Alexey was sorting through documents when Svetlana walked into the kitchen and tossed medical certificates onto the table.
“The doctors said surgery is inevitable. Six hundred thousand rubles,” she sank onto a chair, massaging her lower back. “We’re selling the dacha.”
“What dacha?” Alexey looked up from the papers.
“Don’t pretend. Your father died ten years ago, and I’m alive. I need help now.”
“The dacha is sacred. My father built it with his own hands in seventy-five. It’s the only thing I have left of him.”
“And what about me—am I not the only one?” Svetlana looked her husband in the eyes. “Or are planks of wood more important to you than a living person?”
Alexey set the documents aside.
“We’ll find another way. We’ll borrow, ask for an installment plan…”
“Another way?” Svetlana stood up, leaning on the table. “I’ve been on painkillers for a year! Every morning I wake up and wonder—will I make it to the evening?”
“Maybe we should look for a different clinic or more effective medication?” Alexey suggested uncertainly. “Get a second opinion…”
“I’ve already seen three doctors!” Svetlana thought she’d had this conversation more than once. “They all say the same thing. Surgery or disability.”
“But six hundred thousand… That’s a huge amount of money. And what if it doesn’t help?”
“If it doesn’t help, at least I’ll have tried!” Svetlana grabbed her back. “And if I don’t do it, I’ll definitely end up crippled!”
“Understand, the dacha isn’t just property. It’s a memory of my father, it’s—”
“It’s bricks and logs!” she cut him off. “And I’m a living person, your wife!”
The next three days felt like a war. Svetlana methodically presented arguments; Alexey stubbornly refused.
“Let’s pawn your car,” she suggested on Wednesday evening.
“My car?” Alexey jumped up. “What am I supposed to drive to work?”
“Take the bus, like normal people!” Svetlana shouted. “Or is your Toyota more important than my life?”
“Don’t yell at me! It’s not my fault you have health issues!”
“Issues? You consider my illness an ‘issue’?”
“Surgery is a risk. What if it doesn’t help? Money down the drain, no dacha, no car… Maybe we should wait a little longer?”
“Wait?” Svetlana leaned against the wall. “And in the meantime I should writhe in pain? Swallow pills by the handful?”
“Medicine is advancing; maybe in a year there’ll be something new…”
“In a year I might not live to see new methods!” she was speaking more and more quietly. “Do you want me to die for the sake of your memories?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Alexey turned to the window. “Doctors always exaggerate.”
“Exaggerate?” Svetlana went to the table and picked up the scans. “Want to look at these exaggerations? Here are my vertebrae, here are the pinched nerves…”
“Put that away!” he waved his hand. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Of course you don’t. It’s easier to close your eyes and pretend everything’s fine.”
Svetlana fell silent. She looked at her husband for a long time, then left the kitchen without a word.
They didn’t speak again. Svetlana was gone from morning till night. Alexey found notes around the house saying she had taken on extra classes at the institute, started tutoring, sold her jewelry.
A month later he noticed the absence of a wedding ring on her finger.
“Sold it?” he asked.
“None of your business,” she replied without lifting her eyes from the computer.
“But that’s our ring… the symbol of our marriage…”
“Symbol?” she gave a bitter smile. “What marriage? The one where a husband lets his wife die?”
“I’m not abandoning you! I’m just looking for other options…”
“What options?” she finally raised her eyes. “In a month have you proposed anything concrete?”
Alexey was silent.
“My point exactly,” Svetlana went back to her computer. “Meanwhile I’ve already saved forty thousand.”
Another month later, the book collection disappeared from the living room. Then her winter coat, which she’d worn for three years.
Alexey tried to start a conversation:
“Svet, maybe we should at least talk…”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll handle it myself.”
“But I’m your husband! I’m supposed to help!”
“Supposed to?” she stopped in the doorway. “Strange you remembered that only now.”
“I was thinking about selling the dacha… maybe finding a buyer who’d pay more…”
“Don’t. That way you’ll be selling it for six years,” Svetlana’s voice became indifferent. “I’ve already figured out who I can rely on.”
In September she took out a loan and went into the hospital. Alexey found out from her friend Marina.
“The operation is tomorrow,” Marina said coldly. “If something happens, at least you’ll know.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” Alexey asked, bewildered.
“What for?” Marina looked at him with contempt. “So you could start talking again about your precious dacha?”
“I can come, be with her…”
“No need. She asked not to let anyone in. Said she’s used to relying only on herself.”
The surgery went well. Svetlana came back two weeks later—thin, pale, but alive. Alexey tried to help with her bags.
