“You’re not going anywhere,” Mikhail said, setting his mug on the table so hard that his tea splashed onto the oilcloth. “Mom’s there alone, she needs her peace. Don’t you get it?”
“I get it,” Elena replied, wiping the oilcloth with the edge of a towel that hung from the fridge handle. “I’ve been getting it for three years. That’s enough now.”
“What do you mean, enough?” he turned away from the window. “Enough? What kind of word is that?”
“It’s a normal word. Mikhail, I’m fifty-three years old. The dacha is mine. My parents left it to me—not to you, or to your mom. Me. This summer, I want to live there. From May through September. Like I used to.”
He looked at her, and she could tell he was searching for words—not to explain, but to stop her. He always did this. Stayed silent, stared, then came up with something that would make her back down and feel guilty.
“The doctor told mom not to worry,” he finally said. “Her blood pressure—you know that.”
Three years of lies
“I know. That’s why I’m not going to disturb her. She’ll be in one room, I’ll be in another. I’ll water the garden myself. I don’t need anything from her.”
“Lena.”
“What?”
“Don’t go. Please.”
There was something off in his ‘please.’ Not a plea, but a warning. She felt it, but didn’t dwell on it. Lately, she’d often chosen not to dwell on certain things, because once you started thinking, you couldn’t stop.
“Mikhail, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll buy a commuter train ticket, go on Friday, come back Sunday. I’ll do this every week.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“You’re not setting foot there.”
She looked up. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, in old sweatpants and a white tank top, mug in hand. He said it completely calmly. No yelling. Which was even worse.
“It’s my dacha,” she answered just as calmly.
“It’s our dacha,” he corrected her. “We’ve been married thirty years.”
“Almost thirty. And the dacha was mine before we got married.”
He set his mug down, went to the bedroom, and she could hear him walking around, opening drawers, slamming the wardrobe door. She poured herself some tea. It was already lukewarm, but she drank it and gazed out the window at the house across the way, where the lights were on, and thought about how in May, the daffodils were starting to bloom at ‘Beryozka.’ She’d planted those herself, years ago with her mom, nearly twenty years back—yellow and white, lining the fence. She wondered who’d watered them these last three years. Or if they just managed on their own.
Mikhail came out of the bedroom already in jeans and a jacket, a bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m going to mom’s,” he said.
“Alright.”
“Don’t wait up.”
“I never wait,” she replied, but he had already slammed the front door.
She sat for a while longer. Then she washed both mugs and wiped the table. She took the leftover soup from yesterday out of the fridge and set it on the stove. While the soup was reheating, she sorted through the bag of groceries she’d brought from work. Buckwheat, sunflower oil, a can of peas, two yogurts. She put everything away on its shelf. It was a routine, and it soothed her.
She and Mikhail lived in a two-room apartment in a five-story building. It was a decent place—bright, on the third floor. The kitchen was small, but Elena had long since gotten used to it; she knew where everything was, could find the right pot even in the dark. The living room sofa was worn down to the springs, but Mikhail didn’t want to replace it. She had put up the bedroom wallpaper back in ’98; it was peeling a little at the corners. Everything was old, familiar, a bit shabby.
Life at the dacha was a whole different story.
There was a small wooden house with three rooms. The porch creaked on the second step. In the entryway, the air always smelled like old boards and earth. Her mom always hung bunches of dried mint there, and the scent never quite faded—even after her mom was gone. Or maybe Elena just thought it hadn’t. In the garden were rows of strawberries, dill, and carrots. An apple tree grew by the left fence. There were two peony beds—her mom called them “my beauties.” Raspberries lined the right fence. Elena knew all of it by heart, as easily and automatically as the multiplication table.
She hadn’t been there for three years.
