A Roof for a Dream

“Olya, why are you staring at your app? Come on, eat already.”
Andrey reached across the table for the bread. Olga didn’t look up from her screen. She scrolled that line again. And again.
“Andrey. Where is the 240,000?”
“What 240,000?” He was chewing, not even looking at her.
“From the ‘Dream’ account. I just checked it. It’s empty.”
He set his fork down. Slowly, like he’d known this talk was coming all along, and had already decided not to rush.
“I sent it to my mom. For the roof. What’s wrong with that?”
Olga finally looked up. Andrey kept his eyes on his plate. Then grabbed his glass of juice and took a sip.
“What’s wrong with that,” she repeated softly. It wasn’t a question—just a way to see if she’d really heard him right.
“Well, the roof has to be fixed. It’s been leaking for three years. You know that.”
“I know. But that was my money.”
“Ours.”
A Roof for a Dream
The word came out sharp, like a snap. Olga put her phone face-down on the table. Then picked it up again. She opened the transfers history. The date. Two days ago. 8 AM, while she was still asleep after her night shift.
“You took the money while I was asleep,” she said.
“I took it from our joint budget,” Andrey corrected her. “Come on. My mom isn’t a stranger.”
“Andrey. I saved for eight months. Working nights. Do you know what a night shift in a pharmacy is like? Standing all night, counting pills, explaining prescriptions. I’d get home at six in the morning and just collapse, still in my uniform. I never spent that money on myself. Eight months. 240,000 rubles.”
“Well, the money would’ve just kept sitting there then.”
“It was sitting there—for our vacation. We agreed: the sea, in September, when it’s quieter.”
Andrey stood up, took his plate to the sink. He turned, leaned back against the counter, arms folded.
“Olya, come on. What vacation? My mom needs the roof fixed. She can’t do it herself. I’m her only son. Do you want her walking around with buckets all winter?”
“I want one thing. For you to ask me first.”
“You wouldn’t have said yes.”
That’s what she remembered. After that, he kept talking—about how the roof mattered more than some tourist trip, how they could always relax in the city, how she’d been moody lately and taking everything wrong. Olga sat looking at the tablecloth. There was a little coffee stain from two weeks back—she’d set her cup down clumsily and laughed, and Andrey hadn’t even glanced away from the TV. She never got the stain out completely.
“Why are you so quiet?” he asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what? The money’s gone for a good cause. You’ll just earn more.”
Olga looked at him. Just looked. Andrey looked a little uncomfortable and tugged at his T-shirt.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Andrey. You haven’t worked for six months.”
“I’m looking for a job.”
“You’ve been looking for six months.”
“That’s how the market is right now. Logistics is tough. You don’t get how it works.”
“I get one thing. I’m working, you’re not. I saved up for a vacation, and you gave what was mine for repairs on your mom’s dacha. And now you tell me I’ll just earn more.”
“Our mom’s. She’s your mother-in-law.”
Olga stood up. Carried her plate away. Turned on the water and started washing. She could feel him standing behind her.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“No. I’m just tired.”
This was the truth. She really was tired. Not because of the argument, but long before this evening.
Eight months ago, she opened an account in the “My Wallet” app and named it “Dream.” It feels a bit funny, maybe, at thirty-eight, but she just wanted to go somewhere. Not anywhere fancy, just to the sea. A small room, early mornings, coffee on the balcony, hearing the waves. She hadn’t been to the sea in seven years. Ever since Andrey started bouncing from one job to the next, moving, renovating—always saying, “later, later.”
Olga really didn’t want to take night shifts at the “Pharma-Plus” pharmacy. She’d worked there for eight years and knew every drawer and shelf, but at night, the pharmacy felt different. The medicine fridge buzzed, a lamp in the far corner flickered—two years of requests to fix it. The nighttime clients were another story: tired, anxious. Once, around 3 a.m., a girl maybe eighteen came in, asking for something for a sore throat, searching forever in her jacket for money. She put the coins in Olga’s hand, one by one. Olga rang up the sale without the full amount, pretending not to notice the shortfall.
