Anna Petrovna started sorting the buckwheat again, diligently picking out the black grains as if her whole life depended on the perfect purity of those groats. I knew this ritual by heart—this was how my mother-in-law calmed her nerves before another “educational” talk with me.
“Lena, it’s been five years,” she began without lifting her eyes from the bowl. “Five years! And nothing to show for it.”
I kept washing the dishes, trying not to react to the familiar tone in her voice. But inside, everything tightened into a hard knot.
“My friend Galya says her daughter-in-law already has two kids. And she got married only two years ago.”
“Anna Petrovna, Dima and I are trying…”
“Trying!” she snorted. “Maybe it’s not about trying. Maybe you should see a doctor? Get checked, find out what’s wrong with you.”
I turned around, feeling my cheeks flush.
“I’ve already gone. The doctor said everything’s fine. He said Dima and I should come together…”
“What could be wrong with Dima?” Anna Petrovna flared, finally raising her head. “He’s perfectly fine. A healthy man. It’s you who has something…”
The door slammed, and Dima walked into the kitchen. Tired, rumpled, smelling of cigarettes. In recent months he stayed late at work more and more and met my eyes less and less.
“Hi,” he muttered, heading for the fridge.
“Son, Lena and I were just talking,” his mother cut in. “About children.”
Dima froze, a beer bottle in his hand.
“Mom, don’t.”
“I will, Dima. I will! You’re young, only thirty. Your whole life is ahead of you. And what do we have? You’re living with a barren wife, and the years are slipping by.”
“Anna Petrovna!” I cried.
“What ‘Anna Petrovna’? I’m just telling the truth! Go to the doctors, get treatment. You’ve no shame—keeping a healthy man without offspring.”
Dima opened the beer and took a long drink. On his face I saw no outrage at his mother’s words, no support for me. Only weariness and… agreement?
“Dima, say something,” I pleaded.
He shrugged.
“What is there to say? Facts are facts.”
Those words hurt more than all my mother-in-law’s jabs. I ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door.
In our small room I collapsed onto the bed and let myself cry. Five years ago I was a happy bride, dreaming of a big family, of children. Back then Dima wanted kids too; he said he’d be the best dad in the world.
But the years passed and there were no children. The longer we waited, the colder our relationship grew. Dima started staying late at work, spending weekends with friends. And more and more often I noticed how he averted his gaze when we were alone.
Sometimes he came home smelling of someone else’s perfume. When I asked, he brushed it off: “You imagined it.” But I wasn’t blind.
“Dima, maybe we should go to the doctor after all?” I asked one evening while he stared at his phone, face buried in the screen.
“Why?” he replied without looking up.
“Well… to understand what’s going on. The doctor said infertility can be on the man’s side too…”
“Lena, don’t talk nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“How do you know?”
He finally tore himself from the phone and looked at me with irritation.
“I just know. And Mom’s right—it’s you who needs treatment.”
After that talk he grew even more distant. And my mother-in-law, sensing her son’s support, intensified the pressure.
“Dima’s a gem,” she’d proclaim into the phone to a friend, loudly enough for me to hear. “But the wife is useless. Can’t keep house, doesn’t feed her husband, no kids… What kind of wife is that?”
I tried to ignore it, but every word cut to the quick. Dima stayed silent, as if he heard nothing.
In April he came home late one evening. I was already in bed but couldn’t sleep. Hearing his steps, I pretended to be asleep.
Dima spent a long time in the bathroom, then quietly lay down beside me. And then he spoke:
“Len, are you awake?”
I stayed silent.
“I know you’re awake. We need to talk.”
I turned to him. In the half-dark, his face seemed unfamiliar.
“About what?”
“About us. About what’s happening between us.”
My heart pounded. Could it be he was finally ready to discuss our problems? To admit he’d grown distant? That something needed to change?
“Lena, I think…” He paused. “I think we should get a divorce.”
The world flipped. I sat up, my ears roaring.
“What?”
“I filed the papers. In a month it’ll be over.”
“Dima… why? We can still fix this…”
“Fix what?” There was tiredness in his voice. “Lena, we’re just not right for each other. And kids… I need kids. Heirs. And with you that’s not going to happen.”
“But we haven’t even really been checked! Maybe it’s not me…”
“It’s you,” he said harshly. “Mom’s right. I’m fine.”
I looked at the man I’d lived with for five years and didn’t recognize him. Where was the Dima who swore he loved me? Who said we’d overcome everything together?