For three years, every Friday, Mikhail packed his bag and went off to ‘Beryozka,’ supposedly to help his mother. According to him, Galina Sergeevna could barely walk, was worn out by high blood pressure, couldn’t manage alone. Elena suggested several times that she could come along to help—after all, it was her mother-in-law, not a stranger. But Mikhail always came up with something. His mother was tired and wanted some peace, or she was having a flare-up and didn’t need extra visitors, or he promised that next week would work, but when next week came there was always another excuse.
Elena worked as an accountant at a small construction company. The job was routine, full of expected tasks—quarterly reports, payroll sheets, tax paperwork. The team was small, and everyone had known each other for ages. April and October were always hectic, but the rest of the year was manageable. On weekends, she went to the market, cooked meals for the week ahead, and sometimes visited her friend Tamara, who lived two blocks away.
But before these past three years, summer had been different. From May to September, she lived at the dacha. She’d get up early while it was still cool and water the garden beds. She’d drink tea on the porch. She’d read books in the hammock beneath the apple tree. On weekends, Mikhail would come out; they’d go mushroom picking together, even though he didn’t like it much, but went for the company. They’d grill food on the old barbecue her dad had made from some pipe back in Soviet times.
Her mother passed away eight years ago. Her father, three years before that. The dacha was left to Elena.
Now she sat at the kitchen table, eating cold soup and thinking that she’d call Galina Sergeevna in the morning. She’d meant to do it for a while, but kept putting it off. It felt awkward somehow. Mikhail always said his mother didn’t like talking on the phone, that her hearing wasn’t great. But this time, she would have to call.
Galina Sergeevna lived alone. Or maybe not—Mikhail mentioned there was a neighbor who helped sometimes. Elena never got close to her mother-in-law; they weren’t enemies, but they weren’t friends either. They saw each other on holidays and kept their conversations polite. Galina Sergeevna was a quiet, somewhat reserved woman; she loved her son, but never showed it openly.
Elena washed the plate, turned off the kitchen light, and went to bed fully dressed, lying on top of the blanket. The streetlamp outside shone in through the window. Somewhere, a neighbor’s TV was playing behind the wall.
She wasn’t thinking about what Mikhail had said. Her mind was on the daffodils. Had they survived without watering? Daffodils are pretty resilient, they don’t need much. As long as the bulbs didn’t freeze. But three winters had passed—they probably made it.
In the morning, she got up at half past six, just like always. Made some porridge, drank her coffee. Mikhail still hadn’t come home. She didn’t call him. At eight, she called her mother-in-law.
The phone rang for a long time before finally, a familiar, slightly husky voice answered—just as always.
“Hello?”
“Galina Sergeyevna, hello. It’s Lena.”
There was a short pause.
“Lena? Which Lena?”
“Mikhail’s wife.”
“Oh, Lena! Hello, hello. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to talk about the dacha.”
“Which dacha?”—her mother-in-law’s voice sounded confused.
“Ours. In ‘Beryozka.’ Come on, Galina Sergeyevna, you live there, and I’m calling to let you know I want to come in May.”
There was a long silence. Elena thought the call had dropped.
“Hello, can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, I can hear you. Lena, I don’t understand. I haven’t been at that dacha in about five years. I’ve been living with Nina, my sister. In Sosnovka. Misha knows—I told him.”
Elena held the phone and looked out the window.
“Wait,” she said. “You’re saying you haven’t been at the dacha in five years?”
“That’s right. My legs hurt—how could I go? Nina took me in, there’s a small garden, but I don’t need much. Didn’t you rent out the dacha? Misha said you did, to strangers, and that he passed the money to me.”
“What money?” Elena could barely hear her own voice.
“From the rent. He said you rented out the dacha and gave me my share, since it’s still our family’s. I didn’t refuse; my pension’s not enough. He sent money every month, three thousand. For about three years now.”
Elena was silent.
“Lena, why are you so quiet?” Galina Sergeyevna’s voice now sounded worried. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” Elena said. “Galina Sergeyevna, could you give me Nina’s address? Just in case.”
“Of course. Sosnovka, Sadovaya Street, number four. Did you get that?”
“I’ll remember. Thank you.”
