Galina agreed to everything her husband wanted and even picked the notary where she suggested they sign the divorce papers. He showed up with his new wife, confident that he’d get his way. But just one sentence from the notary was enough to wipe those smiles away.
Galina reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a blue folder held together with a rubber band, placing it on the kitchen table. She hadn’t opened that folder in fourteen years.
The rubber band had dried out and turned brittle, like old skin. Galina pushed it with her finger, and it broke into two pieces, one piece falling to the floor. She didn’t pick it up.
“Mom, why are you up so early?” Vera stood in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt down to her knees and her braid messy.
“I can’t sleep.”
“When is your notary appointment?”
“Tomorrow. At eleven.”
“What’s that?”
“Papers. Old ones.”
Vera walked over and tried to peek over Galina’s shoulder, but couldn’t see anything—Galina covered the folder with her hand, the way a student covers their notebook during a test. Vera was fifteen and seemed to notice everything, which was both irritating and a relief.
“Did he call again?” Vera asked.
“Last night.”
“And?”
“He said everything would be fair.”
“That’s what he says when he plans to do things his way.”
Galina took out two cups from the cabinet, set the kettle on the stove, and said nothing. The sound of water filled the kitchen, pipes clanked, and the warm scent of heated metal from the old stove drifted through the air. Vera sat down on a stool, pulling her knees close to her chin.
“I don’t want to live with him and her,” Vera said quietly. “If he tries to insist.”
“He won’t insist. You’ll stay with me.”
“He said I could choose.”
“It’s only a choice if there’s really something to choose from.”
The words came out harsher than Galina intended, and she regretted them immediately. Vera dropped her eyes and started picking at a hangnail on her thumb. Cups cooled on the table, the tea undrunk.
The kettle clicked off. Galina poured hot water into both mugs and pulled out the tea bags. Her own mug had a broken handle—a white one, with a blue stripe around the rim. Igor always called it the ‘melancholy mug.’ He had wanted to throw it out for ages, but Galina would hide it deep in the cabinet until he left. Now, the mug sat out in plain sight.
“Mom, what if he really does take the apartment?”
“He won’t.”
“You sound so sure, like you know for a fact.”
Galina turned to the window. Outside, a street cleaner in an orange vest was piling up wet leaves, but they just kept slipping apart again. It was the end of April, but the morning felt as gray as if it was still March.
“Finish your tea,” she said. “You’ll be late for school.”
Igor left in March. He didn’t slam the door or leave a note, just packed a bag on Saturday while Galina was with her mother at the clinic, and in the evening he stood in the doorway, eyes on his shoes, and said:
“I met someone.”
She stood there holding a towel—still damp and smelling of kitchen soap. She wiped her hands, folded the towel in half and hung it on the hook. Only then did she ask:
“How long?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Six months.”
Six months. That meant December. That meant New Year’s Eve, when he gave her earrings and kissed her on the temple. That meant Vera’s birthday in February, when he made pancakes himself, dropped an egg on the floor, and laughed. Galina counted backward, like feeling her way down stairs in the dark—each step aching in her knees.
“You don’t have to explain,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
He picked up his bag, adjusted the collar of his jacket, and added:
“We’ll sort out the apartment later. No drama.”
That ‘later’ dragged on for a month and a half. He called in the evenings, always at the same time, right after the news, speaking in the tone of someone reading appliance instructions—detached and precise. He listed options. Galina listened and jotted them down in the notebook beside the phone, one they’d had since back when landlines were the main thing.
Last week, he called at nine-twenty.
“So, here’s the deal. We’re selling the apartment and splitting it fifty-fifty. I’ll pay Vera what I’m supposed to.”
“What do you mean, what you’re supposed to? How much?”
“I checked. We can do it officially, with a notary. A fixed amount. No courts.”
“How much?”
“Twelve thousand a month.”
“Igor, you make more than that.”
“Officially, I make thirty-six. The rest is bonuses, and those change all the time.”
Galina wrote ’12’ in her notebook. Underlined it. Then drew a question mark next to it and shaded it in until it made a hole in the paper.
“So you want us to sell the apartment where Vera grew up?”
“Regina and I think it’s the logical thing to do.”
Regina. Galina had never heard the name before. It sounded round and shiny, like a button. She repeated it silently in her head: Regina, Regina—and felt nothing at all. Just a thin, unpleasant ringing at the back of her head, the kind that comes right before a storm.
“Alright,” Galina said.
“Alright what?”
“Alright, we’ll do it through a notary. But I get to choose which one.”
“Why?”
“Because I want peace of mind. I’ll go to Tamara Lvovna, on Sadovaya. Remember, that’s where we bought the dacha?”
“You still haven’t forgotten that office?”
“No.”
“Fine. I don’t care. Just make it quick.”
