After finally retiring from military service, Viktor took a deep breath and felt the freedom. His wife had left five years ago, one beautiful morning announcing that “life is short and you have to live for yourself, enough of traveling from garrison to garrison,” filed for divorce, and moved somewhere south. His son was studying abroad and planning to stay there, occasionally sending postcards with brief birthday greetings. So now, without any obligations, Viktor decided to start a new life, moving to the suburbs. He decided to build his own house, with his own hands. Not because he was too cheap to hire a crew, but because he knew, “if you want something done well, do it yourself.” Besides, he wanted to put his soul into the construction—after all, this would be his permanent home, without any more moves or government walls. His own, real home. He bought a plot on the edge of a picturesque village, next to a young birch grove. And from the first day, he noticed the neighbor.
He saw her early in the morning, as soon as he brought his belongings to the trailer where he would stay until the house was built. It was almost six o’clock, and she was already weeding the garden. She was of medium height, slender, with her dark hair tied in a bun, and a slight stoop, as if carrying a heavy burden of worries on her shoulders. She looked about forty, maybe a bit older, but with a rustic freshness—no makeup, no false eyelashes, just a clean face and slightly puffy eyes from lack of sleep. She moved about her household skillfully: bringing water, hanging laundry, loosening the soil in the flower bed. Then she quickly washed up, ran into the house, and came out a few minutes later in a strict gray coat with a bag over her shoulder, crossing the yard to hurry to the bus stop.
She returned in the evening, with bags in both hands, and got straight to work: watering, cleaning, cooking… Without stopping, as if wound up. It seemed like she never rested. Viktor watched, astonished—where did she get all that energy? She was managing the house, the garden, and still working.
Her husband, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. A strange guy. About the same age as her, but slouchy, disheveled, and spent his days doing nothing. He’d be standing by the gate smoking, going to the store for beer, or just sitting on the porch cracking sunflower seeds. At first, Viktor thought maybe the man was sick. But as days passed, he became more and more convinced—he was just a lazy good-for-nothing.
As a former soldier, Viktor had seen a lot. He knew how someone could break down, start drinking, fall low. But he still couldn’t bear to watch how she—strong, collected, resilient—was dragging the household on her shoulders, while “this one” wouldn’t even lift a finger.
Viktor found himself liking her more and more. Not out of some fleeting weakness, but truly, as his heart once skipped a beat in his youth. He wanted to help, to give her a break, to stop her from carrying water and bags all day. But it wasn’t the time to intervene—he didn’t yet understand the full picture. He just felt—something wasn’t right in this family.
One evening, as he was returning to his trailer from the construction site, Viktor heard a fight in the neighbor’s yard. Loud voices, followed by a door slamming, and then silence. The woman came out onto the porch and sat there for a long time, hugging her knees. She didn’t yell, didn’t call anyone, just stared into the distance. Viktor noticed she was wiping her face with her sleeve. She was crying.
Viktor felt a pang in his chest. He didn’t like seeing women cry.
A few days later, he had to witness another scene. He was working on the formwork when he heard the neighbor yelling:
“What the hell did you make for me? This is inedible! Your mom cooked delicious meals, but you… this is only good for feeding pigs!”
“Can you imagine,” Viktor thought, “comparing a wife to a mother. He’s completely lost his shame.” But she, again, didn’t say a word. She just took off her apron and went into the yard. Sat on the bench, rubbed her face with her palms, and stared at the sky. Her eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed tight, but she was silent. Enduring.
One evening, when she was returning from work with two heavy bags, Viktor saw the same man sitting on the porch with a can of beer, talking on the phone, grinning:
“Yeah, no, she’s fine. But that Larka… wow, can’t take your eyes off her. I should try to meet her sometime.”
Viktor involuntarily gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, while the woman passed by as if she hadn’t heard a thing. No indignation, not even a sideways glance. She listened—and stayed silent. Strange. Had she gotten used to it? Or maybe love is blind? No, it wasn’t love… it was patience, maybe.
