Alexei was sorting through documents when Svetlana walked into the kitchen and tossed medical papers onto the table.
— The doctors said the surgery is inevitable. Six hundred thousand rubles, — she sank onto a chair, massaging her lower back. — We’re selling the dacha.
— What dacha? — Alexei looked up from the papers.
— Don’t play dumb. Your father died ten years ago, and I’m alive. I need help now.
— The dacha is sacred. My father built it with his own hands in ’75. It’s the only thing I have left of him.
— And what am I, not your only one? — Svetlana looked him in the eye. — Or are planks of wood more important to you than a living person?
Alexei set the documents aside.
— We’ll find another way. We’ll borrow, ask for an installment plan…
— Another way? — Svetlana stood up, leaning on the table. — I’ve been living on painkillers for a year! Every morning I wake up wondering if I’ll make it to evening!
— Maybe we should look for another clinic or more effective medication? — Alexei ventured uncertainly. — Get a second opinion…
— I’ve already seen three doctors! — This wasn’t the first time, Svetlana thought, that they’d had this conversation. — They all say the same thing. Surgery or disability.
— But six hundred thousand… That’s a huge amount of money. And what if it doesn’t help?
— If it doesn’t help, at least I’ll have tried! — Svetlana grabbed at her back. — If I don’t do it, I’ll definitely be left disabled!
— Understand, the dacha isn’t just property. It’s my father’s memory, it’s…
— It’s bricks and logs! — she cut him off. — And I’m a living person, your wife!
The next three days felt like war. Svetlana methodically brought arguments; Alexei stubbornly refused.
— Let’s pawn your car, — she suggested on Wednesday evening.
— My car? — Alexei jumped up. — How am I supposed to get to work?
— By bus, like normal people! — Svetlana shouted. — Or is your Toyota more important than my life?
— Don’t yell at me! It’s not my fault you have health problems!
— Problems? You think my illness is a “problem”?
— Surgery is a risk. What if it doesn’t help? Money down the drain, no dacha, no car… Maybe we should wait a little longer?
— Wait? — Svetlana leaned against the wall. — While I writhe in pain? Swallow pills by the handful?
— Medicine is advancing; maybe in a year there’ll be something new…
— In a year I might not live to see new methods! — her voice grew quieter. — Do you want me to die for the sake of your memories?
— Don’t be dramatic, — Alexei turned to the window. — Doctors always exaggerate.
— Exaggerate? — Svetlana went to the table and picked up the images. — Want to look at exaggerations? Here are my vertebrae, here are the pinched nerves…
— Put that away! — he waved a hand. — I don’t want to see it.
— Of course you don’t. It’s easier to close your eyes and pretend everything’s fine.
Svetlana fell silent. She looked at her husband for a long time, then left the kitchen without a word.
They didn’t speak again. Svetlana was out from morning till night. Alexei found notes around the house saying she’d taken on extra classes at the institute, started tutoring, sold her jewelry.
A month later he noticed the wedding ring was gone from her finger.
— Sold it? — he asked.
— None of your business, — she replied without lifting her eyes from the computer.
— But it’s our ring… a symbol of our marriage…
— A symbol? — she gave a bitter little laugh. — Of what marriage? The one where a husband leaves his wife to die?
— I’m not abandoning you! I’m just looking for other options…
— What options? — she finally looked up. — In a month have you proposed anything concrete?
Alexei was silent.
— Exactly, — Svetlana turned back to the computer. — Meanwhile, I’ve already saved forty thousand.
Another month passed; the book collection disappeared from the living room. Then her winter coat, the one she’d worn for three years.
Alexei tried to talk:
— Sveta, maybe we should still discuss this…
— There’s nothing to discuss. I’ll handle it myself.
— But I’m your husband! I’m supposed to help!
— Supposed to? — she paused in the doorway. — Strange that you remembered that only now.
— I’ve been thinking about selling the dacha… maybe find a buyer who’d pay more…
— Don’t. You’ll be selling it for six years that way, — Svetlana’s voice had gone flat. — I’ve already figured out who I can count on.
In September she took out a loan and went into the hospital. Alexei heard about it from her friend Marina.
— The operation is tomorrow, — Marina said coldly. — If something happens, at least you know.
— Why didn’t she tell me? — Alexei asked, bewildered.
— Why would she? — Marina looked at him with contempt. — So you could talk again about your precious dacha?
— I can come, be with her…
— No need. She asked not to let anyone in. Said she’s used to relying only on herself.