He said “quicker” with such relief that Galina could practically hear his smile. She didn’t see it, of course, but she heard it—in the slight shift in his voice, the way the vowels lingered. That smile was twenty-two years old; she knew it by heart. His left canine stuck out a bit, and whenever he smiled over the phone, there was a faint whistle on the line.
She hung up the phone. The notebook was still open on the page with the number twelve.
Nellie showed up that very evening, carrying a bag of tangerines and a bottle of sour wine she didn’t actually like—but always brought on days like this, out of habit. She worked at the passport office and always had the quirk of slightly parting her lips before saying anything unpleasant, which she was doing already as she came through the door.
“Did you seriously agree?” Nellie kicked off her shoes without even undoing the straps. “Twelve thousand?”
“I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“But you agreed.”
“I said I agreed.”
“Galya. Are you out of your mind? You need a lawyer. A good one. I’ll call Lyuda from the third department—her sister works at a legal consultancy. They handle things like this in a single evening.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already have a plan.”
Nellie sat down on the stool where Vera had been sitting that morning. She grabbed a tangerine and started peeling it, eyes always fixed on her friend. The kitchen filled with a sharp, festive citrus smell, so out of sync with their conversation.
“So, tell me,” Nellie said.
“Nothing to tell yet.”
“That’s just what you said in 2019. And then we found out you had a lump.”
“This is different.”
“It’s always different. I’ve known you for twenty years. You clam up whenever you decide to do something you’re scared of.”
Galina took wine glasses out of the cupboard. One had a crack at the base—she should have thrown it out ages ago. She set it down in front of herself.
“Maybe I just want to look at him,” she said. “One last time. See how he acts when he thinks he’s won everything.”
“He won?”
“That’s what he thinks.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m thinking about Vera.”
Nellie broke off a tangerine segment, popped it in her mouth and chewed, staring at the wall. Then, softer, she said:
“You know, sometimes she’s just like her mother in public? Doesn’t cry. She just stops turning on the hallway light.”
“Nellie.”
“I’m just saying. Yesterday she texted me: ‘Aunt Nelya, do you know if Mom’s eating?’ She’s fifteen, Galya.”
Galina turned toward the stove. The left burner—the one she’d meant to replace for ages—flashed weakly with a blue spark and went out. She touched the knob, her fingers finding the worn groove by habit.
“I eat,” she said.
“I know. But she can’t see it.”
After that, they drank wine in silence, and the tangerine peels dried on the plate, curling into spirals. Nellie left around eleven, leaving the bag of fruit behind and saying at the door:
“Call me if you need anything. Any time.”
Galina nodded. She locked the door with two turns, and then, after a moment’s thought, checked to make sure it was really shut. A new habit: checking the lock, although she never used to notice herself doing it before.
She walked over to the storage shelf in the hallway. The stool was right where Vera left it after grabbing the Christmas ornaments. Galina climbed up, felt around behind the box of fairy lights, and found a dusty pile of folders. She sorted through them—Vera’s school diaries, her own diplomas, the apartment ownership certificate.
And at the very bottom, there was the blue folder.
On the cover, written in chemical pencil, was: “2011.” Galina immediately recognized the handwriting as her own. She remembered signing it after coming back from the office and sorting through the papers. Back then, Igor had been standing in the bedroom doorway and said:
“Hide it somewhere far away. We won’t need it.”
He was talking about the blue folder—that contract he’d ordered and paid for himself.
In September 2011, Igor looked like a man with a wardrobe on his shoulders. He was selling tiles, took out loans to stock his warehouse, and then the supplier from Italy disappeared with the entire advance payment. He’d come home looking gray, eat on his feet without tasting his food, then sit on the balcony smoking one cigarette after another—even though he’d quit back before Vera was born.
“The lawyer told me,” he said back then, “that the bank could come after everything. Even the apartment.”
“Ours?”
“Everything acquired during the marriage.”
“What about Mom’s money?”
“Half of my savings were there too. That’s the thing. They’ll prove it belongs to both of us.”
Galina was sitting on the bed, sewing a button onto Vera’s school coat. Her daughter was just a year old, and the coat was tiny and funny, but Galina was sewing anyway, just like her own mother used to. The needle would pierce the fabric, pull the thread taut, and return again.
“So what do you suggest?” she asked.
“A prenuptial agreement. That’s what I was advised. The apartment goes in your name, and I’ll claim the summer house and my share of the business. If the bank comes after me, they can’t touch you.”
“You want me to put the apartment in my name so it can’t be taken for your debts.”
“Not my debts—just business loans. It’s for the family, Gal.”
She set the needle down in the red tomato-shaped pincushion her mother-in-law had given her. The tomato, full of pins, almost seemed to look at her mockingly. She thought that she should probably object—that any other woman might. But she was twenty-nine, had a one-year-old, and a husband who smoked on the balcony until the smoke smelled of hair.
“Okay,” she said.
