— Ol’ga, someone should go to the store. We’re out of bread and the cucumbers are finished.
She stood in the hallway, still wearing her jacket. Her hands were already reaching for the buttons, fingers numb from the cold, and it took her a moment to process the voice coming from the kitchen. At first, she didn’t realize he was talking to her. Then she did.
— Viktor.
— What about Viktor? Bring some bread and cucumbers, that’s what I’m saying.
Olga Nikolaevna hung up her jacket—slowly, carefully, onto the hook. Then her scarf. She struggled to pull off her boots, the left zipper always sticking—she’d been meaning to take them to the cobbler for half a year. She stood for a moment in the hallway, listening. The kitchen smelled sour, like fried onions, and something else—something you get when the fridge has been opened and closed for days, and everything’s been cut on the same board.
She opened the kitchen door.
Three people sat at the table. Viktor in the center, with Sergey Krasnov from Sadovaya Street on one side, and Mikhail—who she only knew by his first name, and who was from the other end of Zarechensk—on the other. On the table were faceted glasses, a plate with sliced bread already going stale at the edges, a halved onion, and an open can with something brown floating inside. The tablecloth was covered in crumbs.
— Good morning, — Olga said.
Not a mothering type
Sergey looked up and nodded. Mikhail didn’t look up at all.
— Ol’ga, we need bread, — Viktor repeated without looking at her. He stared at the table, at his glass, or somewhere in between. — Go, it’s close by—Semyonovna’s shop opens at eight.
— I just got off my shift.
— So what. It’ll take you fifteen minutes, there and back.
Olga Nikolaevna looked at her husband—at his stubbly cheeks, his shirt unbuttoned down to the third button, and his hands wrapped around his glass out of habit. Then she glanced at the table, at the floor where a crumpled plastic bag lay, and at the sink with a dirty frying pan in it.
— Viktor. I worked the night shift. Eight hours on my feet. Go get the bread yourself.
Sergey snorted. Finally, Mikhail looked up.
Viktor leaned back in his chair and looked at her. It wasn’t a nice look—the kind she’d learned to read over thirty-two years. That look meant the “man of the house” speech was coming.
— Don’t embarrass me in front of people, — he said. — Just go get the bread. What, do you think you’re the smartest one here?
— In front of what people, Vitya?
— Can’t you see? We have guests in the house.
— I see. I’ve been seeing them for three days now.
Sergey snorted again, but softer this time.
— Am I the man of the house or what? — Viktor’s voice grew louder. Not quite yelling, but close. — My wife won’t let me get a word in with the guests here. It’s a disgrace.
Olga Nikolaevna didn’t answer. She turned, walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and lay down on the bed in her robe. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. The voices behind the wall got louder—there was a hum, quick words, the clink of a glass. She heard Sergey’s voice, snatches of words: “It’s her own fault,” “That’s how you handle it,” and something else. Then laughter.
She closed her eyes.
Her head was pounding like someone had strung a wire inside and snapped it. Her legs ached from the ankles up to her knees, as they always did after a shift—especially after she had to cover for Lyuda Fyodorova at the unloading section. Lyuda had taken some days off three days ago and still hadn’t returned. They were always short on people during the night shift at ‘Bakery No. 2’, everyone working double. Olga knew that even before she started there, seven years ago. She took the job because she had to. Because back then Viktor got into a truck accident—not his fault, but the insurance paid next to nothing, and for half a year they lived on her salary plus a small benefit. He got better, went back to work. Then something else happened. Then odd jobs. Then another setback. And it kept going.
She didn’t finish that thought. She drifted somewhere not quite asleep, that drowsy space where you hear everything around you but it’s all muffled. Voices floated from the kitchen, the scrape of a chair, then the TV blared at full volume—something sporty, with the excited voices of male commentators. She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up. Outside was Zarechensk, ninth floor, gray November sky, and pigeons on the neighboring building’s ledge, just like every morning, pacing around since dawn.
She hadn’t been sleeping.
