“We’ll handle this fast and go our separate ways,” Viktor said as he stepped into the office without greeting anyone. He jerked his head toward his mother, signaling for her to sit. “The house gets split fifty-fifty, right?”
The lawyer — a man in his fifties in a rumpled shirt — peered at him over his glasses and said nothing.
Lyudmila Ivanovna settled into her chair, removed her gloves, and placed her handbag neatly on her lap. She looked completely certain the matter had already been decided.
Elena sat by the window in an old gray coat she had worn for years. Her hands were covered in scars, from her wrists to her fingertips, red and tight with damaged skin. She said nothing, only stared outside.
“Viktor Sergeyevich, you are asking for a division of assets,” the lawyer said, opening the file. “The country house was registered in Elena Pavlovna’s name three years ago.”
“It was registered while we were married,” Viktor said, leaning forward. “That makes it marital property. Half is mine.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna nodded.
“Viktor is about to have a child. He needs somewhere to live. Elena will manage — she’s used to it.”
Elena slowly turned her head and looked at her mother-in-law in silence. Lyudmila Ivanovna was the first to look away.
The lawyer shut the folder.
“The house was purchased with insurance compensation money,” he said. “After an accident at her workplace. It is not jointly acquired marital property. There is nothing to divide.”
Silence.
Viktor’s fingers loosened.
“What?”
“The payment was compensation for injury to her health. By law, that money is not subject to division.”
“What payment?”
Elena pulled a document from her bag and laid it on the table. The lawyer picked it up and nodded.
“The boiler at the plant exploded,” she said evenly. “I spent six months in the hospital. You remember.”
Viktor leaned back.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it. You never came once. You said the smell of hospitals made you sick.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna flared up.
“He was working! Someone had to earn money!”
“Working,” Elena repeated with a nod. “So was I. Twenty-five years. Twelve-hour shifts. Saving something from every paycheck. And you, Viktor, spent money on spare parts. And on nights out with your friends. Every Friday.”
Viktor shot to his feet.
“So you kept quiet on purpose? You set this all up?”
“Not on purpose. I simply realized I mattered to you only when you needed something from me.”
Three years earlier, Viktor had stood in the hospital corridor smoking one cigarette after another. Security kept warning him, but he ignored them. He called his mother and told her Elena was in intensive care, that things were serious. Lyudmila Ivanovna arrived the next day. She looked at the bandages wrapped around Elena’s face, hands, neck — almost all of her.
“Well then. Sit here with this now.”
Then they left together.
Viktor came back a week later. He stood outside Elena’s room but never went in. Elena saw him through the glass — he looked, turned around, and walked away. He never came again.
He called rarely. Said he was tired, that work was heavy, that he was fixing the car. Elena would listen to the dead tone after he hung up.
Her hands would not bend. The doctors told her to work them, endure it, move her fingers even if it hurt. She endured it. At night she woke from the pain. Her skin felt as though boiling water were being poured over it again. She could not scream — there were three other women in the room. She gripped her pillow and counted to one hundred.
She was discharged six months later. Viktor came in a taxi. He said his own car had broken down again.
At home, Lyudmila Ivanovna sat in the kitchen drinking tea. She looked at Elena, at the scars running from temple to chin.
“Will you even be able to work at all now?”
Elena walked into the room, shut the door, sat on the bed, and looked at her hands.
The lawsuit against the factory lasted two years. The company’s lawyers tried to blame Elena, saying she had violated safety procedures. Her coworkers testified that the boiler was old, everyone knew it, and management had refused to replace it.
When the judge announced the ruling, Elena sat in the courtroom alone. Viktor had said he could not get time off work.
The compensation was large. Elena opened a separate account and told no one. A month later she found a house — quiet, out in the country, with a plot of land — and put it in her own name.
She told Viktor simply:
“I bought a house. I’m moving.”
At first, he was happy. Then he asked:
“We are?”
“I am.”
“What do you mean, you?”
“Alone. You can file for divorce. Since Inna is having your baby.”
Viktor went pale.
“How do you know?”
“Lyudmila Ivanovna let it slip.”
Elena walked out of the lawyer’s office first. Viktor caught up with her by the elevator and grabbed her sleeve.
“Wait. You think I’m just going to let this go?”
She pulled her arm free.
“You already did. Three years ago. When you never came to the hospital.”
“It was hard for me to see you like that!”
“It was hard for me too. But I couldn’t abandon myself.”