The next week they went to Sadovaya. The office was in an old building with a stiff spring on the door, and the entryway smelled of cats and fresh paint. On the second floor, behind a door with a brass plaque, sat a woman with glasses on a chain, a short gray haircut, and calm eyes. She was forty-three back then, and to Galina, she seemed very grown-up.
“Please, take a seat,” the woman said. “My name is Tamara Lvovna.”
She read the contract aloud, slowly, pausing in places that didn’t seem to need a pause. Igor fidgeted with his car keys, making them clink against his knee. The notary looked up.
“Igor Sergeevich, do you understand what you’re signing?”
“Of course.”
“Let me repeat: According to this agreement, all property acquired during the marriage, as well as what you already own, will belong to the spouse whose name is on the documents. The apartment on Lesnaya Street, registered to Galina Nikolaevna, belongs only to her. You will have no rights to it. Not in the event of a divorce, nor after.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Igor said. “It’s just a formality.”
“This is a contract,” Tamara Lvovna replied. “There are no formalities in my line of work.”
He smiled. That was the first time Galina noticed that his smile could be condescending. His left canine stuck out a bit, and for a moment his face looked unfamiliar.
“I was joking, Tamara Lvovna. Of course, it’s a contract.”
She nodded, handed them pens, and showed where to sign. Galina signed first—her signature came out uneven, with a flourish at the end. Igor signed quickly, not even looking, and immediately reached for his phone, which was vibrating in his pocket.
When they stepped out onto the staircase, Igor said:
“That’s it. Thank God, that’s done.”
Back then, Galina thought the words ‘not in the event of a divorce, nor after’ were unnecessary. Why write that? They weren’t planning to separate. But she kept silent, and later at home, she shoved the folder away as he had asked.
Now, fourteen years later, she stood on a stool, holding that folder in both hands, as if it were something warm. The pencil mark on the cover had faded, the numbers had blurred. But she knew what was inside.
Her mother-in-law arrived on Saturday, unannounced. Zinaida Fyodorovna, seventy-two years old, one hundred and fifty-three centimeters tall, wore a knitted hat with a pompom and pulled a rolling cart. A loaf of bread, a bunch of dill, and a jar of pickles stuck out from the cart. She entered as if it were her own home, and the first thing she did was run her finger across the hallway shelf.
“Dust,” she said.
“Hello, Zinaida Fyodorovna.”
“Hello, Galya. Dust, like I said.”
“It’s from the neighbors’ renovations.”
“Renovations, right. Tell me—” Zinaida Fyodorovna unbuttoned her coat, took off her hat, and smoothed her short gray hair. “Are you really agreeing to sell the apartment?”
“He already told you about it.”
“He doesn’t tell me anything. Ninka from the next building told me. Her daughter works at an agency and they’ve already gotten a call. Igor called.”
Galina froze, still holding the grocery bag. The agency. He hadn’t just mentioned it—he had already called.
“Come to the kitchen,” she said.
Zinaida Fyodorovna wheeled in her cart, put the pickles on the table, and sat down across from her, folding her hands on her knees. Her hands were small, red, with bulging veins and a wedding ring she hadn’t taken off even after her husband’s death.
“I raised Igor alone,” she said. “My husband died early. I carried it all. And you know what I never learned? How to say ‘no’ to my son.”
“You’re a good mother.”
“I’m a mother who made mistakes. He grew up handsome, but his soul—well, it flits around like a sparrow, pecking here, pecking there, wherever there’s grain, that’s where he goes. Have you met this Regina?”
“No.”
“And I don’t want to. Ninka told me, she’s thirty-one, works at a nail salon. Rents an apartment.”
“That’s not my business.”
“It’s your doing, your responsibility. She dragged him into this scheme. He would never have come up with it on his own. That’s just not his style, he doesn’t do things head-on like that.”
Galina put the kettle on. Her hands trembled, so slightly, like an aspen leaf. She tucked them into the sleeves of her sweater, pretending she was just cold.
“Zinaida Fyodorovna, why are you here?”
“Where is Vera?”
“At her friend’s place.”
“Good. Then I’ll say what I need with just you here. I remember when you were both at the notary. Later, Igor told me about it, bragging how cleverly he outsmarted the bank. That he transferred the apartment to your name, so he looked like he wasn’t involved at all.”
“He told you that?”
“He did. And then he forgot he ever told me. Men do that. Sign and forget. Especially if it benefits them.”
Galina sat down across from her. The kitchen was quiet—only the fridge sighing and the clock on the wall ticking, running a minute and a half slow, which she never got around to fixing.
“You want me to remind him?”
“I want you to stop him from making a mistake. He’ll regret it for the rest of his life. And he wouldn’t forgive me for knowing about it all along.”
“Did you know what would happen today?”
“I knew you were smart. And that you keep all the paperwork. You’ve always been like a living archive in this house.”
The kettle whistled. Galina poured the water, set out the cups, and her mother-in-law, not waiting for an invitation, broke off a chunk of bread and started sprinkling it with salt.