She lay there, listening to the TV, the voices, the sound of someone shuffling to the bathroom and back, and thinking that she really should get something to eat. She hadn’t had anything since six the previous evening—just some tea and cookies during her twenty-minute break at half past one in the morning. There was soup in the fridge from Tuesday; she’d need to check if it had gone sour. She knew for sure there was no bread left now.
The thought about bread amused her a little. She worked at a bread factory. At night, she packaged loaves, hands working mindlessly—grab, place, turn, next. Yet at home, there was no bread at all, because Viktor hadn’t bothered to go to the store. ‘Semyonovna’s’ store opens at eight, he knew that. He’d just said so himself. So, he knew it, knew he needed to stop by, and still, he hadn’t. He’d waited for her to do it.
She couldn’t quite figure out when this had become the norm. Actually, if she was honest, she could. But thinking about it felt like walking a familiar road riddled with potholes—you know where to step carefully, and you don’t bother remembering how those holes got there each time.
Viktor turned fifty-nine in September. She gave him wool socks and a thermos—he’d wanted a thermos. The kids called and wished him happy birthday over video chat. Katya from Samara, Denis from Moscow. Both had their own lives, their own families, both said they might come for New Year’s if they could. Viktor told them, ‘Yeah, come on, visit,’ and hung up first, even before Katya finished talking.
She got up at one in the afternoon.
Not because she’d caught up on sleep. There just wasn’t any point in lying there anymore. The TV blared on; voices rose and fell. She heard Sergei laughing. He had this kind of laugh that made something ring in her ears—loud, with a whistle to it, like he really wanted to make sure people heard him through three closed doors.
Olga Nikolaevna stood up. She found her slippers. She glanced at herself in the mirror above the nightstand. There she was—fifty-seven, her hair splayed out in all directions from the pillow, bags under her eyes. She smoothed down her hair with her hand but didn’t bother with a comb. Then she tightened the belt of her robe.
The only thing she needed in the kitchen was water.
She walked down the corridor and, just half a meter from the kitchen door, made out the words. The door wasn’t fully closed, just pulled to, and Sergei’s voice was so loud it must have carried not just into their apartment but also to the neighbors downstairs, to Aunt Zina with her always-muffled TV.
“Vitya, listen, you’re coming over to our place on Sunday anyway, right? We need to talk. Serious talk.”
“Okay, what’s this all about?”
“You see, I have a brother. You know, Lyoshka. His wife kicked him out back in October. He’s been staying with us for a bit, but you get it, it’s cramped for us. He’s quiet, doesn’t have a job right now, but he’s looking. Just a month or two, that’s all.”
“And this means?”
“Well, you know. You’ve got this two-bedroom place. The living room’s big. Got a couch?”
There was a pause. Olga stood at the door, motionless. Not because she meant to eavesdrop—her legs just stopped on their own.
“There’s a couch,” Viktor said. Then was silent. “But Olga will be mad.”
“Come on, are you the man of the house or not?” Sergei’s tone changed, turning persuasive like those vendors at the stalls who say, ‘Just take it, what’s it going to cost you?’ “You should slam your fist on the table. Lay it out for her. Women only understand strength. Say: this is the deal—Lyosha’s coming, that’s that. She’s not stupid; she won’t make a scene.”
“She doesn’t really make a scene. She just goes silent and sulks for a week.”
“Let her sulk. At least my brother will be warm.”
“I don’t know, Seryoga.”
“Come on, Lyosha barely eats anything, he’s quiet, mostly glued to his phone. A month, tops. Help the guy out. You two have known each other for years.”
“Alright,” Viktor said. His voice wavered, just like it did whenever he agreed to something he wasn’t sure about—uncertain, a little rushed. “Alright, Seryoga. Let him come.”
“That’s more like it. Listen, do you have a spare key? Give it to me, I’ll make a duplicate and give it to Lyosha—so you don’t have to unlock the door every time.”
There was silence. The jingle of keys.
“Here you go. Give it back later.”
“Of course.”
Olga Nikolaevna grabbed the door handle and opened it.
