When Lena stepped off the train, it was still dark. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming back. She bought a ticket for early morning, took the last car, didn’t read, didn’t look out the window. She only listened to the clatter of the wheels—as if they were tapping out what she still hadn’t said. Not to herself, not to them.
Ten days early. She hadn’t completed the last stage of rehabilitation—told the doctor she simply couldn’t anymore. The sanatorium’s silence, the white walls, the therapist’s muffled voice—all of it had become unbearable.
She wanted to go home. To her daughter. To familiar corners. She wanted to be in motion again, even if she had no strength.
The taxi driver was taciturn, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. He kept glancing at her in the mirror, but didn’t ask anything. That was better. Lena couldn’t have borne sympathy.
The entryway met her with the same smell of dust and paint, flaking tiles, a draft from a door left poorly shut. Everything—as before. Only something inside had shifted.
The key went into the lock with difficulty. As if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Or far too often.
The door opened—and the smell hit her face. Not hers. Not familiar. Slightly sweet, like strange perfume and fried onions. It smelled new.
Lena tiptoed in, as if into someone else’s home. She took off her jacket, set down her bag. Everything was in its place. But not the same.
On the hall table lay a hair tie. A child’s one, with little hearts. But Marisha didn’t use those. Hadn’t for a long time.
The kitchen—spotless. Too spotless. A new frying pan on a hook. A kettle without limescale. In the fridge, containers labeled in marker: “vegetable soup,” “cutlets for Liza,” “for Marisha — Monday.” Wait.
Lena closed the fridge. Slowly. Inhaled.
The bedroom smelled of lavender. The bedding—different. The pillows—someone else’s. And on the windowsill, a cup—with a lipstick mark. Not hers. The lipstick was pink. Lena didn’t use lipstick at all.
She went into her daughter’s room.
On the wall—a new drawing. A sun, two figures, a cat, and the inscription: “Masha and Mama Liza.”
Lena sat on the bed. The pillowcase fabric crackled. She stared at the drawing as if at an open wound.
She called her husband. He picked up almost at once.
“Where are you?” she asked quietly.
“At my mom’s. With Marisha. And you?..”
“At home.”
Silence. Then:
“But you were… in ten days…”
“I changed my mind.”
He sighed.
“I’ll come soon.”
But it wasn’t he who came. Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Her mother-in-law. In a coat, with a handbag and a sack of vegetables. As if she’d just come to drop off potatoes.
“What’s with you showing up like this?” she asked without a greeting. “No call, nothing.”
“I don’t owe you that.”
Her mother-in-law bit her lip but said nothing.
“They’re at Liza’s. Marisha’s asleep. We didn’t want to wake her.”
“Who is Liza?”
A pause. The mother-in-law lowered her eyes.
“A woman. She helps. Very good. Marisha feels calm with her. She…”
“You decided everything without me?”
“Lena, you were sick. And Liza… well, she just happened to be there. We didn’t plan it. It just… happened.”
“So you weren’t expecting me back?”
“Lena… don’t start. The main thing is that the child is well. And you—recover.”
“I’m already better,” Lena said. “Thank you for your concern.”
Her mother-in-law only shrugged.
“Tell him to bring Marisha home tomorrow. I want to talk to her.”
“She… is used to Liza. She sleeps over there.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She… is hers too now, in a way.”
Lena closed her eyes. Stayed quiet.
“We’ll find a way,” the mother-in-law added. “It’ll all settle.”
And she left, as if nothing had happened.
That evening Lena sat by the window. She packed the stranger’s cup into a bag. Pushed the bedroom nightstand back to where it had been. Turned the rug back to its place. Put her own books on the shelf. Not because she believed she’d restore anything. Because otherwise—she couldn’t breathe.
She remembered how it had all started.
Three years straight—no days off. Work at the kindergarten, private sessions, online courses, webinars. Courses in neuropsychology. An internship. Another one. Then they opened a speech therapy office—invested money, time, hopes. She handled the space and décor; he took care of lawyers.
Then—the crisis. Salaries were cut, debts grew. He began going to his mother’s in the evenings—“it’s quieter there, and the internet’s better.” She didn’t argue.
He picked up their child himself. They cooked in turns. Spoke briefly. About the weather, about homework, about paperwork. A family like a spreadsheet report.
Then—the hospital. She fainted at an appointment. A bleeding ulcer. Two weeks on an IV, one on capsules. Then they persuaded her to go to a sanatorium. There were no places, but the chief physician found a voucher—“you need to pull yourself out, otherwise you’ll be right back here.” And she could think only about Marisha. Who was reading to her. Who brushed her hair.
And now—someone else’s smell, someone else’s cups, someone else’s labels.
She lay down on the couch. The room was dark; only the fridge’s red light blinked. Lena didn’t cry. She just lay there. As if waiting for someone to say: “We were kidding. Everything’s in place. Everything is yours.”
But no one said it. No one called. The phone was silent.
That same evening Lena couldn’t stay in the apartment. Everything in it felt foreign. She took a bag of things and went down to Lyudmila, the neighbor on the first floor, a former nurse who had once brought her soup before she left for rehab.
Lyudmila opened the door quickly, as if she’d been waiting.
“Come in. I’ve just made borscht, it’s hot.”
Lena entered without a word. She wore the same sweater she’d traveled in. Her hair was tangled; in her hand, a plastic bag with documents and medicines. She sank onto a stool and took off her boots. Quietly, exhausted.
“Why do you look like you’ve come from a war?” Lyudmila set a plate and a mug of tea on the table. “Eat. We’ll talk after.”