“You know what I always liked about you?” she said, chewing. “You never complained. Not once. You’d come home from work, cook, do laundry, and not a word. But my son thought that if you weren’t complaining, everything was fine. That’s how men think.”
“And you didn’t think that way?”
“I thought so, but I had no way to help you. I was just like you.”
She fell silent, brushed the crumbs from her hands, and for a moment, Galina saw not her mother-in-law but just a tired woman who had dragged a shopping trolley for three tram stops.
“I won’t interfere,” said Zinaida Fyodorovna. “But if he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. That I respect you.”
“Zinaida Fyodorovna…”
“And you’ll take care of the pickles yourself. Those are for Vera. She likes them with garlic.”
Igor came on Sunday to pick up his things—and he didn’t come alone. Galina saw his gray sedan from the kitchen window, and on the passenger side was a woman in green. The woman didn’t get out; she just sat there, adjusting something in the rearview mirror.
Galina turned away from the window. A cactus stood on the windowsill, dry and shriveled. Igor had brought it back from a business trip and called it “Valentin.” She’d wanted to throw it out for ages, but every time, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
The doorbell rang—short and sharp.
“Hey,” he said at the door. He was wearing a new light blue shirt, freshly ironed. His hair was cut. He smelled of cologne she didn’t recognize.
“Come in.”
“I won’t be long. Just grabbing my winter clothes and the car papers.”
“The papers are in the top drawer of the dresser.”
He walked into the bedroom, and she could hear him opening the drawers. The creak of the first, second, third—he always pulled them out with the same pressure, and the sound was so familiar, so domestic, it made her feel sick.
Vera came out of her room, headphones on. She saw her dad, took off the headphones, and let them hang around her neck.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, kid. How’s school?”
“It’s fine.”
“Any C’s?”
“I don’t have any C’s.”
“I’m just joking.”
“You’re not joking, Dad. You don’t know.”
Igor stopped, holding a dark blue winter coat with a faux fur collar. Vera used to warm up in this coat when he let her wear it on her shoulders.
“Vera,” he said, “I know things are tough for you right now.”
“I never said I was having a hard time.”
“But you look like you are.”
“Like what?”
“Like your mom.”
Galina was standing by the kitchen door, holding onto the doorframe. The wood was rough where, at age three, Vera used to scratch the paint with her nail.
“Igor,” she said.
“What?”
“Your companion in the car. Let her come in. It’s cold outside.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s uncomfortable.”
“She’s uncomfortable,” Galina echoed. “Do you hear that, Vera?”
Vera heard. She looked straight at her father, not blinking, her face as still as someone watching a stranger’s accident.
“Dad,” she said, “what’s her name?”
“Regina.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirty-one.”
“I’m fifteen. She’s twice my age. And you’re almost fifty. Did you ever think about how that looks?”
“Vera.”
“I’m just asking.”
Igor set his bag down on the floor. Standing in the hallway, for a moment Galina saw him as small, just like that September when he used to smoke on the balcony. But it only lasted a second—then he straightened up.
“I don’t owe an explanation to a fifteen-year-old,” he said. “One day you’ll understand, when you’re older.”
“I’ve already grown up,” said Vera. “Just this summer.”
She went to her room, closing the door softly, the way you close a door in a room where someone is sick.
Igor turned to Galina.
“You’ve turned her against me.”
“You managed that all by yourself.”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
“What tone am I supposed to use?”
“A normal one. We’re adults. Let’s keep this peaceful. On Tuesday, at your Tamara Lvovna’s place. I’ll bring Regina.”
“Why?”
“She’ll be there. For support.”
“Whose support?”
“Mine.”
Galina looked at his hands. Slightly swollen knuckles, and on his left ring finger a pale band where his ring used to be, almost faded now. He’d taken it off a long time ago. She remembered he still had it in December, when he gave her earrings. So the mark faded over three months.
“Alright,” she said. “Bring her.”
“You’re really not angry?”
“No.”
“Weird. I expected a scandal.”
“No,” Galina said. “There won’t be any scandals.”
On Monday evening, the night before, she sat on the edge of the bed in the bedroom, holding her phone. His number glowed on the screen. Her finger hovered over the call button without touching it.
Outside, the rain drizzled down, tapping irregularly and lightly on the windowsill, and the sound made her want to count the drops. She got to forty before she gave up.
She could call him. She could say: Igor, remember what we signed in 2011. Remember and don’t embarrass yourself. Come alone, or don’t come at all—better yet, let’s just discuss the alimony like reasonable people. The apartment isn’t yours. That’s what you wanted.
And maybe he’d get angry. Maybe he’d start yelling. But then he wouldn’t end up in the office, in front of witnesses, with a woman he brought to show off how well things are going for him.
Galina set the phone down on the nightstand. Then she picked it up again.