“Lena, what’s going on with the dacha? Did you really rent it? Or…”
“I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. How are you feeling?”
“I’m alright, getting by. My blood pressure was up yesterday, but Nina gave me a pill. Misha hasn’t called in a while though. Let him know he should call me.”
“I will. Goodbye, Galina Sergeyevna.”
She put her phone down on the table.
Three years. For three years he went every Friday, saying he was visiting his mother. He sent his mother money he called rent. He paid her for silence, whether he realized it or not. Or maybe he did.
Elena stood up and set the kettle on. When it boiled, she made tea but didn’t drink it. She just held the mug in her hands and let it warm her.
On Friday at work, she asked to leave after lunch. Said she wasn’t feeling well and had a headache. Which was almost true—her head really had felt heavy all these days. Mikhail still hadn’t come home. She didn’t call. He didn’t call, either.
She packed a small bag. Jeans, two t-shirts, a sweater, sneakers. She grabbed rubber gloves, cleaning rags, a bottle of floor cleaner. She took the old key to the summer house lock that was hanging on a hook in the hallway. She took her passport. That one she didn’t take right away—she paused, thought about it, and then took it after all.
The train left from the central station at 1 PM. There weren’t many people—mostly retirees with trolleys, and a few young folks with backpacks. Elena found a seat by the window, placing her bag on her lap. Outside, first, there were houses, then garages, then industrial buildings, and finally fields.
She gazed out the window, thinking she’d need to check on the apple tree. Three years without proper care—that’s a lot. They said last winter had been harsh, maybe some branches froze. And the raspberries must have spread by now—she’d have to thin them out. She always did it in the fall, but for three years, no one had.
The train arrived at ‘Beryozka’ station just after two-thirty. Then it was a fifteen-minute walk down the road, then across the field, and soon enough, you could see the sign for the gardening community. She had walked this route many times before, knowing every turn by heart.
It was a cool May day. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain. Bird cherry trees were blooming along the road, giving off a strong fragrance. Her mother always used to say that bird cherry smells lovely from afar, but up close it’s too much. Elena walked on, breathing in the scent. Maybe her mom was right.
The ‘Beryozka’ gardening community began with a sagging gate that never closed. Next came the main street, then little alleys. Her plot was on the third alley, at the edge—sixth line, plot thirty-two. She remembered it as well as she remembered her own address.
She walked down the main street, looking at the plots. Some people were already digging, some had greenhouses up. The smells of earth and last year’s leaves filled the air. Uncle Grisha from the neighboring plot, who was already over seventy, stood by his fence, watching her.
“Lena? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Uncle Grisha, yes.”
“Haven’t seen you in a long time. How are you?”
“I’m alright. How is everything around here?”
“Nothing much. We’re just living,” he paused. “Heading to your place?”
“Yes, to mine.”
There was something in the way he said it, something in the way he looked. But she kept walking, not asking any questions.
She stopped at her plot.
The fence was new. Not the old wooden picket that her dad put up back in ’89, painted blue. This one was straight, made of brown boards, neat and tidy. Even the gate was new, with a lock she’d never seen before.
She tugged at the lock. It was closed.
She stood a while and peered into the plot through the gaps in the fence. The house’s roof looked different. Maybe repainted. Inside, everything was tidy, raked clean. She made a mental note of this—someone had been tending to it.
Elena walked along the fence to the corner. In the right corner, by the raspberry patch, there was an old board that you could always slide aside—just enough space for a person to get through. Her dad had made it that way, just in case you ever forgot the key. The gap was now overgrown with raspberry bushes, scratching up her hand as she squeezed through, but she managed it.
She stood on her plot.
The ground beneath her feet was loose, recently dug up. The garden beds were already outlined. By the porch, pots of colorful, unfamiliar store-bought flowers stood—nothing like the ones she used to plant.
The porch had been painted beige. It used to be green.
She stepped up onto the porch. The second step creaked. Some things hadn’t changed.