Time passed. Viktor worked from morning to night—laying bricks, planing boards, building the roof. But every time she entered his line of sight—carrying bags, a bucket, a rake, with that strange calm on her face—his heart tightened. Everything about her evoked tender sympathy and… something more. Something forgotten. He suddenly found himself waiting for her footsteps, her evening return, her glance as she scanned the yard before going inside.
He felt sorry for her, wanted to take her away from there. To shelter her with his care, give her that corner where she could just… be a woman. Not a workhorse, not a cook, not a cleaner, but a beloved, respected, desired woman. Viktor’s mind was consumed with one thought: she deserved better.
And he began to act.
The road from the bus stop to her house passed by the local store, and Viktor would often find himself there, as if by chance. Sometimes for milk, sometimes for bread, or just passing by. She would exit the store with a bag over her shoulder and a few more in her hands. And she always looked the same: tired, but composed and neat. Not a strand of hair out of place, her coat buttoned up to the last button, scarf tied neatly.
The first time he offered to help, as if casually:
“Heavy bags. Let me carry them home, it’s on my way.”
She looked at him surprised and nodded:
“Thank you.”
The walk to her house took about seven minutes, no more, but for Viktor, those were the best minutes of the day. They didn’t talk much—he didn’t want to overwhelm her. He asked neutral questions: how was the road, how was work, was the construction noisy in the mornings.
“Work’s work,” she shrugged, “and I’ve already gotten used to your construction site. Sometimes I even think—who will live there?”
He smiled:
“Who else, if not me? I’m building it myself, with my own hands, so to speak.”
“It’s rare nowadays,” she said quietly, “men are more and more likely to just lie on the couch and tell women what to do.”
He caught the irony, the bitterness, and the fatigue in her voice. But never—resentment.
Then came the second meeting. Then the third. He kept “accidentally” stopping by the store at the same time she was heading to the checkout. And she wasn’t surprised anymore. No longer shy when he took the bags, and once even asked:
“Sorry, but today my hands are just falling off,” and handed him the heaviest one.
“No problem,” he answered. “We’re neighbors.”
She introduced herself as Natasha. She simply said: “Thank you, Viktor. I’m Natasha.” And that brief introduction sounded to him like a promise of more.
One day he overheard her talking on the phone, standing by the gate:
“Yeah, I’ll go to the city in the morning, stop by the pharmacy, and then head to the fabric store.”
And Viktor, as if by chance, started his car that same morning. He pulled up to the turn just as she was leaving the house, and, stopping, opened the window:
“Natasha, are you heading to the city? I’m going there to get some paint. I can give you a lift.”
She hesitated but got in. And during the entire ride, she said little, staring out the window while he glanced at her secretly. How carefully she held the strap of her bag, how she bit her lip, how she tried not to show her fatigue.
“You know,” he exhaled at the traffic light, “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. You’re a good person. Really. But it seems like you’re living in the shadow. You shouldn’t live like this.”
She smiled. Again—tiredly, but sweetly—and shrugged.
“I’ve gotten used to my life.”
“But you…,” he hesitated, “you deserve better. Without tears, without these heavy bags, and constant reproaches.”
Natasha lowered her gaze.
“It’s too late for me to change anything. And it’s not that simple.”
He wanted to ask—why? What’s stopping you? But he remained silent.
After that trip, they began meeting more often. Not intentionally, of course. It just happened. She had already gotten used to him waiting by the store. And didn’t refuse when he offered to give her a ride. He saw how she was suffering. Saw how she sat on the porch in the evening, wrapping herself in a thin sweater. Heard her “husband” shouting from the window:
“Why are you sitting there like a chicken on a perch?! Go cook something! Am I supposed to wait for you?!”
Viktor clenched his fists. He wanted to stand up, walk over, and say: “What do you think you’re doing?!” But he didn’t. Because—family. No matter what, it was family, and, as they say—it’s a dark place. Maybe it’s not all as it seems. What if she pushes him away later? Tells him, don’t interfere?
