly and irrevocably. So much has changed, but those eyes are still kind. Just tired.
“I don’t know, Vitya… Maybe. But not to get back the past. Just… so it won’t hurt so much anymore.”
He nods. Slowly, but as if he understands everything.
“I hear you, Masha.”
A week passes. Igor is discharged from the hospital: he sits at home in a chair, still pale, a bit unsure of his strength, but — alive, real. Maria visits, bringing a whole bag of needed medicines, the kind that can’t be found in their city by day or night.
“Thank you,” Igor quietly thanks, smiling tiredly. “And not just for the medicines…”
“For what else?”
“For talking to Vityok. Svetka said — you met…”
“Just talked. Don’t think anything of it…”
“I don’t think anything,” Igor smiles wryly. “I just see: it’s easier for both of you now. Isn’t it?”
It’s true. Maria no longer wakes up at night with resentment and anger at Viktor. And Viktor, as Svetlana said, finally signed up with a psychologist. He says he wants to deal with his fears. For the first time in so many years — honestly and openly.
“Better late than never,” Maria thinks. And she no longer waits. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t build illusions — and doesn’t get offended.
But most importantly: instead of heavy emptiness now — there is warm clarity. Resentment is gone. And that, perhaps, is the most important thing.
Sometimes Maria remembers Igor’s words: “Men don’t know how to talk about fears.” And suddenly she catches herself thinking: maybe women don’t know how to wait and listen? Don’t know how to be there when a person finally decides to open up?
Probably not. That, too, must be learned.
It’s good that there are people like Igor in life — those who, even on the edge of death, think not about themselves. But about how to help others find their way to each other. At least to forgive.