Lena picked up the spoon but didn’t eat.
“I don’t have a home,” she said. “It’s all… occupied.”
“The soup will get cold,” Lyudmila replied. “We’ll sort the rest later.”
After eating, Lena cried for the first time. Not sobbing—tears just flowed, soundless. Lyudmila sat beside her and covered Lena’s hand with her own.
“You’re not weak, Lena. You were just carrying everything. But you can’t keep carrying and never ask.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“Then you’ll learn now.”
The next day Lena filed a petition to determine the child’s residence. No hysterics. With documents. With the school schedule, a medical certificate, a character reference from work. Everything that proved: she is the mother. Not the former one. The real one.
Her husband called in the evening.
“What are you playing at?”
“Taking back my life.”
“You won’t manage.”
“I already am.”
He came with papers—wanted to discuss terms. Brought coffee in to-go cups. Lena didn’t take it.
“You could have stayed there. Why did you come back?”
“Because I have a daughter. Not because I had somewhere to stay.”
He looked at her closely. As if for the first time.
“You used to be completely different.”
“I was in survival mode. That’s not the same thing.”
Child services came on Wednesday. A woman around forty, glasses, attentive. She asked questions. Looked over the room. Asked for photos.
“And who paid for the office?” she asked casually.
“I did. But it’s registered to my husband.”
“Why?”
Lena shrugged.
“At the time, I didn’t think it mattered.”
A week later the first hearing took place. The husband insisted: “The child is stable with Liza.” Lena didn’t argue. She just produced the documents. Calmly. Clearly. The child services representative nodded.
After the hearing, in the corridor, Marisha came up.
“I want to have two moms. But you weren’t with me when I was sick.”
Lena crouched down.
“I know.”
“You could have called.”
“Yes.”
Marisha was quiet.
“And now will you?”
Lena nodded.
“Always.”
A week later Lena gathered the documents for divorce. Informed her husband in writing. She decided not to claim the office. Not out of weakness—out of clarity.
He called in fury.
“What are you, out of your mind? You could have taken it!”
“I don’t want anything tying me to you.”
He let the silence tighten.
“You don’t understand what you’re losing.”
“On the contrary.”
Two weeks later he filed a countersuit—to divide the apartment. Lena brought the certificate of inheritance. The apartment was hers—before the marriage.
“But I invested!” he shouted in court. “I painted the walls! I did the repairs with my own hands and paid for everything…”
The judge calmly asked for proof.
There wasn’t any.
After the hearing he caught up with her at the exit.
“Who do you think you are?”
“And you?”
“You talk like you gave something. But in fact—you only took.”
Lena stopped. Looked straight at him.
“Be a man. You’ve completely lost the plot—what apartment are you even trying to divide? You wanted a war—you got one. But it’s your war. Not mine.”
He didn’t answer.
A month later the court’s decision arrived. Marisha would stay with her mother. Visitation—by mutual agreement.
Lena herself called Liza.
“We should talk. Without formalities.”
“Of course.”
They met in a café. Ordered tea. Both—without sugar.
“I didn’t want to destroy anything,” Liza said. “I just happened to be there. And he… made his own choices.”
“I don’t blame you,” Lena replied. “It’s just that now everything will be different.”
“Thank you for not making me the enemy.”
Lena looked out the window. It was snowing.
“In this story the enemy isn’t you. And not even him. Not you. Not him. It’s the silence. The habit of not seeing. And thinking things somehow sort themselves out.”
The next morning Lena signed a lease for an office—close to home. She specifically looked for something nearby: she didn’t want to climb back into impossible routes and lose time commuting. The place was small but bright. With white walls and the smell of clean wood.
While unpacking, she came across an old mug with the logo of the former office. She held it for a moment. Then went to the shelf in the corner and, without hesitation, set it in the trash bin.
When she left, she turned off the light. Inside she felt even. No triumph. No regret. Just—empty and calm.
In the evening, after putting Marisha to bed, she didn’t open her work email. Didn’t check her messengers. She simply lay down beside her daughter and stroked her hair.
“Mom, will you be only with me now?”
“I’ve always been with you,” Lena said. “Only now you’ll feel it.”
Her daughter snuggled in. Then fell asleep.
Lena lay there, looking at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time she knew exactly: everything was only beginning.
In the morning the kitchen was quiet. Lena wiped the table slowly, as if trying to erase the last traces of someone else’s presence. Everything—hers: the cups, the towel, even the drops of water on the rim of the sink.
In the room, Marisha slept. Her breathing was even. On her cheek—a faint pillow crease. Lena peeked in, tucked the blanket, and left without turning on the light.
The documents lay on the table. Court. Child services. Divorce. All done. Lena ran her hand over the smooth covers. It wasn’t a finale—just a period. Necessary, correct.
An old mug slid out of the drawer. A chip on the rim, a dent in the enamel. She used to drink from it at night, trying not to fall asleep. Back then it seemed—the main thing was to endure. To wait it out.
Not anymore.
She put the mug into the trash. Quietly, without ceremony. Just—removed what was unnecessary.
She sat by the window. Drizzle misted the glass. Warm, spring rain. For the first time in a long while, Lena wasn’t waiting for anything and wasn’t in a hurry.
She no longer tried to earn love. She wasn’t saving anyone. She wasn’t proving anything. She was simply present. With herself. With her daughter. With the quiet.
That was the answer.
To live doesn’t mean to hold on. To live means to choose. Every day.
And she had chosen. Now—for sure.