The elevator arrived. Elena stepped inside and pressed the button. The doors shut.
Lyudmila Ivanovna came out of the office and took her son by the elbow.
“We have to come up with something. Another lawyer? Court?”
Viktor said nothing.
“Vitya, do you hear me? We can’t just hand everything over like this! It’s a good house — I wanted to plant roses there!”
“Mom, leave me alone.”
He walked away. Lyudmila Ivanovna was left standing there by herself.
Back at home, Viktor sat down on the couch and called Inna. She did not answer right away.
“What?” she said at last.
“The house isn’t happening. It’s in her name. It can’t be divided.”
A pause.
“No way at all?”
“No way.”
Inna sighed.
“Vitya, listen. I’ll tell you now so there are no complaints later. I’m not even sure the baby is yours.”
Viktor froze.
“What did you say?”
“There was someone else. I don’t know for certain. And I’m not going to sort it out. Let’s end this here.”
“Inna, wait—”
“Don’t call me again.”
The line went dead. Viktor called back. Her number was unavailable. Again — blocked.
He sat staring at the wall. Half an hour later, Lyudmila Ivanovna came in.
“What happened?”
“Everything happened.”
“Inna called?”
“She said the child isn’t mine. And told me to get lost.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna sank into a chair.
“How is it not yours?”
“That’s how. Not mine.”
They sat in silence. Then she said:
“We need to teach Elena a lesson. Make her understand.”
Viktor looked at her.
“How?”
“Find some people. Let them scare her. Smash the windows. She’ll come running after that.”
Viktor nodded.
Elena moved her things in two days. She did not have much — clothes, dishes, books. The house was quiet. She walked through the rooms opening windows.
On the second day, the neighbor, Vera Andreevna, stopped by with a jar of jam.
“Do you need any help?”
“Thank you, I’ll manage.”
That night Elena sat in the kitchen drinking tap water — she still had not unpacked the kettle. Her hands hurt, as they always did by evening. She needed to find work, but what kind, she did not know. No one would take her back into the hot shop now.
Viktor came on Saturday in an old Gazelle van with two men. Elena saw them from the window. They walked up to the gate. Viktor knocked, then rang the bell. She stood in the hallway and did not move. He knocked for five minutes, then started pounding with his fist.
“Lena! Open up! We need to talk!”
She stayed silent. She heard him cursing. Then they left. The van started and drove away.
An hour later, Vera Andreevna knocked.
“Everything all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“My husband got the license plate. If they come back, call us. We’ll get the local officer.”
Elena nodded. She closed the door, slid down the wall onto the floor, and sat there. Her heart was pounding. She counted her breaths the way they had taught her in the hospital.
Viktor returned three nights later. She woke to a scraping sound — someone was climbing over the fence. Then glass broke softly. Elena walked to the window. Two men were by the shed. One held a canister. The other — Viktor — was fumbling with a rag and a lighter. The flame flashed, lighting up his face. He was drunk, swaying.
Elena grabbed her phone. But from the neighbors’ side came a shout:
“Stop! The police are coming!”
A neighbor vaulted the fence and headed toward them. Viktor threw down the rag and ran for the gate. The other man followed. Their vehicle would not start immediately; the engine sputtered and died. Then the police siren sounded — the local officer lived nearby.
Elena stood at the window. They were pulling Viktor out of the vehicle. He was waving his arms, trying to explain something. The officer was writing things down. The neighbor pointed at the canister, at the rag. Viktor turned and looked toward the window. Elena did not look away. She kept watching until they led him off.
The trial was held a month later. Viktor came unshaven, wearing a wrinkled shirt. Lyudmila Ivanovna sat in the courtroom gripping a headscarf in her hands. The judge — a woman in glasses — listened and read through the documents. Then she looked at Viktor.
“You attempted to set fire to your former wife’s house. Do you understand that?”
Viktor said nothing.
“Answer the question.”
“I wanted… her to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That she can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
He gave no answer. The judge issued the sentence: a two-year suspended sentence and an order forbidding him from coming within three hundred meters of Elena.
Lyudmila Ivanovna let out a sob. Viktor turned to her.
“It’s fine, Mom. It’s suspended.”
She did not answer.
Viktor had to move out. Lyudmila Ivanovna said she would not support him anymore, that he was a grown man. He rented a corner from an acquaintance for three thousand — a windowless room, shared kitchen, a shower once a week. He found work at a vegetable warehouse as a loader. He carried crates and scrubbed floors. The pay was low, but at least it came every week.