But more and more often, before going to sleep, he pictured them together—he was cooking dinner, she was laughing, and he imagined her face when she wasn’t tired, not tense, but just… happy. He didn’t know what her laugh sounded like, had never heard it, but he really wanted to.
Viktor finished building the house. It wasn’t luxurious, no stucco or attics, but sturdy, warm, with a spacious kitchen and a wooden porch where Viktor gladly drank his morning coffee. He brought in furniture, gradually started settling in. The house now felt alive—real, not temporary. The kind of life you want to shape your destiny around.
And also—it was in this house that he dreamed of bringing her, Natasha.
Since their first meeting, much had changed—now Natasha herself would ask him for help, and in return, she’d treat him to freshly baked pie. They now spoke more easily than before. Word after word, Viktor learned more about her—he found out she worked as a teacher, loved syrniki for breakfast, and was afraid of thunderstorms because, when she was a child, lightning struck a tree right outside her window.
And he kept waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the day when he could finally say: “Move in with me. Live like a human. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
And that day came. He even ironed a new shirt, made raspberry tea, and baked an apple pie using his grandmother’s recipe. He invited her over just to celebrate the housewarming. She came, as always, in a simple calico dress, her hair neatly styled, and with that same look—one Viktor had come to recognize unmistakably—a look of a strong woman who had long stopped expecting anything good from life but still held on as though she were hoping for something.
They drank tea, talked about trivial things, until he finally found the courage.
“Natasha…” he began softly, “I’ve been wanting to say this for a while… you shouldn’t live like this anymore. You deserve love, respect. You deserve a different, better life. You don’t have to endure. He… this man… your husband… he’s destroying you.”
Natasha was silent for a long time. She looked at the cup, running her finger along the porcelain. Then she looked up and smiled faintly.
“Viktor… Thank you. For your kindness, for your care. But you misunderstood everything. Yurko isn’t my husband, he’s my brother.”
At first, Viktor didn’t even understand what he had heard.
“Brother?” he asked with a silly smile.
“Younger. Our parents did the best they could to raise him. He never worked, dropped out of school… He lived off them until our mom died, then our dad. Since then, he’s been living with me, or rather, we both inherited this house half and half. And living together just feels… natural. But life isn’t sweet. I work, and he… well, you’ve seen it yourself.”
Viktor leaned back in his chair. Everything inside him turned upside down.
“And I thought this whole time…” he smiled.
“You’re not the first to think so,” Natasha shrugged, “and what kind of relationship could I have? When I was twenty-five, I dated a guy. He was a good guy, serious. Yurko was already drinking then. And one day, the guy told him when they met: ‘Don’t get involved, she’s got character, you don’t need any trouble.’ And something else… something nasty that makes me sick to even remember. That guy never came back. And then—another one, another one… He scared them all off. I was angry at first, then just let it go. And now… I just live. I don’t dream anymore. Time passed.”
“And what if…” Viktor started, but stopped himself.
“What if?” her voice trembled.
“What if there was a chance… to start over? Live differently. Not like this, not with him, but for real.”
She looked straight into his eyes, and something warm flashed in them.
“Maybe I would, if I could. But who would give me such a chance?”
“I would,” he simply replied.
The wedding was modest, no frills, no guests. Just a quiet evening with homemade pie and chamomile tea. Natasha left her parents’ house to her brother, and moved in with Viktor. They lived quietly, not like in the movies, no passionate storms. But with peace, respect, and that very thing that had been missing for both of them all those years—serenity. Viktor finally learned what her laugh sounded like, how she hummed under her breath while washing the dishes. He got to know the real her—the one hidden behind fatigue and the habit of enduring. Sometimes Natasha would say she still couldn’t believe she could be this happy. And he would just stroke her hair and whisper with love and tenderness:
“Whether you believe it or not, you’re my woman now, and I will give you this happiness endlessly. And no one will ever hurt you again. Never…”