The extra pay for nights was seven thousand a month. Olga would withdraw the entire amount right after payday and transfer it to her “Dream” account. Andrey had no idea. He never asked. In six months of his ignorance, she could’ve saved much more if it weren’t for utilities and groceries, which she also covered herself.
Now she stood at the sink, washing dishes.
“Hey,” he said behind her. “We’re a family, right? Aren’t we?”
Olga turned off the water. She dried her hands. Turned around.
“A family,” she said. “When was the last time you bought something for the two of us? Not for your mom. For us.”
He thought about it—a real, genuine pause. You could see it.
“I bought flowers on March 8th.”
“Andrey. That’s my birthday.”
He stayed quiet.
Olga walked into the bedroom and lay down on top of the blanket. The TV in the next room murmured quietly. She stared at the ceiling. Thought about the roof. Tamara Ivanovna spends most of the year—April to October—at her dacha. It’s thirty minutes from the city—a wooden house, a garden, a greenhouse with cucumbers. Olga had only been there three times ever. Her mother-in-law would welcome her politely, feed her, but always said something that made Olga want to leave. Once, she said: “You’re a good housekeeper, Olya, but you should hold the dishes differently, or you’ll break them.” Another time: “Don’t be upset, but you don’t put enough seasoning in your borscht.” Never harsh—just always a little off.
Andrey appeared in the doorway.
“Ol. Are you awake?”
“No.”
“Come on, don’t be mad. I’ll tell Mom to pay you back in the fall. She’ll sell the cucumbers.”
“She won’t pay me back.”
“Why do you say she won’t?”
“Because she just can’t. Her pension is fifteen thousand, and she might get three thousand for the cucumbers. And that’s fine. But this isn’t even about the money.”
“Then what is it about?”
Olga turned to him. He stood in the doorway in his stretched-out T-shirt, looking a little guilty—but not too much.
“You took my money without asking. Because you knew I wouldn’t let you. You just said so yourself.”
“Well…”
“That means you knew I was against it. And you did it anyway. While I slept.”
He scratched his head.
“Well, but mom comes first, you know that.”
“I’m going to bed,” Olga said. “I have a shift at nine tomorrow.”
He lingered in the doorway, then left. Five minutes later, the soft sound of the TV drifted out from the room.
Olga lay there, thinking about a seaside vacation. She closed her eyes and pictured it: the balcony, the water, early morning coffee—absolutely no TV.
She heard the doorbell ring at 8:30. Tamara Ivanovna had arrived.
It was unexpected, though maybe it shouldn’t have been. Tamara Ivanovna brought fresh greens from her garden—a bunch of dill and parsley tied together with string, and three cucumbers in a plastic bag.
“Olya, I’ve brought some cucumbers for you. They’re fresh, just picked today. And some dill—I figured you might be out.”
“Thank you, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“Don’t worry about the money. I told Andrey—we’ll pay you back. Once I’ve sold a few things in the fall, I promise.”
“Please, Tamara Ivanovna, you don’t have to. Have a seat, let’s have some tea.”
They sat down. Olga turned on the kettle. Andrey came out, hugged his mother, and set a cup in front of her. There were three of them at the table now.
Tamara Ivanovna held her cup with both hands and looked at Olga with the soft persistence only she possessed.
“Olga, you’re a smart woman. You understand that a family budget is something shared—not yours, not his, but everyone’s. With Vasya—may he rest in peace—that’s how it was. Everything put together, everything shared. No one kept count.”
“Dad worked,” Andrey said, without irony. He just said it.
Tamara Ivanovna didn’t react.
“The roof leaked for three years, Olga. Three years. You’ve seen my bedroom ceiling, right? There’s a huge stain now. I had to use a basin.”
“I’ve seen it,” Olga replied.
“Exactly. And this isn’t just anyone’s cottage, it’s Andrey’s inheritance too. And really, yours as well.”
“Tamara Ivanovna, I’ve been saving for eight months. For a vacation. That’s a specific amount for a specific reason.”
“You’ll go on vacation next year.”
Olga picked up her cup. Set it down.
“Next year I’ll be saving again, and something else will come up. Isn’t that right?”