The garage friends disappeared. One of them replied:
“Vitya, sorry, but I can’t be around people on probation. I’m registered myself.”
The others stopped answering calls. Inna had blocked him everywhere. Viktor tried finding her through mutual contacts, but no one knew anything — or they did not want to say.
Lyudmila Ivanovna managed for three months. Then she called her sister in Vologda and asked to stay for a while. Two weeks later they had a huge fight — her sister said Lyudmila did nothing but complain. Lyudmila packed and returned. But the apartment had already been sold; the money had gone to cover debts. Viktor was living in a utility shack and could not help her.
A social worker suggested a care home. Lyudmila shouted that she would not go to some poorhouse, that her son owed her better. But there was no choice.
Viktor came to see her off. He brought a bag with her things. He stood by the bus, smoking, looking away.
“At least will you visit?” she asked.
“I will.”
“When?”
“When I can.”
The bus left. Viktor finished his cigarette, dropped the butt, and walked back to the warehouse.
For the first few months, Elena simply got used to things. To the quiet. To getting up whenever she wanted. To the fact that no one would ask why lunch was not ready. Her hands hurt every day. She stretched her fingers and did her exercises. She noticed that when she kneaded dough or chopped vegetables, the pain eased a little. Not for long, but enough.
In October, Vera Andreevna stopped by.
“Lenochka, could you bake a pie? My grandkids are coming, and I can’t keep up anymore.”
Elena baked one. Simple, with apples. Vera Andreevna tasted it.
“This is incredible! You should sell these!”
Elena thought about it. She started with the neighbors. Then the neighbors brought friends. Orders grew. She baked at night, when her hands hurt less. Six months later, she realized she could live on that income.
One day a man from the neighboring house came by. Semyon, around forty, in a light-colored shirt.
“Good afternoon. My wife said you make cakes. Could I order one for my daughter’s birthday?”
Elena invited him into the kitchen. He talked about his daughter, who was turning eight. He glanced at Elena’s hands, at the scars, but asked nothing.
When he left, Elena remained sitting at the table. Snow was falling outside — the first of the year. Her hands were resting calmly. The scars had not disappeared, but she had stopped giving them so much power over her thoughts.
Two years passed. Elena set up a summer kitchen in the extension — it was easier that way. There were many orders, and sometimes she had to turn people away. She did not chase every opportunity; she worked at her own pace.
She saw Viktor only once — in winter, at the market. He stood near the entrance in work clothes, smoking, staring into nothing. Older, gray, hunched. She walked past. He did not notice her.
At first, Lyudmila Ivanovna kept making scenes at the care home — complaining about the other residents, the food, the room. Viktor came once a month with groceries and sat in silence. She talked without stopping — about unfairness, about how her daughter-in-law had deceived everyone, about how life had gone wrong. He nodded and stared out the window. After half an hour, he left.
Elena worked and spoke with people. Smiling became easier. Semyon ordered cakes for every holiday. Once he said:
“My daughter says you make the best cakes in the whole district.”
Elena nodded. It was good to hear.
One evening, after finishing her last order, she stepped out onto the porch. December. Frost. Darkness came early. Quiet all around. No shouting. No slamming doors. Her hands ached, as always by the end of the day, but it was ordinary tiredness now.
Vera Andreevna waved from across the fence.
“Lena, my grandkids are coming tomorrow. Could you bake some buns?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Elena went back inside. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon — she still had to finish tomorrow morning’s order. There were prepared ingredients in the fridge, a list for the week on the table. Everything as usual.
Viktor remained at the warehouse. In the evenings he took out his phone and scrolled through old photos. Then he would put it away, light a cigarette, and stare at the ceiling of the shack. The paint was peeling. There was no road back.
Lyudmila Ivanovna eventually adjusted to the care home. She stopped complaining, started going to tea gatherings, even made friends with the woman next door. She no longer called for Viktor. When he came, she spoke briefly, without reproach.
One evening Elena sat by the window, drinking hot milk. Her hands rested in her lap. The scars had faded, though they remained. She looked at them and remembered the hospital, the pain, the sleepless nights. Then she thought of something else — tomorrow’s orders, and a new recipe she wanted to try.
The next morning, the first customer arrived. Then the second. The day began like any other — work inside a house that belonged to her, in a life she had built with her own hands.
Viktor had been left somewhere in the past. Lyudmila Ivanovna too. It had all happened, yes — but now it no longer mattered.