The door to the house was ajar. She could hear something from inside—music, softly playing. And voices. Two voices.
She pushed the door open and walked in.
The entryway had been remodeled. Instead of the old wooden coat rack, a new metallic one stood there. The floor was now tiled; it used to be simple wooden boards. The smell was different, too. Something sweet, maybe perfume. No hint of mint.
She walked into the room.
Mikhail was standing by the window with his phone. Next to him, sitting on the couch, was a woman. Young, with light hair pulled back in a ponytail—just past thirty, maybe. She wore a casual sweater and jeans. On the windowsill stood a potted flower Elena didn’t recognize.
All three of them were silent for a few moments.
Then Mikhail spoke:
“Lena.”
There was so much in that word—confusion, anger, and something like fear. But Elena wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the woman, who met Elena’s eyes calmly, though her face had paled a bit.
“Who is that?” the woman asked Mikhail quietly.
“This is…” He never finished the sentence.
“I’m Elena,” said Elena. “Mikhail’s wife. The owner of this house.”
The woman slowly stood up from the couch.
“Wait. He told me he was divorced.”
“No,” Elena said. “Not divorced. We’ve been married for almost thirty years.”
The woman looked at Mikhail.
“Misha,” she said. She wasn’t questioning—just stating his name.
Mikhail said nothing. He kept standing by the window, phone in hand, silent. Elena looked around the room. The couch was different. The furniture was different. There was a big, flat TV that hadn’t been there before. New curtains. Everything was new. Foreign.
“What’s your name?” Elena asked the woman.
“Oksana,” she replied. “Oksana Malysheva.”
“Oksana, none of this is your fault. I can see you didn’t know.”
“No,” Oksana said softly. “I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.” Elena turned to her husband. “Mikhail. I need both of you to leave the property. Right now.”
“Lena, let’s talk,” he started.
“No. Not now. Leave. Both of you.”
“This is our house,” he said.
“This is my house,” she said evenly, without raising her voice. “The summer home belongs to me. I inherited it from my parents before we were married. If you need proof, we can settle it in court. But for now, you’re leaving.”
“You have no right,” he raised his voice.
“I do. I’m filing for divorce.”
Oksana stepped toward the doorway. She clearly understood everything now, staying calm, though her hands were clenched just slightly. Mikhail looked at Elena, and she could see him trying to find something to stop her, as he always did. But this time, he couldn’t find anything.
“I’ll give you time to pack your things,” Elena said. “Half an hour.”
She stepped out onto the porch and stood there, breathing. She couldn’t smell the bird cherry from here, but the air was still different—nothing like the city. She could hear quiet voices and people moving things inside.
Then Oksana was the first to come out. Wearing a jacket and carrying a bag, she paused beside Elena.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You’re not to blame, I told you that.”
“Still. I’m sorry.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the city. I’m a cosmetologist. I have my own apartment, so don’t worry about me.”
“Alright.”
They both fell silent.
“He told me the divorce was two years ago,” Oksana said. “That his wife had left. That you parted on good terms.”
“I see.”
“I would never have done it if I’d known. Do you believe me?”
Elena looked at her: a young face, neatly manicured hands, well-groomed. She looked frightened. Elena could feel she was telling the truth.
“I believe you,” Elena told her.
Oksana nodded and walked toward the gate. She unlocked it from the inside and left. Elena didn’t watch her go.
Twenty minutes later, Mikhail came out. He had a large bag and some plastic bags. He walked past Elena without looking at her, then stopped.
“Haven’t you thought about it?” he asked. “What will happen to the apartment?”
“I’ve thought about it,” she replied.
“The apartment is ours—together.”
“I know. We’ll figure it out.”
“Lena, wait. Let’s talk properly. Let me explain.”
“Explain it through your lawyer,” she said. “Go.”
He stood there for another second, then headed to the gate. He left it open. She waited until his footsteps faded down the path, then went back inside the house and locked the gate from the inside.
She returned to the house.
She stood in the middle of the room, looking around.
