When a husband dies, a woman suddenly becomes “convenient.” Not because she wants to, but because now it seems like she “shouldn’t get in anyone’s way.” Valentina felt this most acutely on the ninth day after the funeral, when Marina—the late husband’s sister—came to visit for the first time.
— Valyush, how are you holding up? — she sighed with feigned sympathy from the doorstep, smelling of overly sweet, cloying perfume.
— Still alive, I guess. I don’t know how, — Valentina nodded dryly and stepped aside for her to enter.
Marina came in, acting like she owned the place, not forgetting to wave a plastic bag of two cold pies—potato, as always—in front of Valentina’s face. Always potato. Apparently, there were no other flavors in her world.
— I thought I’d bring you a treat. You’re always alone, you know… — Marina said theatrically, throwing up her hands.
— Right. Alone, without pies. Now it’s a celebration, — Valentina muttered, going to put the kettle on.
The house was silent. Too silent. After Viktor’s death, the noise of the television was no longer necessary, and now every move Valentina made sounded like a hammer strike: the clink of a cup, the creak of a cupboard, the shuffle of slippers. Everything was loud, irritating. And Marina sat there like a guest in a foreign house, though she acted as if she were the mistress. She scrutinized the walls, calculating how much everything cost. Especially the porcelain piggy bank on the shelf—bright red, with little windows.
It held money for a trip to Baikal.
A quiet dream, like a favorite old song that you only play at night—so no one can hear, so no one will laugh or suggest, “You could have used that money for a renovation.”
And the dream was simple: to get to Irkutsk, then take a bus to Listvyanka, and from there a boat to Baikal, just like in a postcard. Valya imagined herself standing there, wrapped in a scarf, thermos in hand. Not taking photos. Not taking selfies. Just looking. Living. Without anyone else’s worries.
But that thermos in her hands turned into a cup of murky tea—Marina hadn’t come just for the pies.
— You know, we have a little problem… — she started, and Valentina already knew it wasn’t about pies or grandmother’s salad recipes.
— No, I don’t know. But I guess I’ll find out now, — Valentina sat down across from her, staring directly at Marina’s face. Not out of anger. Out of experience.
Marina took two sips, grimaced as though drinking kerosene, and placed the cup down with exaggerated care.
— Denis applied this year. A brilliant guy, Valyush, I’m not exaggerating. He’s really smart. But he didn’t make it on the budget. He missed by one point, can you believe that? Just one!
— Where did he apply? — Valentina didn’t even try to pretend she was interested.
— To law school. At Moscow State. You wouldn’t believe the competition!
— I can imagine. My husband worked in that field. He probably died from the shock of how expensive it all is now, — Valentina tilted her head. She was starting to understand where this was going.
— Well… I’ll get to the point… Denis is really upset, of course. But there’s a paid spot! 340,000 a year, that’s if you don’t count bribes. And I thought… well, you’ve always helped us before… Maybe you could help again…
There it was. The genius reason for the visit.
Valentina fell silent. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she knew all too well.
— Marina, my pension is 23,000 a month. Are you serious?
— But you’ve been saving! I can see you don’t live extravagantly. That porcelain house on the shelf…
Valentina stood up sharply.
— You came to ask me for money for your nephew’s education, knowing my one dream in life is a trip. Not a car. Not a renovation. Not a trip to Turkey. Just a trip to Baikal. With my pension. After thirty years of work and five years of widowhood. And now you sit there batting your eyes as if this is normal. Do you even hear yourself?
— Valya… Oh, come on… He’s a good kid. He’ll be grateful to you!
— I’m not a bank. His gratitude won’t warm me. And it’s not “he will be grateful”—it’s “you want me to pay for him.” Just be honest.
Marina lowered her gaze. It was the only honest thing she had done all evening.
— Well… if not you… then who? He’s not to blame for us having no money. You’re still alone, Valyusha. At least you could do something good. Better than traveling around Russia in your old age…
Travel around Russia.
That’s when it hit her. Valentina suddenly realized that she wasn’t just a “widow on a pension.” To them, she was simply a wallet. Sentimental, naïve, with pies. No children, no noisy relatives, no lawyer.
But she had a dream. An old one. A real one. And she didn’t want it to be put on pause again, like it had been her whole life: first her husband, then work, then the hospital, then the funeral.
And then, in the absolute silence, Marina added almost in a whisper:
— If we don’t pay now, he won’t get in. It’s his ticket to life, Valya… You wouldn’t want to regret it, would you?