“On my mother-in-law’s advice, my husband dumped me,” I whispered, and the words sounded like a sentence.
Dima turned to the wall.
“No one’s dumping you. Our marriage has just run its course.”
I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night. And in the morning, when Dima left for work and my mother-in-law went to the clinic, the phone rang.
“Lenochka, my dear,” I heard my mother’s flustered voice. “I have news for you.”
“Mom, not now. Dima and I…”
“Lena, listen to me. Aunt Vera has passed away.”
Aunt Vera. Mom’s older sister, who had moved to Moscow many years ago and with whom we hardly kept in touch. We met rarely, at big family gatherings—if that.
“My condolences, Mom. But I really can’t right now…”
“Lena! She left everything to you in her will!”
I didn’t understand.
“What?”
“She had no children, remember? Well, she made a will. An apartment in Moscow, bank accounts… Lena, it’s more than five million rubles!”
The phone slipped from my hand. Five million? An apartment in Moscow? There had to be a mistake.
But Mom was serious. It turned out Aunt Vera had worked at a large company all her life, invested money, and was very frugal. And she truly had no children—either it hadn’t worked out or she hadn’t wanted them. And she left all her estate to me—her only niece.
The next few weeks flew by in a haze. I rushed between lawyers, notaries, and banks. I handled the inheritance and paperwork. During that time, Dima practically stopped sleeping at home, and my mother-in-law ostentatiously ignored me.
“Nice setup,” she tossed out one morning while I was packing. “Got some old junk in your inheritance, and now you don’t need a man.”
I didn’t bother explaining that the inheritance had nothing to do with it. That I’d trade all those millions for one warm look from my husband, for his support in a hard moment.
The divorce was purely formal. Dima came to the registry office sullen and didn’t even try to talk. We signed—and that was that. Five years of marriage ended with signatures in a book.
I moved to Moscow at the beginning of summer. My aunt’s apartment turned out to be a spacious two-room flat in a good neighborhood. Old-fashioned but cozy. It smelled of lavender and old books.
During the first days I simply put the place in order, went through my aunt’s things. And little by little I started to breathe more freely. No one nagged me about being childless. No one said I was a bad wife. No one compared me to other women.
Then came an idea I’d cherished for years but had never dared to realize: a flower shop. I’d always loved flowers and knew a thing or two about them. In my former life it had been just a pretty dream. Now I had the means to make it real.
A small basement space turned up quickly. The rent was manageable, and the location was great—near a metro station, residential buildings, and a small office center.
I named the shop “Lavender,” after my aunt’s favorite scent. And I plunged into work. I looked for suppliers, studied which flowers were in demand, learned to compose bouquets.
The first customers came in the very first week. A young girl bought roses for her mother. An elderly man chose chrysanthemums for his wife’s celebration. An office worker ordered a basket for a colleague’s birthday.
Each purchase warmed my soul. I felt useful, needed. And most importantly—free. No one monitored my every step, criticized me, or demanded reports.
In the fall, business picked up even more. I had regular clients; there were orders for weddings and corporate events. I even hired an assistant—Masha, a young girl who knew flowers almost as well as I did.
And then, one rainy November evening, the phone rang. An unknown number, but I recognized the voice at once.
“Lena, it’s me. Dima.”
A familiar pain pricked my heart, but I was surprised by how quickly it passed.
“Hi.”
“How are you? How’s everything there?”
“Fine. What do you want?”
“I’m in the capital. Can I come by? Talk? I have a proposal.”
I almost laughed. A proposal! After six months of silence.
“Let’s meet at a café. Tomorrow at seven. You know ‘Shokolad’ on Tverskaya?”
He arrived right at seven. He’d faded, grown gaunt. His suit didn’t sit as perfectly as before. And there was something new in his eyes—uncertainty.
“You look stunning,” he said when we sat down.
It was true. I’d lost weight, started taking better care of myself, bought new clothes. For the first time in years, I felt attractive.
“Thanks. You wanted to talk?”
He faltered and ordered coffee.
“Lena, I realize I treated you unfairly…”
“You do?”
“Yes. And I want to make it right. Let’s try again. Let’s get married again.”
I took a sip of tea, studying his face. Once, that offer would have made my heart stop with happiness. Now I felt only fatigue.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? We loved each other. We can love each other again.”
“Dima, that chapter is closed for me.”
He leaned across the table and took my hand.
“Lena, I got checked. You were right. The problem is with me. I’ve got… men’s issues. It can be treated, but it takes time.”
