Maria Andreyevna, there’s a phone call for you,” the nurse poked her head into the office, cautiously peeking around the door. “Some woman, says it’s urgent, a family matter.”
Maria tore herself away from the medical record with difficulty. She had been sitting with this file for two hours already. Outside, it had long since grown dark, and a heavy, languid silence lay over the ward. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Maria? It’s… Svetlana, your husband’s brother’s wife,” the voice on the other end was trembling, as if clinging to its last bit of strength. “Sorry it’s so late… it’s just there’s no one else…”
Maria’s heart skipped a beat. Svetlana… Igor’s wife, Victor’s younger brother. They hadn’t spoken in more than three years, ever since Maria divorced Victor. His family had closed ranks back then: said it was all her fault, she hadn’t saved the marriage.
“What happened?” Maria asked cautiously.
“Igor… he’s in intensive care. A heart attack. The doctors…” Svetlana burst into tears. “They say he might not make it.”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut. Igor… Kind, gentle Igor. The only one from Victor’s family who hadn’t turned his back on her after the divorce. He had even called her secretly to ask how she was doing.
“Svetlana… I’m very sorry. But why are you calling me now?”
“He… he keeps asking for you. Keeps saying, ‘Call Masha, call Masha…’ I honestly don’t know why! But… Masha, please come. I’m begging you. This might be his last request…”
Everything tightened inside her. Maria glanced at the clock: almost eleven at night. Their town was at least a two-hour drive away.
“I’ll come,” she heard herself say in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “Which hospital?”
The road felt like a trial. The car’s interior was filled with ringing silence, and in her head a swarm of sharp, anxious thoughts spun around. Why was Igor calling specifically for her? What could have happened that a dying man would ask for his former sister-in-law and not his own close family?
Their last meeting rose up in her mind: a chance encounter in a supermarket. Igor had looked tired and pale. He’d said something about work, about his nerves being shot… And Maria, she remembered, hadn’t really listened—just tossed out a couple of stock phrases.
“I should’ve paid attention,” she scolded herself now. “Forty-two years old, frayed nerves, work… all the warning signs right in front of my eyes…”
At the hospital, everything was as always: bustle and the smell of antiseptics. Svetlana met her in the corridor—eyes inflamed, face gray with exhaustion.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, grabbing Maria’s hands. “He’s conscious, but weak. The doctor said you’ve only got a few minutes.”
The ICU smelled of medicine and fear. Igor… He was lying there tangled in wires and tubes. His face was ashen, his lips bluish, but his eyes were alive, searching.
“Masha…” he whispered barely audibly. “You came after all…”
“Of course, Igor, I’m here,” she answered softly and sat down beside him, taking his cold hand in both of hers.
“I… I have to tell you something…” he forced the words out with difficulty. “About Victor…”
Maria tensed. Victor. Her ex-husband. Something inside her braced itself, preparing for the unknown.
“Back then… when you were getting divorced…” Igor spoke with effort, pausing to gulp for air. “He came to me… drunk… crying…”
“Igor, let’s not do this now…”
“We have to, Masha!” His voice grew a little stronger. “He said… it was his fault. That you wanted kids, and he… he was afraid…”
Maria’s breath caught. Children. Their old wound. Five years of marriage, and Victor had always said “later”—work, an apartment, money—“it’s not the right time, not now…”
“He was afraid… of becoming like our father,” Igor weakly squeezed her fingers. “Our father drank, beat us. Victor thought he’d turn out the same way…”
The words crashed down on her like stones. Maria remembered her father-in-law: a sullen man, hardly spoke, died when Igor was still a teenager. But that he drank and beat his children—she would never have guessed. Victor had never said a word…
“He loves you, Masha. Truly,” Igor went on, barely breathing. “He just couldn’t beat that fear back then—afraid he’d ruin your life and the child’s too… Forgive him…”
“Why… why didn’t he tell me any of this?” Maria was crying openly now, not even trying to hold back.
“Because… he was ashamed. Men don’t know how to talk about their fears… And then it was too late. You left…”
“Igor, why are you… telling me this now?..”
“Because…” he looked straight into her eyes again. “Victor is still alone. He works, he keeps quiet. Sometimes he drinks… Not like our father, no. Just… because he’s alone…”
Maria was silent—not because she didn’t want to answer, but because she simply had no idea what to say. For three years she had told herself that Victor was selfish, that he’d only ever thought about himself. And now—suddenly everything looked different.
“I… I’m going to die soon, Masha,” Igor whispered, barely audible, his voice growing weaker with every word. “And it hurts so much… that you’re both unhappy… over something so stupid…”
“What do you want from me?” Maria didn’t recognize her own voice—empty, tired.
“Talk to him… Not to get back together. Just… so you finally understand each other. Forgive each other, maybe…”
Igor closed his eyes. His hand in Maria’s palms was icy, unfamiliar. She sat there, unable even to stand up. The machines beeped steadily. The on-call doctor came into the room, glancing over with concerned compassion.
“How is he?” Maria asked, looking at the monitors.
“Stable. Looks like the crisis has passed. But he’s still in very serious condition,” the doctor adjusted the IV and checked the readings. “Are you a relative?”
“I used to be… once,” Maria answered quietly and slipped out, gently pulling the door closed behind her.
In the corridor, Svetlana was nodding off in a half-sleep on an uncomfortable plastic chair.
“How is he?”
“The doctor says he’s stable,” Maria sat carefully beside her, feeling that same familiar heaviness inside. “Svetlana, can I ask you something?.. Does Victor really drink?”
