The evening sun mercilessly scorched her back, and the blouse, clinging to her body, caused irritation as Yelizaveta Mikhaylovna climbed the steps to her apartment. In the entrance hall, the sweet aroma of fresh baking lingered – her neighbor Anna Petrovna, as always, spoiled her grandchildren with apple pies. This scent invariably awakened in Yelizaveta a poignant sense of longing for unfulfilled dreams of motherhood.
She slowly pulled out her keys, listening for sounds behind the door. Was Viktor at home? Her heart unexpectedly squeezed, as if she were a guilty girl. Strange, she thought, so many years together, and lately I find myself increasingly wanting to avoid meeting with my own husband.
The hallway was dim. From the depths of the apartment, the muffled voice of a TV presenter sounded – Viktor was home. Yelizaveta tiptoed to the bedroom, carefully placing a new dress on the bed, bought for tomorrow’s corporate event. The silk softly shimmered in the rays of the sunset, reminiscent of the sea’s surface. She ran her hand over the fabric, enjoying its cool smoothness.
“Spent money on clothes again?” came an annoyed voice from behind. Yelizaveta flinched. Viktor stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. There was a faint smell of cognac about him.
“It’s for tomorrow evening,” she replied quietly, “you yourself said that we need to look respectable.”
“Respectable?” Viktor sneered. “Maybe it would have been better to spend that money on an examination? Five years together, and no use at all.” Yelizaveta felt a hot lump rise to her throat. How much longer? Every conversation came down to the same thing.
“Viktor, we discussed this… The doctors say…”
“Doctors, doctors!” he mocked. “Or maybe it’s not about them? Maybe you should have chosen a younger wife?”
The next morning was chaotic. Yelizaveta woke up with a heaviness in her temples – the consequence of a sleepless night. At the “Fashion Silhouette” atelier, an unusual silence reigned. The director, Marina Stepanovna, was gloomier than a cloud, locking herself in her office from time to time. Anxious rumors about a possible closure circulated among the staff.
“Lizonka, you look somewhat pale today,” noticed Galina Semyonovna, the senior seamstress. “Something happened?”
“Everything’s fine,” Yelizaveta smiled mechanically, skillfully wielding scissors. “Just a bit nervous about the evening. My husband has a corporate event.”
“Ahh,” Galina Semyonovna stretched understandingly. “Is that where your big boss works? At ‘New Horizon’?”
Yelizaveta nodded, not looking up from her work. Her hands automatically performed familiar movements, but her thoughts were far away. She remembered that distant evening when, as a music school student, she sang at a young performers’ competition. The hall applauded standing, and the jury predicted a great future for her. But her father then said, “Daughter, singing is not serious. You need a stable profession…”
The banquet hall of the “Imperial” hotel was the epitome of luxury. Crystal chandeliers scattered whimsical glints around the room, playing on the pristine tablecloths, and the air was filled with the subtle scent of fresh flowers and expensive perfumes. Yelizaveta nervously fiddled with the edge of a napkin, feeling like an outsider among the company directors’ wives. Their confident voices, the clink of champagne glasses, their patronizing looks – it all created an almost tangible sense of discomfort.
“Viktor Andreevich, where did you meet your wife?” Alla Viktorovna, the wife of the chief engineer, asked cheerily.
“Oh, it was a completely random meeting,” Viktor quickly replied, not letting Yelizaveta get a word in. “At the theater.”
Yelizaveta felt her cheeks flush. They had not met at the theater, but at the district cultural house, where she had performed with an amateur ensemble. But did it matter now?
Waiters, like shadows, glided between the tables, serving exquisite appetizers. The scent of smoked salmon mixed with the smells of fresh greens and truffles. Yelizaveta, having lost her appetite from nerves, barely touched her portion.
“And what do you do, Yelizaveta?” a young woman on her right asked, introducing herself as Nina.
“I…” Yelizaveta began, but Viktor interrupted again:
“My wife takes care of the home,” he said sharply, and his voice clearly carried steel notes. Nina smiled, but something predatory flickered in her brown eyes. Yelizaveta felt a slight chill – this woman emanated some hidden danger, like a beautiful but poisonous snake.
After the third glass of champagne, her head buzzed. Dancing began, then someone suggested karaoke. The sounds of music, laughter, the noise of voices – all merged into a chaotic kaleidoscope. And suddenly Yelizaveta heard the first chords – of the very song with which she once won the competition.
