It seemed that on that day the sun was shining especially bright, flooding the city streets with liquid, warm gold that glinted off car windows and peeked curiously into every window. It felt as if the universe itself was tuning up to a new, major key, getting ready to perform a symphony dedicated to a new life. Angelina stepped out of the massive doors of the bank, and for a moment this torrent of light blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the sunbeams kiss her eyelids — this, she thought, must be what a greeting from fate itself looks like, fate that had finally decided to turn toward her at last.
The young woman walked slowly along her usual route, and her lips were stretching into an irrepressible, joyful smile all on their own. She smiled at passersby, smiled at the pigeons pecking at crumbs on the pavement, smiled at the wind playing with loose strands of her hair. She had a ridiculous urge to sing something loud and happy, to spin around right there on the sidewalk under approving or puzzled looks from strangers. Her mood was as light and transparent as the air after a summer rain, and that lightness seemed to spill over onto everyone who came near. Angelina felt like a little child discovering the world all over again — carefree, believing in miracles, and utterly happy.
Ahead of her, as she saw it in these rainbow-colored daydreams, lay a long-awaited, happy life, the very one she had so often imagined in the quiet, staring at the ceiling while her husband snored beside her. Today, this very evening, she would tell her husband everything, and he would absolutely share her joy, her incredible sense of relief. Together they would begin a new chapter, big and pure, like a blank sheet of paper, and all their past hardships, all their problems, would stay far behind them, becoming nothing more than a simple memory. Angelina lovingly painted the scene in her mind: Roman walks into the hallway, she comes up to him, takes his hands, looks him in the eye and says… and he smiles that rare, precious smile she loved so much, the one that always made him look like a boy again, then sweeps her up in his arms and spins her around the room, laughing. It all sounded like a beautiful fairy tale, but now, right now, in this very moment, she knew for certain — miracles really do happen; you just have to wait for your turn.
Not so long ago, just a couple of months earlier, she couldn’t even imagine that her fate could make such a sharp, dizzying turn. It had all started with an unexpected phone call. The caller was a notary; his voice was calm and businesslike as he informed her that her second cousin, a man she thought she had seen only once in her life — and even then only dimly, in an old childhood photograph — had left her an inheritance. Just like that, without any hints or warnings: an ordinary woman, a modest office worker living from paycheck to paycheck, had in a single instant become the owner of a large, very large sum of money.
Her parents had always spoken of that uncle in unflattering terms, with a touch of condescending pity. They said he was a boring, withdrawn man, a real “office clerk,” dull and of no interest to anyone. They only remembered to congratulate him on his birthday every other year, and then only out of politeness, because he himself never forgot to send holiday cards. No one in the family could have guessed that behind that gray, unremarkable exterior there was a genuine fortune hidden away. Years before, when Angelina had been fascinated with putting together a family tree, she had corresponded with him for a while. They exchanged letters, dry and brief, in which he wrote about the weather and his houseplants, and she asked him questions about the family history. Then the correspondence faded out, her uncle stopped replying… and after some time the sad news came that he had passed away.
At first, Angelina felt only a mild sadness, a pity for the lonely fate of that distant relative, and then… then came that very call, the one that changed everything. It turned out that Uncle Arkady Petrovich, a man with no family and no blazing passions, had been surprisingly clear-sighted and had left all his property specifically to her — the niece who had once shown him a bit of simple human kindness. It wasn’t millions of dollars, but it was more than enough to change her life at the root, to turn it upside down.
All the necessary formalities, all the paper worries, were finally settled. The money — real, tangible — was already sitting in her personal account, and Angelina was walking home, overflowing with joyful excitement, replaying again and again in her mind the moment when she would share this staggering news with her husband. She had already decided how to handle the unexpected inheritance — wisely and practically. They would buy a good, bright apartment and at last, at long last, move out from her mother-in-law’s. There should be just enough money to start from a clean slate, to build the kind of home she had dreamed of for so long.
But the moment she stepped over the threshold of the familiar, painfully tiresome apartment, all her rainbow mood, all that airy happiness, vanished in an instant, as if it had never existed, replaced by the heavy, oppressive atmosphere that always reigned there.
“Well, the little gadabout finally decided to come home?” her mother-in-law, Galina Stepanovna, greeted her at the door. “It’s nearly dinnertime already, and there’s nothing to eat in this house, you could roll a tumbleweed through here! Where have you been hanging around all day?”
Angelina sighed quietly and hung her light jacket on the hook with a practiced gesture. How many times had she heard these exact words, spoken in the same irritated, venomous tone? Ever since she and Roman had been forced to move into his mother’s place after a string of financial setbacks, her life had turned into an endless procession of nitpicking and complaints. Her mother-in-law, who had suffered a stroke a few years back, hardly cooked anymore — the doctors had strictly forbidden her stress and physical strain — but from early morning until late at night she ruled the kitchen with an iron hand, criticizing every move her daughter-in-law made.
Without a word, the young woman silently went into the kitchen and set about preparing dinner. Quickly, almost on autopilot, she cooked a thick pea soup, trying to ignore the heavy gaze burning into her back, and put meat and potatoes into the oven to roast. But even this seemingly flawless, filling dish triggered a fresh wave of outrage.