“Olya,” Tamara Ivanovna put her hands together on the table. “You’re a good person and I love you like a daughter—truly. But a family is about being together and helping out. Today it’s you, tomorrow it’s us.”
“When exactly will it be ‘tomorrow it’s us’?” Olga asked evenly.
Silence.
Andrey cleared his throat.
“Come on, Mom, that’s enough.”
“Enough? Olga’s a grown woman, she’ll understand. I’m talking about family values. A normal family doesn’t nickel-and-dime everything.”
“In a normal family, the husband works,” Olga said.
She hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out.
Silence fell. Tamara Ivanovna took her hands off the table. Andrey looked away.
“Olga,” her mother-in-law began.
“Tamara Ivanovna, don’t be upset. I’m just tired. I have to get up early tomorrow.”
They sat in silence a little longer. The greens lay on the table between them, the cucumbers in the bag. The dill smelled strong and fresh. Olga looked at it and thought about how her fridge was empty, how she’d have to get groceries tomorrow, and that she’d pay for everything herself—just like she had for the past six months while Andrey ‘looked for logistics jobs’.
Tamara Ivanovna left at 9:30. When the door closed, Andrey said:
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about work. In front of mom.”
Olga didn’t say anything. She went to wash the cups. The only thing on her mind: did she really not know how things worked a year ago? She did. She just believed it was temporary. That he would find something. That things would settle down. But half a year—this isn’t temporary anymore.
She went to bed late. By then, Andrey was already asleep. Lying next to him, Olga wondered: what if I’m the only one earning here—is that forever now? And everyone just keeps quiet about it?
There was a tiny crack in the ceiling. Olga had never noticed it before.
***
Larisa picked up after the third ring. Olga called during her lunch break, stepped out behind the pharmacy, and stood by the wall where it wasn’t drafty.
“Hello, Olga? What’s going on?”
“Nothing happened. Everything’s okay.”
“Doesn’t sound like it from your voice.”
“He spent the money,” Olga said. “Two hundred forty thousand. Transferred it to his mom for the roof. While I was sleeping after my night shift.”
Silence.
“Olga.”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious, Olga?”
“I am.”
“And what does he say?”
“That his mom isn’t a stranger. That the roof matters more than a vacation. That I’ll earn more.”
“Wait.” Larisa’s voice changed—calm and sharp, the way she always spoke when she was really angry. “He’s been out of work for six months and tells you ‘you’ll earn more.'”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday, I heard his mom saying that in a normal family, money is shared.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
“Olga. You need to leave.”
“Larisa.”
“I’m serious. Leave. This isn’t the first time, is it?”
Olga leaned against the wall. People walked by on the street, someone was struggling with a stroller, and across the road a man unloaded cardboard boxes outside a shop.
“It’s not the first,” she admitted.
“What happened before?”
“Well… two years ago, he took money from our joint savings for a ‘Vectra.’ Said the car was for work. I agreed. The car is under my name, but he pretty much uses it all the time.”
“You give him the keys every day?”
“Every day.”
“Olga, my dear. Leave. As long as you’re there, he’ll keep taking. Because he can. You earn, you put up with it, you forgive—and he takes. This isn’t a family anymore, it’s you servicing him. Can’t you see that?”
“I see it. But I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m thirty-eight. Alone. Where would I go?”
“Come to me. Or to Nadezhda. You said she offered.”
“Nadya’s already older.”
“She’s sixty, not ninety. And a widow. She wouldn’t mind some company.”
Olga looked out at the street. The man with the boxes finished, sat on the curb, and took out a sandwich.
“Larisa. How did you feel after the divorce? Did you ever regret it?”
“The first year, I did. But not after that. Now Vitya’s turned into a pretty good guy. And I have control of my own life. Honestly, sometimes I sit in the evening, it’s quiet, just the TV on, and I think: how nice that there’s nobody saying ‘come eat,’ or ‘you wasted money again.'”
“That’s what he said too. ‘Come eat.'”
“Olga.”
“Yes.”
“Are you hearing me?”
“I hear you.”
“Alright. I can transfer you some money if you need it. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Don’t, Larisa.”