She had no plan for what she’d say. She went in for water and realized she wasn’t really there for water. She took a glass from the shelf. Turned on the tap. Filled the glass. Drank it while standing at the sink. She did all of this calmly, without rushing, as if nobody else was even in the kitchen.
Sergei was watching her. In his hand was her key, dangling from a little cat keychain—she’d bought that charm at the market three years ago just because she liked it.
“Olga Nikolaevna,” he said, and his tone suggested nothing good was about to happen.
“Sergei,” she replied.
She set down the glass. Looked at the key in his hand. Then looked at Viktor.
Viktor was staring at the table.
“Put the key down,” she said to Sergei.
“But Vitya gave it to me, I’ll give it back, I was just…”
“Put it on the table.”
Sergei glanced at Viktor. Viktor didn’t lift his head. Sergei slowly set the key down on the table. It jingled softly. The cat charm tipped over on its side.
Olga picked up the key. She slipped it into the pocket of her robe.
“Alright,” she said. Not to him, not to her husband. Just into the air. She turned and walked out.
She walked into the bedroom. Lay down again, staring at the ceiling.
There were muffled voices behind the wall. Then the TV came on, louder. She could hear Sergey say something, and both of them laughed. Viktor laughed too, a little later, like he felt a bit guilty but still laughed.
Olga Nikolaevna stared at the ceiling, at the gray stain by the chandelier that appeared two years ago when the upstairs neighbors had a leak. They had painted the ceiling since, but the stain came back. Each time she looked at it, she thought about telling Viktor to talk to the neighbors. But she never said anything. She knew he would just say, “I’ll talk to them,” and nothing would happen. Or he’d tell her, “You go talk to them, you’re the one who deals with them.”
Lesha. Sergey’s brother. Unemployed, “quiet.” For a month, or two. In their two-room apartment, where walking from one wall to the other in the big room takes seven steps, and that’s if you go slow.
She thought about how it would look. She comes home in the middle of the night after a shift. There’s a strange man sleeping on the living room couch. She can’t turn on the light, can’t take a step without waking him. Or even if she doesn’t wake him—still, he’s a stranger. Strange food in the fridge. Strange things in the bathroom. At the breakfast table, three people: Viktor, her, and this Lesha she doesn’t even know.
No.
That was the first word she clearly said to herself. Just “no.” No explanations, no arguments. Simply no, and that was that.
She lay there a while longer. Then got up and walked to the kitchen.
Viktor, Sergey, and Mikhail were in their places. A new bottle was on the table, one that hadn’t been there before. They poured drinks into their glasses.
Olga Nikolaevna walked up to the table, took the bottle, and walked over to the sink.
“Olya, what are you doing?” Viktor stood up. “What are you doing?”
She poured the contents down the sink. Set the empty bottle on the windowsill. Turned around.
“Please leave,” she said to Sergey and Mikhail. Her voice was as flat as the linoleum in the hallway. “Leave my home.”
Sergey laughed. That’s right—first, he just laughed.
“Olya, are you serious? We just had a little get-together, that’s all.”
“Leave.”
“Come on, calm down. Vitya, say something to her.”
Viktor was standing by the table. On his face was that same look Olga had seen on him during many hard times over the years, when he didn’t know what to do so he did nothing.
“Olga.” He took a step toward her.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she answered. Quietly, without any threat in her voice, just clear. “First, they need to go.”
Mikhail was the first to get up, silently. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door. He probably had a sense for when it was best not to hang around.
Sergey sat there a bit longer. Stared at her. Then got up slowly, making it look like he was leaving on his own terms and didn’t care. He muttered something—not really words, more like sounds. Olga didn’t catch any of it, but from his tone she could tell it wasn’t anything nice. He walked past her, almost brushing her shoulder. But not quite.
The front door slammed.
Olga and Viktor were left alone in the kitchen.
She stood by the sink. He stood by the table. Between them was the table, a plate with some dried bread, a can of preserved food, and crumbs.
“You,” Viktor started, his voice trembling. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
“I sent the guests away,” she replied.
“You’ve shamed me! In front of Seryoga! In front of everyone! I just asked you, like a normal person, to go buy some bread, and what do you do? How are you even behaving right now?”