“Peas again!” Galina Stepanovna snorted, pushing the full plate away from herself with theatrical disgust. “You know perfectly well that my stomach starts a whole revolution from that stuff! What, are you trying to send me to my grave as soon as possible so you can get your hands on my apartment?”
Angelina barely suppressed a wry smile, hiding her face in the open refrigerator. What apartment? After today’s visit to the bank, she had her own — very substantial — funds. She had no need for anyone else’s home, reeking of medicine and old things. But trying to explain anything now, in this atmosphere, seemed to her a completely pointless waste of emotional energy.
While she was tidying the kitchen, wiping down the table and washing the dishes, Roman came home from work. His mother immediately, without wasting a second, launched into her usual lament:
“Son, thank goodness you’re back! Your wife here has been gone almost the whole day, not a trace of her at home! Maybe she’s already found herself someone on the side, huh? Sits here on our necks and goes gallivanting around!”
Deep down, Angelina didn’t believe that her husband, despite how easily he fell under his mother’s influence, could actually swallow such nonsense. But he walked into the kitchen with his face already darkened and frowning, his gaze heavy and suspicious.
“Where were you today?” he snapped from the doorway, without even greeting her. “And what’s this you’re trying to feed us again?”
He dropped onto a chair with a rough thud, picked up a spoon, dipped it into the soup, took one sip — and then slammed the spoon down on the table with a sharp clang.
“What, do you think I’m some filthy pig to eat this garbage?” he yelled, his voice echoing especially loudly in the cramped kitchen. “You don’t respect us at all, don’t appreciate that I bust my back bringing money into this house!”
And before Angelina had time to say anything, to react in any way, he suddenly grabbed his plate in a fit of rage and flung the warm, sticky soup straight at her — all over her clean blouse and freshly washed hair.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t burst into tears. For a moment she simply froze, feeling peas and bits of carrot slowly sliding down her skin. Then, with a stunning, icy calm, she stood up, quietly wiped her hands with a paper napkin, walked into the room and changed into simple jeans and a T-shirt. Inside, she felt something strange, almost unreal — an incredible lightness, as if the very mountain she had been dragging on her shoulders all these years had finally fallen away. When she left the apartment with a small bag in her hand, her husband had already turned the TV up to full volume and was noisily slamming the fridge door, taking out sausage and a bottle of beer. Let him. None of that concerned her anymore.
That evening, Angelina rented a room in a small but cozy hotel on the edge of the city. Roman realized she wasn’t coming back only deep in the night and started calling her phone. But when she finally picked up, her voice sounded quiet, yet very clear:
“It’s over. I’m filing for divorce.”
The very next day she got to work. Quickly, without unnecessary emotion, she found and rented a small but clean studio apartment and gathered all the documents needed for the divorce proceedings. Her husband didn’t resist; he was apparently sure she would either come to her senses or that it was just one of those female whims.
“Fine by me. One less burden on the wagon — easier for the horse to pull,” he tossed at her on the day they signed the papers in court. Most likely it was a quote from his mother.
Several months passed. Galina Stepanovna ended up in the hospital again — another, more serious stroke. And now she really did need constant, qualified care and help with the simplest everyday tasks. But there was no one left to look after her. Roman, completely absorbed in his work, could only afford to hire a caregiver for a few hours a day.
Angelina, meanwhile, got a new, interesting job full-time, proved herself an excellent specialist, received a promotion and, in the end, having earned her first solid money of her own, added it to the inheritance and bought a beautiful, bright apartment in a new, quiet neighborhood. Rumors that she had received a large sum from some distant relative, of course, couldn’t stay secret for long and soon enough reached her ex-husband.
And so one day, coming home from work, Angelina saw by her door two familiar, yet now completely foreign figures. Roman and Galina Stepanovna, looking older and more worn, were standing on her doorstep. In Roman’s hands was a modest bouquet of asters from the nearby shop, and in his mother’s hands a cake box trembled.
“Angelochka, forgive us, old fools,” he began, trying to smile that same boyish smile that had once moved her to the core. “Let’s try to start everything over again, huh? As if nothing ever happened. We… we understand everything now.”
She, too, smiled slowly, looking at them. But in her smile there was no malice, no gloating. Only calm and boundless weariness.
“All right,” she said softly.
For a split second, hope flashed on their faces.
“Start over. Without me,” Angelina added just as quietly and firmly, and, without raising her voice, closed the door.
From behind the wooden panel came a muffled, helplessly furious cry:
“You’ll regret this! With a character like yours, nobody will ever want you! You’ll die alone in this apartment!”
But Angelina no longer cared. She walked over to the large living-room window, looked out at the city lights coming on in the dusk, and took a deep, steady breath. For the first time in many, many years she felt truly free, whole, and at peace.
Now she had a job she loved, financial security, her own beautiful home, where the air smelled of fresh paint, coffee, and her perfume, and — most important of all, the most precious — a quiet, solid inner calm. Let Roman and his mother go and find their own path, let them live their own lives; the main thing was that they could no longer poison hers. And she would live. Simply live. And in that simple, natural right lay her true, hard-won happiness — like the soft yet stubborn whisper of a dried carnation that had somehow kept its fragrance in spite of everything.