There it was. The very thing I’d begged him to find out a year ago. The thing that might have saved our marriage if he’d listened.
“And now what?”
“Now I know the truth. And I want us to try again. We’ll get treatment, and we’ll have kids.”
I pulled my hand free.
“Dima, I have a different life now. I’m happy.”
“Oh, come on!” The old note of irritation crept into his voice. “What kind of happiness is that? Selling little flowers?”
“And how is that your concern?”
“Lena, don’t be stubborn. I know you got an inheritance. You think now you don’t need a man? Money isn’t everything.”
There it was. That’s why he’d come. Not out of love or remorse. Because he’d learned about the inheritance.
“So it turns out you showed up right when you found out I had money and a business,” I said calmly.
Dima flushed.
“What do money have to do with it? I love you!”
“Of course. Silent for half a year, and as soon as you heard about millions—suddenly love awoke.”
“Don’t talk nonsense!” he raised his voice. “Mother was right. You’re a mercenary empty shell. Got money—and your nose went up right away.”
I stood up.
“Tell your mother she now has the chance to find a better wife for her son. I’m sure she’ll find someone much better than me.”
“Lena!”
But I was already walking to the exit, not looking back.
Outside, I drew a deep breath of cold air and felt incredible relief. As if a heavy load I’d carried for years had fallen from my shoulders.
At the shop, bouquets were waiting to be prepared for tomorrow’s wedding. I turned on the music and got to work. White roses, lisianthus, greenery… Each bouquet came together like a small work of art.
“Are you not closed yet?” I heard a man’s voice.
A tall man of about forty stood in the doorway, in an expensive overcoat. He rented a space on the floor above—some kind of internet business.
“We’re not closed. What do you need?”
“Roses. Red ones. For… for a woman.”
I smiled.
“How many?”
“How many do people usually give?”
“It varies. One—just because. Three—if you’re asking forgiveness. Five—if you’re confessing love.”
He thought for a moment.
“Then five.”
While I wrapped the bouquet, he looked over the display.
“You’ve got a beautiful shop. Cozy.”
“Thank you.”
“By the way, I’m Andrey. We’re neighbors and still haven’t met.”
“Lena.”
“Lena, would you mind if I stop by for coffee sometimes? My coffee machine upstairs broke, and there’s nowhere nearby with decent coffee.”
I looked at him more closely. A pleasant face, kind eyes, an open smile.
“Stop by. I make good coffee.”
Andrey started coming every morning. At first just for coffee, then we began to talk. He told me about his business—he did online marketing; I talked about flowers and clients.
Gradually our conversations got longer, the topics more varied. It turned out we both love classic literature, old films, travel. We share a similar sense of humor and outlook on life.
In December he invited me to the theater.
“This isn’t a date,” he hastened to clarify. “I just have an extra ticket to ‘Anna Karenina.’”
“Of course,” I smiled. “Just the theater.”
But after the performance we went to a café, then walked through snowy Moscow late into the night. And I realized I hadn’t felt so light and happy in a long time.
Over the winter we saw each other more and more. We went to museums, movies, or just took walks. Andrey turned out to be an amazing person—attentive, gentle, with a wonderful sense of humor. He didn’t pry into my past, didn’t press, didn’t make demands.
In February, as we sat over tea in my apartment, he suddenly said:
“Lena, I’m in love with you.”
My heart pounded—this time not with fear, but with joy.
“I am too.”
He embraced me, and I felt what I hadn’t felt in years—absolute trust, calm, the certainty that I was wanted and loved.
In March I realized I was pregnant. The test showed two lines, and I sat in the bathroom staring at them, unable to believe my eyes. Pregnant. Finally pregnant.
Andrey reacted exactly as I’d once dreamed someone would. He picked me up in his arms, spun me around the room, laughing and crying at the same time.
“Will you be my wife?” he asked, setting me down.
“Do I have a choice?” I laughed.
“No. No choice at all.”
We got married in May, in a small city hall room. No celebrations—just the two of us, my mother, and Andrey’s parents. Simple and happy.
Now, looking at my reflection in the mirror, I think how strange life is. A year ago I was a miserable wife everyone called barren. Today I’m a successful businesswoman, a beloved wife, and a mother-to-be.
Dima never found out about my pregnancy. But sometimes I think about what I’d tell him now: “On your mother’s advice, you left me. But you didn’t know I had an entire fortune—and now you’ve lost it.”
Not just the money—you lost me. And I found myself.