“Viktor.”
“What, Viktor! We’ve been together for thirty-two years and now you pull this on me? What will Seryoga think now?”
“Seryoga,” she said slowly, “took a key to my apartment. To make a copy. For his brother, who I don’t know. Who I didn’t invite.”
Viktor fell silent.
“I heard the conversation.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was just getting some water. You were speaking loudly.”
“That’s not—”
“Alyosha won’t be coming,” said Olga Nikolaevna. “That’s one. I’m changing the locks. That’s two.”
Viktor stared at her. He was taking in a deep breath—she could see it—about to say something else, louder, more convincing.
“You’re embarrassing me,” he said. “In front of the guys. I can’t even invite whoever I want into my own home.”
“Your own home,” she repeated—not mockingly, just repeating. “Alright then. Where’s your October paycheck?”
He didn’t answer.
“Who paid the rent in September?”
“You always bring that up. I’m just out of work for now, you know that.”
“It’s been six months.”
“So what. I’m looking. I get gigs here and there.”
“Your last gig was in August,” she said. “Four thousand. You gave me two, and the rest…”
She didn’t finish. There was no need; they both knew where the rest had gone.
Viktor sank into a chair, heavily, as if something in his legs had just switched off.
“Go to bed,” he said, his voice tired and different. “You’ve had your fill of complaining for tonight.”
“I haven’t had my fill,” she replied. “I just got back from my shift. Eight hours. At night. While you’ve been here with your buddies for three days straight.”
“Three days, so what?”
“Three days of a filthy kitchen. Three days of noise. Three days.”
She stopped. Because she felt something rising from deep inside, not anger, not tears, but something else—like the feeling you get after carrying a heavy bag for a long time, and when you finally set it down, your hands don’t know what to do.
She stood still for a moment. Then turned around and headed for the bedroom.
He yelled after her:
“And don’t forget to take my husband with you!”
No, not yet. She’ll say that later. For now, she just walked into the bedroom.
She shut the door. Didn’t slam it—closed it quietly. She stood by the window, looking out over Zarechensk: gray rooftops, wires strung between buildings, the “Hot Baked Goods” kiosk on the corner, where a small line of two people was already forming. It was almost eleven in the morning.
She stood by the window for a long time. Three, maybe five minutes—she didn’t count. Then she slowly opened the closet, pulled from the shelf a large checkered bag, and a smaller sports bag that Denis had left behind years ago when he was visiting.
She started packing clothes.
Not hers. His.
Taking her time. The winter jacket, the one hanging in the hallway next to her coat. Then the sweater from the top shelf, dark blue, and the gray striped one. Thermal underwear. Wool socks—brand new, the ones she bought him for his birthday. Then another pair of socks, old but still whole. Sweatpants. Two shirts. His towel, with the vertical stripes. The razor from the bathroom, both the safety razor and the brush. His blue toothbrush. The mug with “Fisherman” written on it, handle chipped, but he never wanted to throw it out anyway.
She didn’t feel angry. She felt empty, as if everything that usually made noise inside her had gone quiet and stepped aside. Only her hands kept working—efficiently, carefully. Like she was on an assembly line.
Viktor walked in as she was tying up the checkered bag.
He saw the bags. Stopped in the doorway.
“What’s this?”
“Your things.”
“What things? You—”
“Viktor.” She straightened up. Looked at him. “I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to explain. I’m tired of explaining. Thirty-two years of explaining, and nothing ever changes.”
“Are you kicking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Out of my house?”
“The apartment is in my name,” she said evenly. “You know that.”
He knew. They had switched the apartment to her name back in 2000, when he had debts and was afraid bailiffs would come seize the property. He was the one who asked her to put it in her name. Then he forgot about it—or pretended to, or just stopped thinking it mattered.
“Olya.” His voice changed. It became different, the voice she knew all too well—soft, with a pleading edge that was meant to melt her heart. “Come on, seriously. I didn’t do anything that bad. The guys just hung out, that’s all.”
“For three days.”
“Fine, three days. It happens.”
