Snowflakes slowly swirled in the light of the streetlamps, like ballerinas dancing in white dresses. Maria Andreevna, standing at the window of her fourth–floor apartment, was lost in the February darkness. Each time the headlights of passing cars lit up the courtyard, her heart began to beat faster. She knew that soon Andrei would return from another business trip.
Memories of their first meeting, ten years ago in the university library, flooded her mind: she was then a philology student, and he a promising economist. Their passionate romance led to an early marriage and the birth of a son, and at the time it seemed that happiness would last forever. But in the last two years everything had changed.
“Mommy, is it true that Daddy is coming home today?” six–year–old Kostya asked in a cheerful little voice, pulling Maria out of her thoughts.
“Yes, darling,” Maria tried to smile, though anxiety still tightened her heart.
“Let’s bake his favorite cabbage pie?”
“Hooray!” the boy shouted joyfully, and soon the kitchen was filled with the aroma of fresh pastry. Maria remembered how Andrei used to rush home, lured by that very smell. “A house must smell of pies,” his mother, Nina Vasilievna, had told Maria when she taught her her culinary secrets.
For three years now, Nina Vasilievna had been living with them after a stroke, still exerting some influence over her son’s life. Yet even her authority was fading.
Suddenly, the click of a turning key made Maria flinch. On the threshold stood her husband—worn–out, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, and carrying a faint trace of someone else’s perfume.
“Is dinner ready?” he barked, ignoring Kostya, who rushed toward him.
“Daddy!” the boy cried happily, trying to hug his legs.
“Leave me alone, I’m tired,” Andrei pushed him aside and muttered, “Why are you baking those pies again? Stop wasting money.”
Maria stayed silent, as she had learned to do whenever her husband came home like this. Wordlessly, she set the table and carefully placed the most appetizing slice of pie before him.
A heavy silence hung over the table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and Nina Vasilievna’s soft stories of her youth.
“How was your trip?” Maria asked cautiously once Andrei had finished eating.
“Fine,” he answered curtly, pushing away his plate. “Stop interrogating me.”
“I just wanted to—”
“Just what?” he snapped, as if exhausted by her concern. “I’m sick of your endless questions! All you do is spy on me!”
Kostya pressed himself fearfully against his grandmother, sighing quietly. Nina Vasilievna shook her head and tried to calm her son:
“Andryusha, stop it, Masha is only concerned—”
“Enough!” Andrei’s voice cut through the room. He suddenly grabbed his bag. “Take your brat and get out!”
“Andrei!” Nina Vasilievna cried, trying to reason with him. “Come to your senses!”
“Be quiet, Mother! I’ve had enough of all of you!”
He seized Maria by the hand and dragged her to the door, while Kostya, sobbing, ran after them.
“You can spend the winter in the communal flat!” he growled, shoving them out into the snowstorm.
Outside, in the whirling snow, Maria clutched trembling little Kostya close, shielding him with her coat. There was no taxi in sight, all their bank cards remained with Andrei, and her phone had died earlier that day.
“Mommy, I’m cold,” Kostya whispered.
“Hold on, darling, we’ll think of something,” Maria soothed him, when suddenly an old Moskvich with a dented fender pulled up.
“Get in quickly,” came a gentle but firm voice from the car. “In this weather you can’t stay out with a child. My name is Mikhail Petrovich. I used to be a mechanic, now I’m retired.”
Maria didn’t hesitate long; freezing seemed worse than risk. She and Kostya climbed in. Mikhail Petrovich drove them to his modest apartment, where his wife, Anna Grigorievna, immediately began wrapping them in warm blankets, pouring hot tea, and finding old but cozy clothes for Kostya.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” Anna Grigorievna asked after Kostya finally fell asleep.
“There’s a room in a communal flat left from my grandmother,” Maria said quietly. “But I haven’t been there in years…”
“In the morning Misha will drive you there,” she declared firmly. “For now, rest.”
The communal apartment on the outskirts of Lipovsk greeted them with suspicious stares from neighbors: five families sharing one kitchen and one bathroom was always a trial. But there was no other choice.
The room was small but neat: yellowed wallpaper, a creaky sofa, a wobbly wardrobe. Kostya climbed onto the windowsill at once, peering curiously into the snowy courtyard.
“Mom, are we going to live here?” he asked, gazing into the emptiness.
“Just for now, darling. Until we find something better,” Maria replied.
Over time, Mikhail Petrovich often visited them, helping with small repairs: thanks to him new shelves appeared in the room, and the dripping faucet in the shared kitchen was finally fixed. Gradually even the neighbors warmed up, especially after Maria began baking her signature pies and sharing them with everyone.
Mikhail Petrovich, who had spent his life working at a car factory, couldn’t sit idle even in retirement: he had built his Moskvich from old spare parts, which locals nicknamed “Frankenstein.” He and his wife Anna Grigorievna had been married for forty years, raised three children, and now tried to pass their kindness on to others.
“You know, Masha,” Anna Grigorievna said one evening, tucking Kostya into bed, “we too have been through a lot. In the nineties the plant was idle, there was no work. But people helped each other, shared what little they had. Now it’s our turn to give back.”
Meanwhile, Andrei had started a new life with Alyona, enjoying his freedom and bringing her into the house, ignoring his mother’s protests. But happiness was fleeting: Alyona soon realized living with a tyrant was impossible and ran off with a young fitness trainer.
Back in the communal flat, Maria met Dmitry, a programmer renting the next room. After losing his job at a major company, he was trying to launch a startup while tutoring on the side. Dmitry not only helped Kostya with math but also spent long evenings with Maria, telling stories about computers and robots.
Having endured a painful divorce, Dmitry had preserved his faith in people and always showed empathy. Seeing Maria crying with little Kostya had touched him deeply—perhaps he had recognized his own loneliness in her.
Life gradually began to improve. Maria found work as a waitress at the café “Lilac,” where her culinary talents were soon recognized, and she became assistant to the head chef. The café’s owner, Stepan Arkadyevich, began courting her: bringing flowers, giving compliments, and soon a tender, caring bond began to grow between them. At the same time Dmitry was always nearby, supporting Maria in difficult times and helping her with paperwork.
A year later Maria gave birth to a daughter, Nadya, and Kostya proudly took on the role of big brother, eagerly helping his mother with the baby. Dmitry became the father the boy had always dreamed of.
Sometimes Andrei, passing by “Lilac,” saw through the window a joyful Maria, a grown-up Kostya, and Dmitry working side by side. Once he even came in for coffee, but upon seeing his former wife, he silently left.
In little Lipovsk, people still say there’s no cozier place than the café “Lilac.” They say the winter storm that once crushed a family gave them a new beginning and real happiness.
Every year, when the first snowflakes fall, Maria stands at the café window and remembers that terrible night. Now she knows: sometimes you must lose everything to find love and happiness, and the storm only clears the path to a new life.