She didn’t like the sofa. Grey, with some kind of ornament. The TV was huge—why so big? There were unfamiliar books on the shelf. Women’s magazines, a few paperback detective stories. In the kitchen—she went in to check—there was a new refrigerator. Small, white. Before, there had been an old Soviet “Polyus” fridge that used to rumble through the whole kitchen, but it worked. Now, the “Polyus” was gone.
There was someone else’s frying pan on the stove.
She opened the cupboard. Someone else’s groceries. Grains in jars, oil, sauces in bottles. Strange spices. Coffee capsules—so there must be a coffee capsule machine somewhere. She didn’t bother looking for it.
Everything felt strange. Everything, everywhere, was someone else’s.
She found her father’s old bucket in the mudroom, tucked in a corner. She filled it with water, found a rag under the sink, added some floor cleaner, and began to clean.
She started with the kitchen. The stove, counters, inside the cupboards. Then the floors. She cleaned thoroughly, scrubbed hard, changed the water. There was something essential about it—a need, beyond just tidying up. As she cleaned, she thought about the paperwork for the dacha, kept in a folder in her apartment. The certificate of inheritance—issued in her name, only hers. That was good. At least the dacha would be straightforward.
The apartment would be harder. It was bought during the marriage—joint property. They’d have to split it. Elena was an accountant, she knew how this worked. Either sell it and split the money, or one buys out the other’s share. If she sold, she’d have enough to rent a small place, a one-bedroom. And in summer, she could come here.
She made her way to the room.
Before she started cleaning, she gathered up everything that didn’t belong to her. Calmly and methodically, without anger. She packed books from the shelf into a bag. The pillows on the sofa, the ones with the different fabric—those went in too. Cream from the nightstand. A charging cable. A small bottle of perfume—the same sweet scent she noticed in the entryway. She sniffed it. Nice. Expensive, too. Oksana hadn’t taken anything from the room with her, which meant she’d been in a hurry. Or maybe she just didn’t want to come back.
Elena carried all of it outside and left it by the gate. If anyone needed it, they could take it.
Then she went back in and cleaned. The floors. The windowsills. The window panes from the inside. She wiped down the TV, even though she didn’t need it—she barely watched TV at home and wasn’t planning to here. She wiped the shelves too, and dried everything thoroughly.
As she worked, it got dark outside. She turned on the light. The bulb in the fixture was unfamiliar but shone brightly. In the fridge there was some leftover kefir, nearly full, three eggs, a piece of cheese, and cucumbers. Food that wasn’t hers. She bagged it all up too, and put it by the gate. She felt bad about tossing the cucumbers, but she didn’t want to keep them.
She found an old candle in the desk drawer. Her mother’s candle, from back in the day—a thick church candle, half burned. She lit it. Not because it was dark, but just because.
The candle smelled like wax—a scent she knew well.
In the closet of the small bedroom—the room where she always slept when she came alone—there were strangers’ clothes. Two women’s dresses. Men’s shirts. She stuffed it all in a trash bag and took it out to the gate. Then she hesitated, went back, and took out just the dresses, leaving them separately by the gate. The dresses were nice. It felt wrong to throw them away.
Behind the other clothes, tucked in the far corner of the closet, was an old blanket. Her blanket. She remembered it—beige and brown plaid, her mother had knitted it. The edges were worn, threads poking out, but it was otherwise whole. She pulled it out, shook it, and sniffed it. It smelled a bit musty, like a closet. But it was her scent, her thing.
She laid the blanket on the sofa and put her sweater on top. That was all she had with her—everything else for the bed belonged to someone else. That was okay; one night like this wouldn’t hurt.
She then went to the kitchen and set the kettle on—the old ‘Zarya’ kettle she had gifted her mom about fifteen years ago. It had survived and was still in place. She found a tea bag in a drawer, her own tea that she’d brought from home. She’d packed a few extra in her bag, just in case there wasn’t any tea at the dacha. Once the kettle boiled, she poured the water into a cup. The mug was someone else’s, pretty, with a design on it, but a mug nonetheless. The tea brewed the same way.