Svetlana sighed.
“No, not really. He doesn’t drink… But you know, he’s become so… sad. It’s all work, work, work—he only comes home to eat and sleep. He doesn’t really talk to anyone. We’ve seen him… maybe a couple of times this year.”
“And does he have… someone?” Maria’s question sounded as if she wasn’t asking about her ex-husband at all, but about some distant acquaintance.
“No, there’s no one. Igor said he tried going on dates, but it never works out. He still… thinks about you.”
Maria said nothing. Somewhere deep inside, it was as if an icy shell cracked: three long years of resentment, three years of being sure she’d been right and he’d been wrong…
“I have to go,” she got up and exhaled. “Svetlana… When Igor wakes up, tell him—let him know I understand now.”
At home, in her own apartment, which had become far too quiet, Maria poured herself some tea and sat for a long time, hugging the cup like a talisman. For some reason, she remembered not the fights with Victor, but the good things: how he met her after night shifts, how he made Saturday breakfasts, how they dreamed of a house in the countryside… And how later all of that went flying into the abyss—through arguments about children, through silence, irritation, the creeping chill…
“If only I had known about his fears back then…” Maria thought. “If only we’d just talked honestly! But we yelled, blamed each other…”
In the morning she dialed a familiar number. Long rings—and then that dear, slightly hoarse voice:
“Hello?”
“Victor? It’s Masha.”
A thick, constricted pause.
“Masha? What… happened?”
“Igor’s in the hospital. He had a heart attack. But… he’s going to pull through,” Maria hurried to ease the tension and heard Victor exhale heavily into the phone. “Victor, we need to talk.”
They met at a café—both of them, for some reason, choosing “neutral territory,” as if they were meeting for the first time. Victor looked… older somehow: gray at the temples, tired shadows under his eyes.
“How are you?” Maria asked carefully, not really knowing where to even begin.
“I’m fine,” he shrugged, dropping his eyes for a moment. “Working. And you?”
“I’m working too… Victor… Igor told me… about your father. About your fears…”
Victor’s face froze, changing in an instant.
“Don’t…” he said, weary and almost resigned.
“We have to,” Maria interrupted softly but very firmly. “Why did you keep quiet? We were husband and wife…”
“And what would that have changed?” His voice was dull, with a cracked edge to it. “You wanted children. And I… couldn’t give you that. What difference does it make whether it was out of selfishness or fear?”
“A huge difference, Victor…” For the first time in years, Maria spoke a little louder than usual. “You can work with fear. You can go to a therapist, try to deal with it together… Selfishness—not so much…”
Victor said nothing. He kept turning the cup in his hands, as if searching for answers at the bottom of the coffee.
“I thought… it would pass. That with time everything would settle down, I’d get over it. But time went on, you kept pressing harder, I kept pulling away more… And it all ended with me losing you.”
“We both lost each other,” Maria admitted quietly, lowering her eyes. “I’m guilty too. I was more focused on changing you than on understanding you…”
“Forgive me, Masha. For everything.”
“And you forgive me.”
They sat in the café, and between them there was not just a table and cups of cooling coffee, but a whole chasm of years, pain, foolish mistakes, and unspoken words. And suddenly the resentment was gone, and there was no anger anymore. It felt as if a breath of fresh air had slipped in: the time for silence had come.
“So what now?” Victor finally asked, a bit lost, as if he had forgotten how to think about the future.
“I don’t know,” Maria answered honestly, not trying to seem stronger or wiser than she was. “Probably nothing. Too much water has passed under the bridge… But now I understand: neither of us is to blame. We just… didn’t know how to talk.”
“And what if… we tried to learn?” Victor’s voice sounded uncertain, with the hopeful tone of a grown-up child.
Maria looked him straight in the eyes—the same eyes she had once fallen in love with suddenly and irrevocably. So much had changed, and yet those eyes were still kind. Just tired.
“I don’t know, Victor… Maybe. But not to bring the past back. Just… so it doesn’t hurt this much anymore.”
He nodded. Slowly, but in a way that said he understood everything.
“I hear you, Masha.”
A week passed. Igor was discharged from the hospital: he sat at home in an armchair, still pale and a bit unsure of his own strength, but alive, truly alive. Maria came to visit, bringing a big bag of the medicines he needed—the kind you could hardly find in their town.
“Thank you,” Igor said quietly, smiling wanly. “And not just for the medicine…”
“For what else?”
“For talking to Victor. Svetlana told me—you two met…”
“We just talked. Don’t read anything into it…”
“I’m not reading anything into it,” Igor chuckled. “I just see that you both feel lighter now. Isn’t that true?”
It was true. Maria no longer woke up at night filled with anger and resentment toward Victor. And Victor, according to Svetlana, had finally made an appointment with a therapist. Said he wanted to deal with his fears. For the first time in so many years—honestly and openly.
“Better late than never,” Maria thought. And she stopped waiting. She didn’t call. She didn’t build castles in the air—and she didn’t resent him anymore.
Most importantly: instead of a heavy emptiness, there was now a warm clarity. The resentment was gone. And that, perhaps, was the most important thing of all.
Sometimes Maria remembered Igor’s words: “Men don’t know how to talk about their fears.” And she suddenly caught herself thinking: maybe women don’t know how to wait and listen? Don’t know how to stay close when a person finally finds the courage to open up?
Probably not. That, too, is something you have to learn.
It’s a good thing there are people like Igor in the world—those who, even standing on the edge of death, don’t think about themselves. They think about how to help others find their way back to each other. If only so they can forgive.