“Why did I drag it out?” she wondered. Maybe it was out of spite. Maybe from exhaustion. Or maybe, deep down, she just wanted someone else to say to him, out loud, what she hadn’t been able to say in six whole weeks. “You had no right.” She wanted it said by strangers, with official papers, stamped and signed—so there’d be no way back.
It wasn’t right. She knew it wasn’t. Someone else in her place would’ve called a lawyer and laid everything out point by point. But Galina had kept quiet for so long, she’d never learned how to speak up in advance.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Igor.
“Yes?”
“Are you awake?”
“No.”
“About tomorrow—Regina and I wanted to check: how long will it take?”
“I’m not sure. An hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
“Alright. She has to be at work by two.”
“Then she’ll have enough time.”
“Hey… don’t be upset, okay? I really want things to be without resentment between us.”
His voice on the phone was gentle, almost warm, the way he used to speak to her in the early years. She closed her eyes. Her throat felt dry, as if she’d swallowed a handful of sand.
“Igor,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you remember everything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything we need for tomorrow. The documents. The passports.”
“I’ve got everything. Come on, don’t be such a mom.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow then.”
“Gal…”
“What?”
“Thank you for not making this harder.”
She hung up and placed the phone face down. The headlights of passing cars played across the ceiling. Nearby on the pillow was a blue folder, and from it came a faint mustiness, dust and that subtle scent of the cats from the apartment building on Sadovaya—etched into the cardboard, stamped just like every other memory.
“Thank you for not making this harder.” She repeated the phrase out loud just to hear how it sounded.
It sounded like a sentence. But for whom?
There was a quiet knock at the door. Vera walked in, clutching a pillow under her arm and wearing her bear pajamas.
“Can I stay with you?”
“Of course.”
Her daughter climbed onto the bed, scooted over to the wall, and rested her head on Galina’s shoulder. Her hair smelled of apple shampoo and that special something that’s only in childhood and hasn’t faded yet. They were both silent for a while.
“Mom, are you scared?”
“A little.”
“Me too.”
“Go to sleep. You have your algebra test tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Then sleep.”
“What about you?”
“Me too.”
Vera closed her eyes, and in ten minutes her breathing became steady and deep. Galina lay there, staring at the ceiling, still holding the edge of the blue folder. Her fingers found the corner and stroked it, like petting fur.
She got up at six forty-seven in the morning. The alarm showed the time in red numbers, but she hadn’t heard it ring: she woke up a minute before, the way people do before a long journey.
She made Vera breakfast—oatmeal with apple and cinnamon, just how her daughter liked it. She didn’t eat herself. Instead, she poured tea into a mug with a chipped handle and held it by the rim, burning her fingers a little because there was no handle, and she didn’t feel like setting it down.
“Mom, what are you going to wear?” Vera asked.
“My gray suit.”
“You look like a teacher in that.”
“And how should I look?”
“Like someone who’s doing just fine.”
“Then the beige coat.”
“It looks good on you.”
She put on her coat and adjusted the collar in the hallway mirror. Reflected back was a forty-four-year-old woman, 168 centimeters tall, with chestnut hair to her shoulders and a silver strand just above her left ear that she’d never dyed. Her eyes were brown, attentive, a little puffy from lack of sleep. Her face looked calm. Maybe too calm.
“Good luck,” Vera said at the door.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have my phone at school. Text me if you need anything.”
“Alright.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted you to know I’m with you.”
Galina couldn’t find the words. She kissed her daughter on the crown, and she slipped out from under her arm, grabbed her backpack, and ran down the stairs, her water bottle clattering against the railing.
Galina put a blue folder into her bag. She stood still for a moment. Then she took an old, broken hair tie from the floor and slipped it into her coat pocket. She didn’t know why.
Outside, it was damp and fresh. She could smell wet asphalt, gasoline, and just a hint of lilac from the yard next door that was just beginning to bud. She walked to the bus stop, her heels tapping steadily like a metronome. The bus arrived right away. She sat by the window, placed her bag on her knees, and hugged it with both arms.
Seven stops to the city center. Then she’d walk past the pharmacy with the green cross, through the archway that always smelled of basement, and down a narrow alley to the house with the stubborn door.
She went over this in her head all the way there: each step. And when she got off at Sadovaya, she realized her palms were damp and a distant, rushing noise filled her ears, like water far away.
The office was just as she remembered. The same brass plaque, a little tarnished, and the same door with a stiff spring. Only now, the entryway didn’t smell like cats but fresh coffee from a vending machine, and there was a screen on the wall playing ads.
Galina went up to the second floor and entered the waiting room. Behind the front desk sat a young woman with her hair in a neat bun.
“Are you here to see Tamara Lvovna?”
“Yes. At eleven. My husband and I.”
“Have a seat, please. She’s just finishing up.”
Galina sat down on a hard leather couch. Across from her was a reproduction of a painting of an autumn forest, and she started counting the birch trees. Nine. Ten. Then she stopped.
At eleven o’five, the door opened.