She stepped out onto the porch.
Everything was quiet. The neighboring houses were silent—only Uncle Grisha’s window was lit. The night was cool and smelled of earth, and a hint of moisture, as if it might rain soon. She sat on the porch steps, sipping her tea, gazing into the darkness.
She couldn’t see the daffodils—it was too dark. She’d check tomorrow.
Her mind wasn’t crowded with thoughts. She just felt tired. And strangely light, in a way that was hard to explain after a day like this. Not happiness—just relief that it was finally over. Three years of waiting for something, noticing things and ignoring them, enduring and reassuring herself. That had been harder than anything that happened today.
She thought about what she needed to do tomorrow: call Tamara, for one. Tamara was a lawyer—not a family lawyer, but she’d know who to recommend. She also needed to stop by the gardening association to let them know she was back. Change the lock on the gate. Buy groceries.
A list of tasks. The usual.
She finished her tea.
She went inside, lay down on the couch under a blanket. A small night light she’d found and plugged in the corner glowed softly near the ceiling. It wasn’t hers either, but it could stay.
She lay there, listening to the silence.
There is never silence in the city. Always something: cars, neighbors, someone walking overhead. Here it was quiet. Only a tree by the fence creaked a little in the wind. And the step creaked for a second time, just like when she came in. Everything was the same.
She woke up in the morning to the sound of birds singing loudly, right outside the window. She lay there listening. Then she got up.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater and stepped out onto the porch.
The morning was gray, but there was no rain. The grass in the yard was wet with dew. And that’s when she noticed the daffodils.
They grew along the fence, just like they always had. Yellow and white. Some had already bloomed, some were still standing. Someone had weeded around them—probably Oksana. It was a bit strange. Taking care of someone else’s flowers. Maybe she just liked flowers and didn’t know they weren’t hers.
No, she didn’t know. She thought she was the owner here.
Yelena stepped off the porch. She walked slowly through the yard. The apple tree was still there, alive. There were branches, new shoots. The raspberries had spread out, just like she expected, but they were alive. Her mother’s peonies were over in the corner—still there. The leaves had come out, but no buds yet; it was too early.
The garden beds were dug over. Someone had gotten them ready for planting.
She stopped by the garden beds and thought about buying seedlings. Tomatoes—it was probably too late for those, though in May, planting them outside was a bit early…but a greenhouse would work. Though she didn’t have one. Or maybe she could set one up? Her dad used to build little greenhouses from plastic, really simple ones. She could try that.
Cucumbers. Dill. Radishes—those grow quickly, she could plant those right now.
She went back into the house and set the kettle on. While it was heating up, she called Tamara.
“Tam, hi. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Sure, I’m at home. What’s up? Where are you?”
“At the dacha.”
“At the dacha? You haven’t been there in ages. How is it?”
“Tam, I’m getting a divorce from Mikhail.”
A pause.
“What?”
“I’m divorcing him. I’ll file the paperwork on Monday. I need a lawyer. Can you recommend someone good? Someone who handles family law?”
“Lena, wait. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’ll tell you. It’s a long story. For three years, he’s been bringing another woman to my dacha. He kept telling me he was visiting his mother. But his mother has actually been living with his sister in Sosnovka all this time. He just sent her money and called it rent. Today I came and found them both here.”
“Oh my God,” said Tamara. “Lena.”
“Don’t pity me. I don’t want pity. I need a lawyer.”
“Yes, yes, I know someone. He’s good. Handles divorces and property. Write down the number.”
“Go ahead, I’ll remember it.”
Tamara dictated the number.
“Lena, are you okay? Are you out there alone?”
“I’m alone. I’m fine.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No. Thank you. I’d rather be by myself. Really.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Alright. Just call me, okay? If anything.”
“I’ll call.”