“Rent a place. Even a studio. How much is it where you are?”
“Eighteen thousand for a small one.”
“You can handle it on your own.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Olga didn’t have an answer for that. She just stood there, holding her phone, looking out at the street. The man finished his sandwich and stood up.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Think quick. He could easily transfer money somewhere else in the next eight months too.”
“Larisa. You’re right, I know. It’s just…”
“It’s just a pity,” Larisa said quietly. “It’s a shame he isn’t the man he seemed to be. It’s a shame about the years. It’s a shame that nothing is as it should be. I know, Olya. Everything you’re saying is true, and it hurts. But the money is already gone. If you stay, more will disappear.”
Olga squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’ll call you back tonight.”
She called back at ten. Andrey hadn’t come home since seven. He only sent a message: “At Seryoga’s, don’t wait up.” Olga ate dinner alone, washed the dishes, then sat in the kitchen with a mug of tea, staring out the window at the dark yard. The Vectra was parked under the streetlamp. Olga drove it to work when she had night shifts. She paid for the insurance herself. She took care of the inspections herself. The car was registered to her – when they bought it, Andrey had some paperwork issues, so they put it in her name. Andrey used it to drive himself to his friends and to his mother’s place.
Today at lunch, Zinaida from the pharmacy talked about her niece. The niece lives alone, rents a room, doesn’t earn much, but she’s happy. “She’s independent,” Zinaida said. “Nobody nags her, nobody gets in her head.”
Olga stayed silent then. She just chewed her sandwich.
Tamara Ivanovna called at eight in the evening.
“Olya, you’re not upset, are you?”
“No, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“Good. And don’t put pressure on Andrey either. He’s looking for work right now, it’s not easy for him. You can’t nag a man, they’ll break under that.”
“Alright, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“That’s my good girl. I’ll bring you some more cucumbers next week. And soon there will be tomatoes, too.”
“Thank you.”
“Alright then. Love you.”
Olga put the phone on the table. Picked it up. Set it down again. Got up. Sat back down.
There was something she kept turning over in her mind. A family budget and a husband—it’s supposed to be the two of you investing together. It’s supposed to be both of you thinking together. Not one taking without asking while the other is asleep. The mother-in-law asks for money and gets it. The husband hasn’t had a job in six months and always says the market is tough. And she spends the nights at the store counter, explaining prescriptions to customers, and all that money ends up everywhere but where she wants it to.
She hadn’t seen the sea in seven years.
She called Larisa.
“Larisa, I’m going to send you some money.”
“What money, Olya? There isn’t any.”
“I’m sending you money for rent. For next month. Twenty thousand or so.”
“Why would I need money for rent?”
“Not rent for you. It means I’m leaving. I won’t be able to pay rent here because that money will be going to another apartment. It’s just a gesture. Do you understand?”
Larisa was silent for a moment.
“I get it. Have you found a place?”
“Not yet. I’ll go see a studio tomorrow. Eighteen thousand. It’s almost right by work.”
“Olya.”
“Yes.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Don’t be happy just yet. I might not be able to do it.”
“You will. You’ve already made the decision, even if you haven’t realized it yet.”
Olga put her phone away. The yard outside the window was still dark. The car was under the streetlight. The keys hung on a hook by the door.
The next day, after her shift, she went to see the studio. It was small, third floor, with a view of the neighboring roof. The landlord, Lyubov Petrovna, sixty-eight, neat and soft-spoken, showed her around without unnecessary chatter. Fridge, stove, sofa bed, table by the window.
“It’s quiet here,” Olga said.
“Very quiet,” confirmed Lyubov Petrovna. “The last tenant lived here three years. She was a good one. Got married and moved away.”
“And where do you live?”
— I’m just one floor below. If you need anything, just knock. I won’t be a bother.
Olga touched the windowsill. It was wide—wide enough to sit on.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
When she got home, Olga didn’t wait for the evening. Andrey arrived at three in the afternoon, stretched out on the couch with his phone. Olga walked in and stood by the couch.
“Andrey. I’m renting another apartment. I’m leaving.”
He lifted his head, staring at her for a few seconds as if trying to figure out whether she was joking.