Igor entered first. Light shirt, gray jacket, polished shoes. He was smiling, and his canine tooth stuck out a bit, the way it always did when he was pleased with himself. Regina followed after him.
A green dress, brighter than spring grass. Reddish bob haircut, trimmed so precisely each strand stayed in place. She stood about one-seventy-five in heels, slim waist, delicate nose tipped up a little. Instead of a purse, she carried a branded bag with fabric samples, and the corner of a mustard-colored curtain was sticking out.
“Hello,” she said to Galina, smiling. Her smile was warm and surprisingly genuine. “Regina.”
“Galina.”
“Please don’t think I meant to intrude. Igor insisted.”
“I don’t think that.”
“We just happened to be coming. I’ve been looking at curtains for the new apartment and thought I could look just after this.”
Galina looked at the bag. The mustard fabric had a delicate pattern, like little branches.
“They’re beautiful,” she said.
“Really? Igor says they’re too bright. But I want the house to feel light and sunny inside.”
Igor took Regina by the arm and led her to the sofa. They sat down side by side, their shoulders touching, and he rested his hand on her knee, as naturally as putting it on the armrest of a chair.
Galina watched that hand. Then she looked at her own knees. Then back at the painting.
“Eleven birches,” she thought.
The door to the office opened.
“Come in, please,” said Tamara Lvovna.
The office was spacious, with a tall window draped in sheer curtains that let in a soft, diffused light. A massive oak desk stood in the center, with a green-shaded desk lamp and two rows of leather chairs. A framed diploma hung on the wall next to a clock with Roman numerals.
Tamara Lvovna stood up from behind her desk. She was fifty-eight years old, one meter sixty-four tall, with a short gray haircut, glasses on a chain, and a dark jacket. She seemed smaller than Galina remembered, but her gaze was the same: calm and direct.
“Galina Nikolaevna,” she said with a nod. “Igor Sergeevich. And your companion?”
“Regina Andreevna,” said Igor. “My… future wife.”
“Please, take a seat.”
Galina chose the chair by the window. Igor and Regina sat opposite her, across the desk. The notary returned to her seat, opened a folder, and put on her glasses.
“So,” she began, “we’ve prepared the draft agreement at your request, Igor Sergeevich. It covers the division of property and the terms of child support for your minor daughter. I’ll read it aloud, and then you can say if you agree.”
“Of course,” Igor replied.
Tamara Lvovna began to read. Her voice was steady, without emotion, and each word seemed to land on the desk like a playing card. About the car, which would stay with Igor. About the dacha near Zvenigorod. About the savings account to be split evenly. About the child support.
“Item seven,” she read. “Igor Sergeevich is obliged to pay, each month, the sum of twelve thousand rubles for the upkeep of his daughter, Vera Igorevna.”
Regina tilted her head to her shoulder and adjusted a bag of fabric samples. Igor leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Galina noticed that his left sock was a bit lighter than his right. He must have dressed in a hurry, grabbing socks from different pairs.
“Item eight,” said the notary. “The apartment at 9 Lesnaya Street, apartment 44, is to be sold, and the proceeds are to be divided equally between both parties.”
She looked up.
“That’s everything in the draft. Are there any questions?”
“No,” Igor said. “It’s just as we discussed.”
“Galina Nikolaevna?”
“No.”
“Then, before I invite you to sign, I have to ask a standard question in these matters. Igor Sergeevich, do you confirm that all listed assets were acquired jointly during the marriage?”
“Of course.”
“Including the apartment?”
“Including the apartment. We bought it while we were married.”
“And you have not signed any other agreements concerning property ownership?”
“What other agreements?”
“A prenuptial agreement, for example.”
Igor laughed—a short, slightly puzzled chuckle. He glanced at Regina as if to say, do you hear what she’s asking?
“No. What agreement? We lived like everyone else.”
Tamara Lvovna didn’t answer right away. She took off her glasses, wiped them on the edge of her jacket, then put them back on. Next, she pulled a thin gray folder with a white label out of her desk drawer and laid it in front of her.
“Igor Sergeevich,” she said, “there won’t be a division of the apartment. On September 14th, 2011, right here in this office, you signed a marriage contract. According to it, the apartment on Lesnaya belongs solely to Galina Nikolaevna.”
The silence didn’t descend all at once. First, there was the muffled hum from the street, then the ticking of a clock with Roman numerals, and only then could you hear the laughter of the girl with a bun coming from the reception area.
Igor’s smile didn’t disappear, it froze. The corners of his mouth were still there, but his eyes already looked empty, like windows in a house where the lights had been switched off. Regina stopped fiddling with her bag. Her hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping to her lap.
“What?” Igor said.
“The marriage contract. Certified by me. Here’s a copy from the registry; I have the original record book.”
“This is a mistake.”
“No.”
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“You did sign,” said Tamara Lvovna. “Your signature is on the second sheet, the fifth, and the back side too. I personally read the text out loud to you. You said it was just a formality.”