The surgery went well. Svetlana came home two weeks later — thin, pale, but alive. Alexei tried to help with the bags.
— Don’t, — she drew away. — I’m used to doing everything myself.
— Sveta, I realize I behaved…
— You don’t realize anything. And don’t bother.
— But I worried! I thought about you every day…
— Thought? — she slowly climbed the steps. — And did that help?
— I wanted to come to the hospital, but Marina said…
— Marina told the truth. I didn’t want to see you.
— Why? I’m your husband!
— Husband? — Svetlana stopped, gripping the banister. — Husbands don’t leave their wives to die for the sake of boards and nails.
— The dacha isn’t just boards! It’s my father’s memory, it’s…
— It’s more important than me. I get it.
Over the next six months she recovered, steadily paying off her debts. She worked fourteen hours a day, took any side jobs she could find.
Alexei tried to talk, brought tea, offered help. Svetlana answered in monosyllables and accepted only what was necessary.
— How’s the loan? — he asked in December.
— Fine. Two hundred thousand left.
— Maybe I can help? I’ll sell the car…
— Too late, — she didn’t look up from the paperwork.
— But I want to help now!
— I don’t need help now. I needed it six months ago.
— I thought we’d find another way…
— We did, — she put the papers away. — I found one.
In February Svetlana got a bonus and paid off the loan ahead of schedule. Alexei brought flowers.
— Congratulations! — he held out the bouquet. — I’m proud of you!
— Thanks, — she put the flowers in a vase. — I really am something.
— Now you can rest. We could go to the dacha, for instance…
— The dacha? — Svetlana turned to him. — Your sacred dacha?
— Well… just to relax…
— I’ll take a vacation instead. Alone.
In March she filed for divorce.
— Why? — he asked. — The operation went well, you’re healthy…
— I’m healthy, — she agreed. — And I’m free. From your problems, from your “sacred” dacha, from you.
— But we’re a family…
— Family is when you support each other in hard times. You chose the planks.
— I can change! — Alexei grabbed her hand. — Let’s try again!
— No, — she pulled free. — I’ve seen who you really are. You don’t forget that.
— But I love you!
— Love? — she gave a bitter smile. — Love is when you’re ready to give up what’s most precious. You weren’t willing to give up even something that wasn’t worth much.
— The dacha was important to me…
— More important than me. That’s exactly my point.
The divorce went through quickly. Alexei packed his things, realizing the apartment belonged to Svetlana’s mother.
— Where am I supposed to go now? — he asked, at a loss.
— To the dacha, — she said, without lifting her eyes from the documents. — To your father.
— Sveta, maybe we should give it time? I understand I was wrong…
— Time? — she looked up. — I had time to die in pain. You had time to think about the dacha. There was plenty of time.
— But it all turned out fine! You’re healthy, the surgery was a success…
— Without your help. That’s what matters.
Alexei moved into a rented apartment. For the first few months he was tormented by guilt, blamed himself, tried to call Svetlana. Then he got used to it.
Colleagues turned their backs after Marina told everyone the story. Friends stopped inviting him out. Only his mother and the dacha remained.
— Maybe I really did act cruelly, — he said to his mother over lunch.
— Maybe? — his mother shook her head. — Son, you left your wife to die for the sake of a wooden house.
— But the dacha is my father’s memory…
— Your father would have sold that dacha first if it meant saving a life. He knew the difference between a person and a plank.
— I thought we’d find another way…
— Thought? Or just didn’t want to part with the dacha?
Alexei was silent.
— Exactly, — his mother sighed. — Svetlana did the right thing by leaving you.
A year later Alexei learned that Svetlana had been promoted, bought a car, was traveling.
— I shouldn’t have agreed to the divorce, — he said to his mother. — She’s healthy now.
— Healthy, — his mother agreed. — And smart. She figured out who you really are.
— But I’ve changed! Now I’d definitely help…
— Now? — his mother gave him a stern look. — Now it’s too late. Trust doesn’t grow back.
— Maybe I should try to meet her?
— Why? So she can be even more certain she made the right choice?
Alexei shrugged and drove to the dacha. His father’s house was slowly deteriorating, but it was his inheritance. The only thing he had left.
He sat on the porch, looked at the overgrown garden, and wondered if it had been worth it. The dacha needed repairs he couldn’t afford. The roof leaked, the foundation was cracking. In five years the house might simply collapse.
— Maybe I really should’ve sold it, — he muttered to himself. — Svetlana would be alive and healthy, and we’d still be together.
But it was too late. The dacha stayed with him, and his wife had found the strength to cope on her own.