“No need,” she pulled away. “I’m used to doing everything myself.”
“Svet, I understand that I behaved…”
“You don’t understand anything. And don’t try.”
“But I was worried! I thought about you every day…”
“Thought?” she slowly climbed the steps. “And did that help?”
“I wanted to come to the hospital, but Marina said…”
“Marina told the truth. I didn’t want to see you.”
“Why? I’m your husband!”
“Husband?” Svetlana stopped, holding onto the railing. “Husbands don’t let their wives die for the sake of boards and nails.”
“The dacha isn’t just boards! It’s a memory of my father, it’s—”
“It’s more important than me. I got it.”
Over the next six months she recovered, methodically paying off her debts. She worked fourteen hours a day, took any side jobs.
Alexey tried to talk, brought tea, offered help. Svetlana answered in monosyllables, accepting only what was necessary.
“How’s the loan going?” he asked in December.
“Fine. Two hundred thousand left.”
“Maybe I can help? I’ll sell the car…”
“Too late,” she didn’t lift her eyes from the paperwork.
“But I want to help now!”
“Now I don’t need help. I needed it six months ago.”
“I thought we’d find another way…”
“We did,” she put the papers away. “I found one.”
In February Svetlana received a bonus and paid off the loan early. Alexey brought flowers.
“Congratulations!” he handed her the bouquet. “You did great!”
“Thanks,” she put the flowers in a vase. “Yes, I really did great.”
“Now you can finally rest. We could go to the dacha, for example…”
“The dacha?” Svetlana turned to him. “Your sacred dacha?”
“Well… just to relax…”
“I’d rather take a vacation. Alone.”
In March she filed for divorce.
“Why?” he asked. “The operation went well, you’re healthy…”
“I’m healthy,” she agreed. “And I’m free. From your problems, from your ‘sacred’ dacha, from you.”
“But we’re a family…”
“Family is when you support each other in hard times. You chose planks.”
“I can change!” Alexey grabbed her hand. “Let’s try again!”
“No,” she pulled free. “I saw who you really are. That can’t be forgotten.”
“But I love you!”
“Love?” she gave a bitter smile. “Love is when you’re ready to give up what’s dearest. And you weren’t ready to give up even something not so dear.”
“The dacha was important to me…”
“More important than me. That’s exactly my point.”
The divorce went through quickly. Alexey packed his things, realizing the apartment belonged to Svetlana’s mother.
“Where am I supposed to go now?” he asked helplessly.
“To the dacha,” she replied without looking up from the documents. “To your father.”
“Svet, maybe we should give each other some time? I realize I was wrong…”
“Time?” she looked up. “I had time to die from pain. You had time to think about the dacha. There was plenty of time.”
“But everything turned out well! You’re healthy, the surgery was successful…”
“Without your help. That’s what matters.”
Alexey moved into a rental apartment. For the first few months he was tormented by guilt, blamed himself, tried to call Svetlana. Then he got used to it.
Colleagues turned away from him after Marina told everyone the story. Friends stopped inviting him to gatherings. Only his mother and the dacha remained.
“Maybe I really did act cruelly,” he said to his mother over lunch.
“Maybe?” his mother shook her head. “Son, you let your wife die for the sake of a wooden house.”
“But the dacha is a memory of my father…”
“Your father would have been the first to sell that dacha if it meant saving a life. He knew the difference between a person and a plank.”
“I thought we’d find another way…”
“Thought? Or just didn’t want to part with the dacha?”
Alexey was silent.
“My thoughts exactly,” his mother sighed. “Svetlana did the right thing by leaving you.”
A year later Alexey learned that Svetlana had been promoted, bought a car, and was traveling.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to the divorce,” he told his mother. “She’s healthy now.”
“She is,” his mother agreed. “And she’s smart. She understood who you really are.”
“But I’ve changed! Now I would definitely help…”
“Now?” his mother looked at him sternly. “Now it’s too late. Trust doesn’t come back.”
“Maybe I should try to meet with her?”
“What for? So she can be even more convinced she made the right decision?”
Alexey shrugged and drove to the dacha. His father’s house was gradually falling into disrepair, but it was his inheritance. The only thing he had left.
He sat on the porch, looked at the overgrown garden, and wondered whether it had been worth it. The dacha needed repairs, which he had no money for. The roof leaked, the foundation was cracking. In five years the house might simply collapse.
“Maybe I really should have sold it,” he muttered under his breath. “Svetlana would have been healthy and we would have been together.”
But it was too late. The dacha remained with him, and his wife had found the strength to cope on her own.
Meanwhile, Svetlana sat in her apartment, feeling at peace.