She put her phone away. The kettle boiled. She made herself some tea, fried a couple of eggs. In her bag she had just two eggs, some bread, and butter. Nothing else. She realized she’d have to go shopping. There was a small village with a store about two kilometers from the dacha community. It was close enough to bike there. She had a bicycle of her own, kept in the shed. She hadn’t checked the shed yet.
She finished eating. Washed the frying pan and her plate. Then headed out to the shed.
No one had touched the shed. Everything was just as it had been. Her dad’s tools hung on the wall: a rake, a shovel, a hoe. About twenty empty jars she’d collected over the years. The bicycle in the corner—old, blue, women’s style. She pumped up the tires with the pump hanging on the wall, checked the handlebars. Everything was fine.
She set off to the store.
The road was a familiar one. Across a field, then along a dirt path. The wind blew coolly in her face. As she rode, she thought about how she hadn’t ridden a bike in a long time. Back in the city, there was nowhere to go by bike. But here, she used to ride every summer.
At the store, she bought bread, milk, eggs, buckwheat, potatoes, onions, carrots. A can of stewed meat. A bag of pasta. Instant coffee. Some cookies. That would last her several days.
On her way back, carrying everything in two bags slung over the handlebars, she thought that she should call her work on Monday and ask for a few extra days off. She’d say she was sick. She’d figure out the rest later.
At home, she unpacked her groceries and set some potatoes on to boil. While they cooked, she walked through the garden with a hoe, loosening up the beds. The soil was good, crumbly. Someone had been caring for it, clearly.
Maybe it was Mikhail. Or Oksana. Hard to say.
She remembered her conversation with Galina Sergeyevna. Three thousand a month, for three years. That added up to more than a hundred thousand. Where did he get it? He worked as an engineer, an average salary. She’d always thought they made about the same, that they both knew what the other earned. Apparently not.
He sold the car a year and a half ago. Said he needed money for his mother’s heart operation. She hadn’t asked for details, she felt sorry for her mother-in-law. The car was old, but she still hated to see it go. So the money from the car must have gone into repairs here.
She didn’t bother to check how much those repairs cost. That didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was something else.
What mattered was that the apartment in the city had been bought together, after they were married, so it would be divided equally. Or they could try to reach an agreement. A lawyer would know the details.
She boiled potatoes, thinking about the money in a calm, work-like way. Here were the facts. Here was the goal. What steps needed to be taken. This was her specialty. Thirty years as an accountant—any problem could be solved, step by step.
She ate lunch.
After lunch, she grabbed the rake and set about clearing last year’s leaves that had piled up along the fence. Three years’ worth of leaves was a lot. She worked in silence, methodically. Piled the leaves in a corner of the yard, where they could eventually turn into compost. Dad always made a compost heap.
Uncle Grisha appeared by the fence.
“Lena, are you going to live here now?”
“Yes, Uncle Grisha. This is my plot.”
“I know it’s yours.” He paused. “I saw Misha here. Quite often. With a woman.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I do now.”
— A. — He rubbed the back of his head. — It’s good that you came back. This is your place. Your father did so much here. I remember when he put up the fence. I even helped.
— I remember, Uncle Grisha. I was little back then, but I remember.
— Yes, you were small. Maybe ten years old. Your father poured a glass of wine, said it was for the housewarming. — He chuckled softly. — He was a good man.
— He really was, — she agreed.
— If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll be here all season. If you need any tools, just ask.
— Thank you.
He left. She went back to raking leaves.
She worked until evening. Cleared away the leaves, weeded along the fence. In the shed, she found some old seeds and checked the packets. Some were expired, but maybe the radishes and dill would sprout. Dill always comes up. She sowed dill in one bed and radishes in another, and watered them with a watering can.
Her hands had the scent of earth.
She smelled her palms and thought how long it had been since she’d felt this. The earthy scent after planting. It’s a good smell.
She went into the house and washed her hands. Put the kettle on. While it boiled, she sent a message to Mikhail. Briefly: “The lawyer will prepare the documents. My attorney will contact you.” Sent it. Didn’t wait for a reply.