Valentina didn’t answer. She simply stood up, walked to the kitchen, took those two damn pies, and carefully, without looking, put them back in the bag.
— Marina. Take this. And here’s the deal. I’ll think about it. I’ll give you my answer in a week. But for now, I need to be alone.
— Well… okay. Just don’t take too long. Time’s not elastic…
— Exactly, — Valentina nodded, looking her straight in the eyes, — time’s not elastic. Mine especially.
The door closed.
And then there was silence. So thick it felt like it was dripping from the ceiling.
Valentina walked to the shelf, took the piggy bank house, and held it close to her like a child.
— I’m not giving you up. Go to hell, all of you…
But she still thought to herself:
What if it’s true? What if the boy won’t get into university? What if I regret it later?
And with that question, she went to bed. Or rather, lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Because when your conscience has its grip on your throat, sleep just doesn’t happen.
For a week, Valentina walked around with a face like she had a stone in her shoe. She couldn’t take it out, but she had to keep walking. She washed dishes, watered flowers, cooked something incomprehensible out of pasta and sausages, which should’ve been gone by last month but were still hanging on like cockroaches.
Marina didn’t call. Apparently, she decided to play the silent blackmail game: “If I stay silent long enough, maybe Valyusha will offer it herself.” Or maybe she was just sitting there, basking in her own righteousness.
Meanwhile, Valentina stewed in her own pot of doubts and habitual guilt. Just like when she was a child, stealing someone’s chewing gum and then spending a week thinking she was going to hell.
On the fifth day, she went to the store—just to get some fresh air. She grabbed her old, battered bag, but with a certain pride, and went for eggs, bread, and sausage. Anything to get some pleasure.
The store was the usual one—with the cashier wearing a net on her head and retro songs playing on the radio. Valentina had a history with this place: one time, she dropped a pack of buckwheat there, and since then, the cashier had remembered her as “the one who limps and dropped something.” Well, everyone has their nicknames.
That day everything was normal, until she heard a familiar voice. A voice with a sharp edge and a pitiful tone, like a teacher giving you a failing grade, but with a smile.
Marina.
— Yeah, yeah, I told her, of course! She’s, you know… naive. All about her Baikal dream. Dreaming, poor thing. And I said, “Valya, you’re so kind, help her!”
The voice was coming from the aisle next to the toilet paper and discounted candy.
— And what did she do? Silence. She’s thinking, I guess. Well, I’ll bake some more pies for the weekend, stop by, sweeten her up… She’s a widow, poor thing. But she’s definitely got money. She’s saving it up, saving it up… And here we are, scraping by with Denis…
Denis.
Scraping by.
Poor thing.
Valentina stayed standing behind the corner. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. Just her heart thudding, thudding, thudding, like a drum at the funeral of her own dignity.
— The main thing is not to push too hard. If she feels like she’s being used, she’ll shut down, like a clam. You have to go easy. Through tears. Through “we’re counting on you”…
— What if she doesn’t give? — said a second voice, a soft, male one.
— Well… then she’s wasted her life. To go to Baikal at her age? Come on, think about it. It’s absurd.
Valentina didn’t go to them. She didn’t make a scene or confront them. She simply turned around, put the pack of butter back in the basket, and left. On autopilot.
At home, she didn’t cry. Not even curse. She just took the piggy bank house, placed it on the table, and stared at it. For about fifteen minutes. Then she stood up, went to the bathroom, and turned on the tap. Very hot. Let the steam wash away all the shame from her mind, from this whole pathetic performance where she had played the “good fool.”
But the water didn’t help.
“Wasted her life…”
That phrase seemed to imprint itself on the mirror.
That evening, she called Lena—her only friend with whom she still sang in the choir. Lena was always busy, but she knew when to just listen, without interrupting.
— Lena, guess what, I overheard them talking about me in the store. Marina and some guy. They were calling me names. Like, old, dreaming, poor thing… And she’s the one who brought me pies. She’s a cunning bitch, turns out.
— Okay! Now listen carefully: are you going to give them money? — Lena’s voice became like a special forces commander’s.
— I don’t know. On one hand, I feel sorry for the guy. On the other hand, I don’t want to be used like a pension ATM.
— Valya. You don’t have to be nice. Especially not to people who wipe their feet on you. If they think you wasted your life—now’s the time to spend the rest of your life on yourself. At least once. Got it?