“Lyosha isn’t coming.”
“Okay, he’s not coming. I’ll tell Seryoga. Just calm down.”
“I am calm,” she said. She picked up the checkered bag and set it by the front door in the hallway. Came back, picked up the duffel bag, set it beside the first one.
Viktor followed behind her. He didn’t block her way, just followed.
“Olya. Come on, Olya. Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s November. Out there, it’s—”
“Go to Seryoga’s. Seryoga was the one telling you to pound your fist on the table, so let him take you in now.”
Viktor fell silent.
“I heard everything,” she repeated. “All of it.”
She opened the front door. Stood at the threshold. Watched him.
Viktor looked at the bags. Then at her. Then back at the bags.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“After thirty-two years.”
“After thirty-two years,” she confirmed.
He stood there a while longer, then bent down and picked up the bags—both at once, the checkered one in his right hand, the duffel in his left. Straightened up.
“You’ll regret this,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“Not ‘maybe.’ You’ll regret it. You’ll come running back.”
“I won’t come back.”
“You will,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice—not anger anymore, but something else, maybe confusion, trying to find an outlet, and settling on this tone: confident on the surface, but empty inside.
He left. She closed the door. Turned the key.
She stood by the door, resting her forehead against the frame.
She heard him shuffling outside the door. Heard the sound as he set down one of the bags. Then footsteps. Then silence, the stairs, the elevator.
She stood by the door for another three minutes.
Then she went to the kitchen.
Poured some water and set the kettle to boil. While it was heating, she looked over the kitchen table: crumbs, a glass ring stain, and a tin of preserves with a fork sticking out. She opened the trash can and dumped the whole tin in, contents and all. Three quick movements cleared the table. She wiped it down, then washed the glasses—four of them, strangely enough, though only three people had sat down to eat. Washed the frying pan, still in the sink from last night—or maybe even earlier. Then she grabbed a brush and tackled the linoleum under the table.
The kettle started boiling.
She made herself some tea. Dug out the last piece of bread from the breadbox—it was a bit stale, but there was no mold. Spread butter on it, ate it standing by the window, sipping tea.
Life in Zarechensk went on as usual behind the glass. A woman in a red coat pushed a stroller outside. A minibus drove past the road. Two men were smoking outside the neighboring building’s entrance, their gazes fixed somewhere off to the side. The gray sky promised no sun.
Olga Nikolaevna finished her bread. Washed her mug and set it to dry.
Then she went to bed.
This time, she truly slept. Drifted off quickly and deeply—no voices from the kitchen, no TV in the background. She woke up at four in the afternoon. It was already getting dark outside; it’s November, night comes early.
She lay there for a few minutes, listening to the apartment’s silence. The quiet wasn’t familiar. Not a dead silence, just plain silence—the kind that settles in after a loud car finally turns a different direction after driving next to you for a long time.
She got up. Washed her face. Looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face was just a face—nothing special. She adjusted her hair.
She walked to the ‘U Semyonovny’ store. Picked up some bread, two loaves of ‘Stolovoy’, grabbed milk, some buckwheat, an onion and a carrot for soup. Semyonovna, whose real name was Valentina Petrovna, rang up her purchases, watching her with that expression people get when they know something—or think they do.
‘How are you, Ol?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Olga replied.
‘I saw Viktor the other day, carrying bags.’
‘It happens,’ Olga said.
She took her bag and left.
At home, she made soup. Buckwheat soup with onion and carrot—simple food. While it simmered, she sat in the kitchen, gazing out the window. Then she ate. The soup turned out just right—rich and dark in the broth. She had two bowls, since she’d hardly eaten since the evening before.
That evening, Katya called.
‘Mom, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, Katya.’
‘Dad told Denis you kicked him out.’
‘If he said so, then he did.’
‘Mom. What happened?’
‘Nothing happened, Katya. Same as always, I just decided I’d had enough.’
A pause.
‘But he didn’t…’
‘Katya. I don’t want to talk about this right now. How are you? How’s Nikita, how are the kids?’