Then she thought and messaged Galina Sergeyevna too. Just as briefly: “Galina Sergeyevna, Mikhail and I are getting divorced. It’s not because of you. You’re not to blame. If you need help, call me.”
She sent that, too.
Her mother-in-law hadn’t replied for a long time. Then finally: “Understood. Thank you.” And nothing more. What she understood, what she thought, how she felt about all this, how she would get along with her son now, how she would live if her son had helped with money—everything was left behind that short ‘Understood’.
Elena didn’t ask further.
She had her tea. Took a book out of her bag—the one she brought with her, an old detective novel she’d already read twice, but it was just right for the country house. She read for an hour, then set it aside. She couldn’t really get into it.
She went out onto the porch.
Evening was settling in. The sky in the west turned pink, then orange. Beyond the field, a bird cherry tree looked like a cloud—white. It was peaceful. Uncle Grisha’s window went dark, meaning he went to bed. Old folks turn in early.
She sat on the step. The step was old and wooden. The second one creaks, the first doesn’t. She sat on the first.
Her hands were nicked from working with the rake—one nail torn. She needs to put on a bandage. Her palms were a little red, unused to this kind of work after three years without a garden.
She looked at her hands and thought of her mom. Her mom always worked in the garden without gloves, said you couldn’t feel the earth in gloves. And her hands were just the same—working hands, cracked, with dark lines of soil under the nails.
In the city, Elena always kept her hands neat. Office work, always with papers, she needed to look professional. Creams, nail files, everything as it should be. Here, it didn’t matter.
The first night insects started to chirp. Somewhere in the neighboring lane, a dog was barking. Then it went quiet.
She thought that in the fall, she’d probably be doing all the canning on her own. She used to make jam, pickle cucumbers, do apple compote. Huge jars filled the pantry in the apartment. Mikhail loved the jam, especially the apple one. Now he can make it himself, if he wants.
It will be a lot for her alone. But she’ll do a little for herself. The raspberries should yield well this year, there are so many of them now. She can make raspberry jam to have with tea in the winter. And let there be cucumbers, too. Pickled cucumbers go so well with potatoes.
She’ll need to buy new jars. The old ones are still in the shed, but she should check them—maybe some are cracked.
She thought about this, and it felt good, thinking about jars and making jam. That was real life, the kind she understood. Not like these past three years. For three years, she kept thinking that Mikhail would come back soon, that she had to have dinner ready, not to forget to ask about his mother, not to annoy him with too many words. That wasn’t her life. It was something foreign.
The divorce wouldn’t be amicable. She knew that. The apartment would have to be split, and Mikhail wouldn’t agree to it easily. He’d drag things out, find excuses. He was good at stalling and making things up. He’d been doing that for three years.
But the dacha documents are with her. The dacha isn’t up for division.
She sat and looked out at her plot in the dusk. The daffodils weren’t visible anymore, it was too dark, but she knew exactly where they were. Along the fence, as always.
Raspberries along the right fence. The apple tree by the left. Peonies in the corner.
Everything is in its place.
She lowered her head and looked at her palms. Then she clenched and unclenched them. Her hands smelled of earth and faintly of tea leaves from her cup. The sky darkened to blue, the first stars appeared above the trees.
She needed to go inside and get some sleep. Tomorrow, there was a lot to do. Call the lawyer, call work, go to the store, check the apple tree more closely. Maybe call Tamara and share a little more. And think about seedlings. In May, she could buy ready-made tomato seedlings at the garden center.
She sat and didn’t get up.
It was quiet. It was chilly. The sky kept getting darker.
She looked at the star above the trees and remembered how her dad loved to look at the stars from this porch. He used to say that you couldn’t see stars in the city, but here you could.
Here, you can.
She let out a slow breath. Rubbed her palms together. Raised her eyes to the dark yard.
“Well, here we are,” she said quietly, aloud, just like that.
No one answered.