Igor turned to Galina. His face blurred, like someone had just been struck but hadn’t figured out where the blow landed yet.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“All this time?”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed silent?”
“You never asked.”
Regina turned her whole body toward him. The mustard-colored curtain slipped out of the bag and dropped softly to the floor without a sound.
“Igor,” she said quietly, “you told me you owned half the apartment.”
“I do.”
“Igor Sergeevich,” said Tamara Lvovna, “legally, that’s not the case. The apartment was bought in marriage, but the marriage contract changed the rules of ownership. I’m obliged to explain this to you. There’s nothing to divide.”
“But the dacha? The car?”
“The dacha and car remain with you. That’s in the contract. The apartment belongs to Galina Nikolaevna. These were the terms you proposed yourself.”
“I didn’t understand anything then! The bank was pressuring me!”
“You did understand,” the notary replied, her voice calm. “I asked you questions. You answered them.”
Igor stood up. His chair creaked across the parquet. He ran his hand down his face, as if trying to wipe something away, and when his hand dropped, Galina saw his face was ashen—just like it had been on the balcony fourteen years ago.
“This was set up,” he said. “You two conspired.”
“Igor Sergeevich, please sit down.”
“This was set up!”
“Sit down,” Tamara Lvovna repeated softly. “And listen, please. Because there’s a second issue, and it concerns you just as much.”
He sat, his eyes locked on her. Regina looked away. A red spot appeared on her cheek, like the print of a stranger’s hand, even though no one had touched her.
“Point seven of the draft,” said the notary. “Twelve thousand a month. I’m not authorized to certify this agreement.”
“Why?”
“Because according to Article 103 of the Family Code, the amount of alimony agreed upon cannot be lower than what the child would receive by court decision. That’s a quarter of your income for one child. The official statement you attached shows thirty-six thousand a month, but there’s also a copy of your tax return attached. You received additional payments under service contracts. So a quarter of your total income is actually more than twelve thousand.”
“I’ve listed everything I receive!”
“You’ve listed only what was convenient for you.”
Galina listened in disbelief to what was happening. She had been waiting for this moment for fourteen years, even if she hadn’t realized it—waiting for something triumphant, burning, sharp. But now, all she felt inside was a strange silence, as if someone had finally unplugged the humming refrigerator that had always been there in her life.
“I won’t sign,” Igor said.
“That’s your right. But then the court will decide the alimony, and the amount will be set by law. It will be higher.”
“I don’t want to go to court!”
“Then reconsider that clause.”
Igor looked at Regina, searching for support. But Regina had already stood up. She picked the curtain up from the floor, folded it carefully, and put it into a bag. Her movements were precise and slow.
“Regina, wait.”
“You told me you’d have an apartment,” she said. “That we’d move in right away. I’ve already arranged with the landlady to break the lease.”
“We will move.”
“Where to?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Igor,” she said, her voice even, but underneath it trembled like ice over a river, “you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie! I just forgot!”
“You forgot that you signed a document about your own apartment?”
“It was a long time ago!”
“Fourteen years ago,” Tamara Lvovna said. “I remember. September, there was rain, and you had wet shoes.”
Igor looked at her, then at Galina, then at the table where a gray folder with a white label lay. And Galina saw something settle in his eyes, like murky water settling in a glass if you let it stand.
“Galya,” he said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t know how.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
“You wanted to humiliate me.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
She adjusted her coat collar. Her fingers found a scrap of elastic in her pocket and squeezed it.
“I wanted you to remember on your own,” she said. “That’s all. I thought you’d say, ‘Wait, didn’t we sign something? Let’s not do this.’ I waited until the very last minute.”
“You could have called.”
“I held the phone in my hand yesterday. For a whole hour.”
“And then?”
“And then you called first. You said, ‘Thanks for not making this harder.’”
Igor opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he finally sat down, like someone whose legs just gave out, and buried his head in his hands.
“Idiot,” he muttered. “What an idiot I am.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Galina said. “You’re just used to me not complaining.”
She had no idea where that phrase came from. But it came out, and Igor flinched, as if jolted by a voice he’d heard before.
A drizzle was falling outside. Galina was the first to leave, and the stiff door with its strong spring thudded shut behind her like a gunshot. She stopped on the porch and lifted her face to the sky. Raindrops landed on her forehead and eyelids, chilly and light.
Footsteps echoed behind her. Regina appeared, clutching a bag to her chest. Her bob was a bit tousled, the lipstick smudged from her lower lip. She looked younger now. Not thirty-one, more like twenty-five—maybe even less.
“Galina,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“There is. I knew he was married. I won’t lie about that. He told me you two had been strangers for a long time.”
“We were strangers,” Galina said. “I just didn’t notice.”
“I didn’t know about your daughter. Well, actually I did, but he said she was with you, that everything was settled.”
“Settled.”