— Well… — Valentina bit her lip.
— Tomorrow morning—go buy that ticket to Baikal. Don’t delay. Just do it. By the end of the week, you should be holding those tickets in your hands. That’s it. I’ve said my piece.
— You’ve always been a dictator, — Valentina smiled.
— And you’ve been too nice. It’s time to change. Good luck, Baikal widow.
That night, Valentina went to bed with an unexpected calm. No one had convinced her, dissuaded her, or scared her. It was just… Marina’s voice in the store flicked some old switch inside her. The one that was responsible for “being nice,” “helping everyone,” “not hurting anyone.”
And in the morning—exactly at 08:52—she opened her laptop, found a travel agency’s website, and typed into the search bar: “Baikal. Summer 2025. Tour.”
And while the kettle was boiling, she was already booking the tickets.
Let them think she wasted her life. Let them laugh. She was going to Baikal. And they could go to hell.
In the morning, Valentina put on her best dress—a dark blue one, with buttons and a belt that accentuated her waist if she sucked in her stomach and stood sideways. She put on her eyeliner, wore earrings, and for the first time in years, looked in the mirror not as “that old lady from the train station,” but as a woman who had a ticket in her pocket, not to the market, but to her dream lake.
The tickets were booked. She was waiting for three weeks at Baikal, with excursions, songs by the campfire, and even a sauna by the shore. For the first time, Valentina felt like she was buying not a “vacation,” but the right to live on her own terms. With her own money. For herself. Without “shoulds.”
But how beautiful life can be—when it presents a surprise, not in a gift box, but in the form of an ex-son-in-law standing at the door with flowers and an expression on his face like “I’ve realized everything.”
— Valya… Hello. I know, it’s unexpected. But I had to come. To talk.
It was Roman. Her late daughter’s husband. The ex. The kind of person “you don’t hate, but don’t want to look in the eyes” because there’s so much unsaid.
— Yeah. Very unexpected, — Valentina braced herself against the doorframe. — What? Did you bring flowers by mistake?
— No. I… I heard you’re going to Baikal. And I decided—I need to talk. We’re family, after all.
— Yeah. Only selectively. You disappeared when we buried Dasha. The word “condolences” was apparently too expensive for you.
Roman looked down. The lilies in his hands trembled. Meaningless, like apologies three years too late.
— I was in a terrible state. I couldn’t handle it. I’m sorry.
— I couldn’t handle it either. But I didn’t run away, — Valentina stepped deeper into the apartment. — Okay. Talk fast. I still need to pack.
He came in, sat on the edge of the chair like a schoolboy at a parent-teacher meeting.
— I wanted… to offer my help. I’ve started a small business. My own thing. And I want to thank you. You were there for Dasha. You did everything. You raised Sasha when I was losing my mind. I need to compensate for that.
— Compensate? How? A transfer to my card? Or speeches about “how I grew as a person”?
— If you want, money. If you want, we’ll go together. I’ve dreamed of Baikal too. Dasha always said she would take us there. We never made it…
Valentina fell silent. Somewhere inside, a door clicked shut. Not with a key—just tightly.
— You slept through three years, and now you want to jump on the dream train? It won’t work, Roma. Baikal is not group therapy. It’s my route. My point. My damn vacation of life. And I’m going alone.
— But you’re alone…
— Not anymore, — Valentina smiled. — I’m going with myself. The one who was always told “wait,” “hold on,” “not now.”
Roman stood up. The flowers remained on the stool, like a failed toast.
— If you change your mind…
— I won’t. Only if you grow a Monomakh’s hat and learn how to cook fish soup without YouTube. Until then—door’s that way.
When he left, Valentina exhaled. Sat down. Stared at the suitcase. Then at the piggy bank house, which no longer had any money, but still held the habit of dreaming.
At lunch, Marina called.
— Valya, you understand… We’re in a hopeless situation… Denis really needs this! I’m begging you…
— Marina, you’d better take those pies to the neighbor downstairs. I’m leaving. And please—don’t use the word “please” to manipulate. It doesn’t work.
— You really… decided to go?
— Not decided. Already flying.
And without waiting for an answer, Valentina hung up.
In the evening, she was already at the airport. With a raspy voice on the speakers, women with checkered bags, and a couple of lovers kissing as if they were twenty, not forty-five.
She stood by the boarding gate and smiled.
The world where she was the main character of her own life had finally begun.