Katya was quiet for a moment, then started telling her about the kids, about Nikita, about work. Olga listened, responding with ‘uh-huh,’ ‘I see,’ ‘good for you.’ The call ended after twenty minutes. At the end, Katya said gently:
‘Mom, call me if you need anything, okay?’
‘I will,’ Olga said.
She put her phone down on the table and looked at it. Denis didn’t call. Maybe he was going to, maybe not. Denis always took after their father—never one for unnecessary words. She wasn’t upset.
Friday at the bakery: a night shift and quiet changes
On Friday, she started her shift. ‘Baker No. 2’ worked three shifts in November, and the night shift was always the busiest right before the weekend. She took her spot, picked up the pace. Her hands knew the motions by heart, while her mind drifted elsewhere. Her coworker Lyuda, finally back at work, kept glancing at her but remained silent. Lyuda was a smart woman—forty-four, mother of three, with a husband who’s a long-haul trucker. She knew when keeping quiet beside someone was just what they needed.
During their break, they had tea.
“So how are you?” Lyuda asked.
“I kicked Viktor out.”
Lyuda nodded. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t start with, ‘Oh, what now?’ or ‘You shouldn’t have.’ She just nodded.
“Should you have done it sooner?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Olga replied. “I don’t know.”
“Are you scared?”
“No. It’s quiet.”
Lyuda looked at her.
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s quiet,” Olga repeated. “For now, it’s just quiet.”
They finished their tea. Went back to the line.
The first week went by like that. Mornings, shifts, soup, silence. She cleaned the entire apartment floor. Rearranged the furniture a bit—just moved an armchair to the window, where it had stood against the wall before. Now she could sit in it and look out at the yard, which she did sometimes in the evenings before her shift.
She called a locksmith. The handyman came on Tuesday and changed the lock. Charged her seven hundred rubles. As he was leaving, he didn’t ask any unnecessary questions. Olga Nikolaevna took the two new keys—one for her pocket, one for her nightstand drawer.
On the ninth day, her friend Nina from the neighboring building called.
“Olya, wow, you really did it,” Nina said. Not judging, more in a tone of amazed admiration.
“Did what?”
“Well, you kicked him out. I heard from Zina downstairs. She said she saw Viktor in the yard with his bags.”
“So she saw him.”
“Olya, so what now? Is he coming back? Or is it a divorce?”
“Nina, I don’t know. I’m not thinking about that right now.”
“How can you not think about it? You still have to deal with all the paperwork and everything.”
“Later,” Olga said. “All of that later. How are you?”
Nina was happy to switch the conversation to herself—she loved talking about her family. Olga listened, replied occasionally. At the end, Nina said:
“Call me if you need anything. I’m just nearby.”
“I will.”
Two weeks later.
She was coming home after her shift—it was already getting light out, almost 8 a.m. She took the elevator up and stepped out onto her floor. At the end of the hallway, someone was standing by her door.
Viktor.
He stood there holding a cardboard box, wearing the same jacket she had packed into a checkered bag for him. The jacket looked like it hadn’t been ironed or hung up in those two weeks. His hair was even more snowy-looking than usual, even though there hadn’t been any snow in Zarechensk—his hair always did that when he didn’t brush it for days. His face was gray, with dark shadows under his eyes.
She stopped about three meters away from him.
He saw her. Straightened up a bit. Lifted the box.
“I brought cake,” he said. “Honey cake, your favorite.”
She stayed silent.
“Olya. I… Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I was an idiot. Lost my temper. That guy, Seryoga, you know how he always gets under my skin.”
She looked at him.
“My back hurts,” he added. “Where I was sleeping, there were drafts. I caught a chill. You wouldn’t believe how sore my lower back is.”
“Where have you been?” she asked.
— At first, I stayed at Seryoga’s place. Then, well, something came up and he couldn’t let me stay anymore. After that I crashed in a worksite cabin with one guy who let me stay for a couple of days. It was kind of cold there, though.
— In the worksite cabin.
— Just for a while. Olya, please open the door. Let’s just talk. I won’t bring up Lesha or anything else, I get it now.