Without realizing how, she found herself at the microphone. The hall fell silent. The music enveloped her like a warm blanket, carrying her away from all problems and grievances. Yelizaveta closed her eyes and sang.
Her voice, clear and powerful, filled the space of the hall. She sang about love, about unfulfilled dreams, about hope. It seemed as if time had stopped, mesmerized by her singing…
“You don’t sing, you cluck like a chicken! Be quiet!” Viktor’s rough shout shattered the magic of the moment. Staggering, he climbed onto the stage and snatched the microphone from her hands.
Silence fell over the hall, like a heavy curtain. Yelizaveta heard suppressed giggles, felt dozens of eyes boring into her back. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Grabbing her purse, she ran out of the hall. The doorman kindly offered to call a taxi, but she just silently shook her head and stepped into the warm summer night.
Her heels tapped a rhythm on the deserted street. Where to go? Home – no, Viktor was there… To her parents’? No, not now, she didn’t need to hear their perpetual “we warned you.”
Her feet led her to the city park. Silence reigned here, only lamps cast whimsical shadows on the gravel paths, and somewhere in the distance, a midnight cat screamed. Yelizaveta sat down on a bench and finally let her tears flow.
Somewhere in her purse, the phone vibrated – probably Viktor. Or someone from his colleagues decided to show sympathy? It didn’t matter. Let them think what they wanted.
Morning found her on the same bench. Dawn painted the sky in tender pink tones, somewhere the first birds chirped. Yelizaveta shivered from the morning chill. The dress was wrinkled, the makeup probably smeared – a wonderful look to appear at the atelier…
But a new blow awaited her at the atelier. Marina Stepanovna gathered the staff and announced the closure. The owner had gone bankrupt, orders were dwindling, there was no money to pay salaries.
“I’m sorry, girls,” the director dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I fought to the end…”
That evening, returning home, Yelizaveta found Viktor at the laptop. He didn’t even raise his head when she entered. Just grumbled:
“Where have you been? You’re embarrassing me in front of people…”
Not finding her place in the stuffy city, Yelizaveta decided to accept her mother-in-law’s invitation and go to the village of Lipovka. Maybe working in the garden would help put her thoughts in order?
Anastasia Pavlovna greeted her daughter-in-law cautiously. Rumors about a “scandal in the restaurant” had already spread through the village, and the mother-in-law was eager for details. But Yelizaveta just waved it off:
“Let’s better talk about tomatoes. What are we going to feed them?”
Days flowed in the usual rural rhythm: weeding, watering, berry picking. Work made her back ache, calluses appeared on her hands, but her soul felt lighter. In the evenings, Yelizaveta sat on the porch, listening to nightingales sing in the garden. Sometimes she quietly sang along, and then it seemed that all troubles were far away.
But problems caught up with her here too. The tomatoes, Anastasia Pavlovna’s pride, suddenly began to wilt. Neighbors, previously friendly, started to glance sideways and whisper:
“It’s all your daughter-in-law, she has an evil eye. Ever since she arrived – the harvest has disappeared.”
Yelizaveta packed her things and returned to the city. The empty apartment smelled of dust and loneliness. On the answering machine blinked a message from Viktor:
“I’ll live with my mom for a while. We need a break from each other.”
With mom… Of course. Yelizaveta bitterly smiled. She had long suspected the existence of a mistress, but now it somehow no longer caused pain. Only fatigue.
On Sunday, her feet led her to St. Nicholas Cathedral. The service was already ending, but from the open doors flowed amazing sounds – the church choir was singing. Yelizaveta froze, listening. The voices intertwined in a transparent lace of melody, soaring under the dome and melting somewhere in the heights.
“Do you like it?” a low female voice sounded nearby. “I’m Anna Pavlovna, the choir director.”
That’s how a new chapter began in Yelizaveta’s life. Anna Pavlovna, having heard her voice, didn’t hesitate to accept her into the choir. For the first time in a long time, Yelizaveta felt she was in her place.
Meanwhile, at the “New Horizon” office, a scandal was brewing. The position of deputy director, which Viktor considered already his, went to the young nephew of the owner. That was the last straw.
“I hate it!” Viktor threw a folder with documents on the table in Nina’s office. “All these years I’ve been slaving for that old man, and what in the end? Nothing!” Nina approached from behind, placed her hands on his shoulders. Her scent of expensive perfume mixed with a sense of danger.