“But not like that,” Regina said. She paused, biting her lip. “He talked about the apartment a hundred times. That you agreed. That you were kind. But you’re not kind.”
“No.”
“You just know what you want.”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s obvious, that you’re not sure. But you still know.”
Galina looked at her. At the green dress, the wet eyelashes, the fingers clinging tightly to the bag’s handles. She wanted to say something cutting, and she knew she had every right. But the words wouldn’t come.
“Are you going to leave him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not my business.”
“No, it is. You lived with him for twenty years, too.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Even more reason. Tell me honestly. Has he always been like this?”
Galina remembered the kitchen in 2010. Igor in his underwear and t-shirt, cradling their sleepy daughter, singing ‘Sleep, tired toys’ off-key but gently. She remembered him crying at her mother’s funeral, gripping her shoulders, his hands warm and strong. She remembered when he stopped coming home for dinner, started coming home late, stopped looking at her when she spoke.
“No,” she said. “He used to be different. A long time ago.”
“And then?”
“And then he started believing he could do anything.”
Regina nodded. She reached into the bag and pulled out a mustard-colored curtain, smoothed it out on her palm, studying the pattern.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Take it. I don’t need it anymore.”
“I can’t.”
“Please. I’d like it to go to someone who has a window.”
She pressed the curtain into Galina’s hands and walked away, not looking back, down the street toward the metro, heels clicking a little faster than necessary. The green dress flickered among the gray crowd, like the last leaf on a bare branch.
The door slammed behind her again. Igor stepped out onto the porch. He held a briefcase, dangling awkwardly. He noticed Regina was gone, then saw the curtain in Galina’s hands. He stood silently.
“You set this up,” he said. But his voice had lost its strength.
“Igor.”
“Why did you come here? You could’ve gone to any other agency.”
“I wanted us to be heard by someone who knows the whole truth.”
“And who won?”
“No one.”
“You won.”
“No. I just kept what I already had.”
He let out a short laugh and lifted the collar of his jacket. The rain grew heavier, sharp and prickly, drops running down his face, and it was impossible to tell which ones weren’t from the rain.
“I’ll reconsider the child support,” he said.
“Alright.”
“Tell Vera I’ll call her.”
“I will. But it’s better if you do it yourself.”
“She won’t want to.”
“She will. She loves you. That’s the hardest part.”
He nodded, and in that nod there was more than in a hundred words. Then he stepped down from the porch and headed for the parking lot, never looking back. The gray sedan was parked by the curb, its windshield scattered with wet yellow leaves—he didn’t bother brushing them off.
Galina stood under the awning, watching until he was gone. Then she pulled a piece of blue elastic from her pocket, looked at it, and opened her fingers. The elastic fell into a puddle and spread out as a thin dark thread.
The house smelled of buckwheat and fried onions. Vera was making dinner, standing on tiptoe over the pot, glancing anxiously at the door.
“You’re home,” she said.
“I am.”
“Is it done?”
“It’s done.”
“Did he take the apartment?”
Galina took off her coat and hung it on the hook. It smelled damp and of someone else’s perfume, so she left it to air out in the hallway.
“No,” she said.
“Then what happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“Later. Let’s eat first.”
Vera turned off the stove, took out plates, served the buckwheat with sauce, and put cucumbers from grandma on the table. Galina sat down and picked up her fork. The cucumbers crunched, fresh with garlic, the taste sharp and homemade, hitting her palate with realness.
On the windowsill lay a mustard-colored curtain. Galina spread it on her lap and felt the fabric—it was thick, a bit rough, decorated with a pattern of fine branches.
“Where did that come from?” Vera asked.
“It was a gift.”
“From who?”
“A woman who left.”
Vera was quiet for a moment, spearing a piece of onion with her fork.
“Mom, did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you’re not mad at him.”
“I am mad.”
“But not as much as you could be.”
“No. Not that much.”
Her daughter finished eating, cleared the table, and washed the dishes. Then she stopped by the window and, without turning, asked:
“Can I throw out the cactus?”
“Yes, you can.”
“It’s been dead a long time.”
“I know.”
Vera took the pot, dry soil with a little brown ball in the center, and carried it out to the stairwell. She came back a minute later, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“Feel better?” Galina asked.
“A little.”
They stood side by side in the kitchen. Outside, a janitor in an orange vest was still raking wet leaves into a pile. The pile was bigger now, but he wasn’t hurrying.
Galina walked over to the cupboard, took out a white mug with a chipped handle, and poured herself some tea. She sat by the window, turning the mug so the chipped part faced away. The hot ceramic warmed her hands.
Somewhere deep in the apartment, the clock was ticking—running a minute and a half slow. She climbed onto a stool, took it down from the wall, and her fingers automatically found the little wheel on the back. She wound it up. The hands twitched, then started to move.
She hung the clock back on the wall and looked at it. At first, it seemed like it was moving too quickly. Then she realized she’d just gotten used to it being slow.