She looked at him. At the box with the cake. At his hands, holding the box with both hands, carefully, as if it was the most important thing in the world.
Thirty-two years. Those weren’t just words—they were a weight she carried everywhere, like arthritis, or the habit of sleeping on a particular side of the bed, or knowing exactly how a certain person snores at night. She knew how he ate his soup. She knew he was afraid of total darkness, even if he never admitted it. She knew what his real laugh sounded like—not the one he put on around the guys, but his true laugh, which was rare.
She knew all this.
And she stood three meters away from him, not moving toward the door.
— Olya, he said softly.
— Go, Vitya.
— Wait.
— Go, she repeated. No anger, no tears, just calm. — I changed the lock.
He lowered the box. Looked at her.
— You changed it.
— Yes.
He was silent for a moment. Then lifted the box again. Looked down at it, at the cake.
— Olya. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.
— That’s not my concern anymore, Vitya, she said. — It’s not my responsibility now.
— What do you mean, not yours? We’re still—
— Thirty-two years, she said. — For thirty-two years, I was your concern, and you were mine. But not anymore.
He looked at her. His face was lost, truly lost, no anger, and none of that confidence he used to gather piece by piece from other people’s ideas of what a man should be in a home.
She turned to the door. Took out her key. Unlocked the door. Went inside. Closed the door behind her.
She leaned against it, listening to him pacing in the stairwell. A step to the side, two steps back. Then he stopped moving. Then the sound of the box—maybe he put it on the floor. Then silence again.
— Olya, he called through the door. — Are you there?
She stayed silent.
— Olya, at least take the cake. I’ll leave it on the windowsill.
She looked through the peephole. Saw his face, distorted by the lens, kind of blurred and a little funny in the way it was warped. Gray jacket. Box in his hands.
She thought that she really did love honey cake. She hadn’t had cake for months; she never bought cake for herself—it just felt odd, buying a whole cake just for herself. Though, why did it seem odd?
— Vitya, she called through the door.
— I hear you.
— Go. I’m not your mother anymore.
Silence. Long silence.
Then footsteps. One floor down—he didn’t wait for the elevator. Then the next, then the next, until it was silent at last.
Olga Nikolaevna stood by the door a bit longer. Then she took off her coat and hung it on the hook. Took off her boots—the right one came off fine, but the zipper on the left was stuck, so she worked at it for a bit before getting it off. She really should go see the cobbler.
She went to the kitchen. Put the kettle on.
Outside, it was already completely bright. Zarechensk, ninth floor, pigeons perched on the ledge across the way. The sky was gray, but a bit different from two weeks ago. There was a little white in it now.
She sat at the clean table, waiting for the kettle to boil.
The doorbell rang.
She didn’t move.
Then she realized the doorbell had rung from downstairs, not her own. Aunt Zina was letting someone in, judging by the voices. There was the sound of footsteps on the stairwell. Then Aunt Zina—her voice was loud and clear, as always, like she thought everyone around might be a bit hard of hearing—said something unclear. Then more footsteps, the downstairs door.
A few minutes later, someone knocked on her door.
“Olya! Olya, are you home?”
It was Aunt Zina. Seventy-two years old, had lived in Zarechensk her whole life, in this building since 1970—she knew everyone and everything.
Olga got up and opened the door.
Aunt Zina stood there in her robe and woolen socks, looking right at her.
“Why didn’t you open the door?” she asked. Not accusing, just asking, like one might ask about the weather.
Olga looked back at her.
“Don’t open the door anymore, Aunt Zina,” she said. “That’s enough.”
Aunt Zina paused. She pursed her lips, then relaxed them. She nodded, once, slowly.
“Did you put the kettle on for tea?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Then pour me a cup, too.” Aunt Zina stepped over the threshold. “He left a cake here, on the windowsill. Honey cake. Should I pick it up or throw it away?”
Olga Nikolaevna thought for a second.
“Pick it up,” she said. “We’ll have tea.”
She headed to the kitchen. Behind her, Aunt Zina’s woolen socks shuffled across the linoleum. The kettle was already boiling.
It was quiet at the table. It felt good.