“What if…,” her voice became soft, almost a whisper, “if the position becomes vacant? By itself?”
“What are you talking about?” Viktor sharply turned around, staring at her.
“I have a friend in the serpentarium. Viper venom leaves no traces. Everyone will think it’s a heart attack…”
That evening they sat for a long time at Nina’s home, discussing the details. Cognac loosened tongues, fear gradually faded. It seemed simple: a sting at the corporate event, chaos, emergency medical help… And then – the long-awaited promotion.
Mikhail Sergeyevich Vorontsov indeed died right at the shareholders’ meeting. Doctors diagnosed a heart attack. Viktor was mentally trying on the director’s chair when the incredible happened.
At the cemetery, during the farewell, the “deceased” suddenly opened his eyes.
Gravedigger Pyotr Ivanovich, a former military doctor, was the first to notice faint signs of life. Within minutes, he organized resuscitation, and the arriving ambulance confirmed: Mikhail Sergeyevich was alive!
At the hospital, where the director was urgently taken, tests revealed traces of snake venom. An investigation began.
Nina panicked. She paced her luxurious apartment, repeatedly grabbing the phone:
“We need to do something! They’ll start digging… They’ll find everything…” Viktor silently stared out the window, absently stroking a glass of cognac. A new plan formed in his mind:
“You still have contacts in the serpentarium? Let’s arrange an accident. Release snakes in the office…”
Yelizaveta accidentally overheard this conversation, entering her husband’s room to pick up her things. She froze behind the door, not believing her ears. Her heart pounded furiously, as if trying to break out of her chest.
That same evening, she called the company’s security service. Within an hour, Nina was detained with a container containing three vipers.
“It was all him!” Nina sobbed during the interrogation. “He made me do it! It was all Viktor’s idea…” When they came for Viktor, he didn’t even resist. He just looked at Yelizaveta with a strange mix of hatred and relief:
“You were always too righteous…”
Pyotr Ivanovich, who saved Mikhail Sergeyevich, often visited the patient in the hospital. Something imperceptibly familiar was in his features, in his gestures, in his smile…
“Where are you from?” Mikhail Sergeyevich once asked, looking at Pyotr.
“From Rzhev. My mother raised me alone. She sang in the local choir…”
The director paled:
“Alexandra? Alexandra Petrova?”
That evening, they talked until dawn. Thirty years ago, young engineer Misha Vorontsov met the soloist of the church choir. A romance sparked between them… But then he was transferred to Moscow, and he didn’t dare to ruin his career and marriage for a provincial singer.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the elderly man’s eyes filled with tears. “But Alexandra seemed to have disappeared into the ground…”
“She died five years ago,” Pyotr replied quietly. “She worked all her life in an orphanage. And sang. Until her last day…”
Yelizaveta often visited Pyotr in his small watchman’s lodge at the cemetery. They talked about music, about life, about faith. He turned out to be an attentive listener and a wise conversationalist.
One evening, sitting on a bench near the chapel, Pyotr suddenly asked:
“Have you ever thought about adoption?”
“I have,” Yelizaveta smiled. “I’ve always dreamed of a big family…”
“In the orphanage where my mom worked, there’s a girl named Masha. She’s three years old, and she loves to sing…”
A year later, at St. Nicholas Cathedral, a wedding was played. Yelizaveta, radiant in a white dress, walked to the altar, where Pyotr awaited her. The choir sang in the choir loft, and in the first row sat a moved Mikhail Sergeyevich, holding a little dark-haired girl in his arms.
“Grandma, sing more!” Masha would ask when they gathered on the veranda of their new home in the evenings.
And Yelizaveta sang – about love, about forgiveness, about happiness. Her voice soared over the quieted garden, blending with the nightingales’ singing.
With Mikhail Sergeyevich’s support, she opened a children’s music studio for orphans. Now every day was filled with children’s voices, laughter, and music.
And on Sundays at St. Nicholas Cathedral, one could hear an amazing duet – mother and daughter sang in the choir loft, and their voices rose to the dome, telling a story about how sometimes you need to lose everything to find true happiness.
Little Masha was growing up and increasingly asked:
“Mom, is it true that you also took me from the orphanage? Like in a fairy tale?”
“True, honey,” Yelizaveta smiled. “Only this is not a fairy tale. This is life. And you know what? It’s more amazing than any fairy tale…