“What do you mean, ‘leaving’?”
“Just what I said. I’m renting a studio. I’m moving out.”
“Is this about the money?”
“It’s about everything.”
He sat up.
“Olya. Are you serious? Over two hundred and forty thousand?”
“Over a year and a half, Andrey. You haven’t worked for six months—that’s just the last straw. Before that, I was keeping track, too.”
“Keeping track of what?”
“Who pays the rent. Who buys the groceries. Who pays for the car. Who works night shifts. That’s what I was counting.”
He got up from the couch and started pacing around the room.
“That’s not how it works. Families don’t keep track like that.”
“You’re right. They don’t, when both contribute. But when it’s just one person—they keep track, whether they want to or not.”
“Olya, did you call someone? Did you talk to Larka?”
“I talked to her.”
“She put ideas in your head. She always…”
“Andrey. You took my money while I was asleep.” Olga’s voice was steady. “That wasn’t something Larisa made up. That was you.”
“Because my mother needed help!”
“And I didn’t?”
He stopped and looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I needed help for eight months. While I worked nights. While I got up at six in the morning. While I paid for us both. I needed help, Andrey. Not even money—just someone saying: Olya, you’re doing great, I see how hard you’re working. But that never happened.”
“But I…”
“What?”
He was silent.
“I’m going to start packing,” Olga said. “I’ll take what I need today, the rest later.”
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand—not roughly, just held it. “Olya. Don’t do this. Let’s talk.”
“We’ve been talking for three days. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going to stay tonight? When do you get the keys?”
“I already picked up the keys to the studio.”
“That was fast.”
“Yes. Fast.”
He let go of her hand. Olga went into the bedroom and took out her backpack. She packed her papers: car ownership certificate, health insurance, her employment record—it was kept at home, not at work—her passport, a change of clothes, essentials, and her charger.
Andrey stood in the bedroom doorway.
“Will you leave the Vectra keys?”
Olga zipped up her backpack and took her jacket from the rack.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? I need to get to my mother’s.”
“The bus runs every twenty minutes. Route seven.”
“Olya.”
“Andrey. The car is in my name. I pay the insurance. I’ll leave it where it’s safe.”
“But it’s basically my transportation.”
“Basically—it’s not.”
She walked past him into the hallway, put on her jacket, put the car keys in her pocket. She took the apartment keys off the hook, held them for a moment, then left them on the cabinet by the door.
“Olya,” he followed her out. “You’ll come back, right?”
She picked up her backpack.
“I’ll call about the rest of my things.”
“Olya.”
Olga opened the door. The hallway smelled like someone’s dinner. Upstairs, a child was running across the floor.
She stepped outside. The door closed behind her with its usual click.
Nadezhda answered the door just a minute after the bell rang, as if she’d been waiting right there. Sixty years old, with a round, calm face and a floral robe. She glanced at the backpack, at Olga, but didn’t ask a single question. She simply stepped aside:
“Come in. The tea’s hot.”
***
A month just seemed to pass on its own.
At first, waking up to real silence felt strange. Not the kind of silence with a neighbor’s TV and someone coughing behind the wall, but actual quiet. In the studio, the only sounds in the morning were birds outside the window and sometimes the slow, careful steps of Lyubov Petrovna downstairs.
Olga put a small pot of geraniums on her windowsill. She bought it herself, with change left after grocery shopping. Pink geranium, just three rubles, but it brought joy.
Each morning, she woke up without an alarm. She made coffee. If the sun was out, she’d sit on her windowsill. It wasn’t the sea, but it was her own time. No one told her, “Go eat.” Nobody waited for dinner at seven or asked why she was late.
At work, Zinaida never asked anything directly—just one day, when the two of them were adding up an invoice, she said:
“You seem lighter. I mean—not heavy.”
“I changed a few things,” Olga replied.
“It shows.”
They never brought it up again. Zinaida just understood things.
Two weeks later, Olga opened a new account in the “My Wallet” app. She spent a while thinking of a name. Finally, she called it “Swallow.” She put five hundred rubles in there. It was a small amount, but she saw that number and, for some reason, smiled. Starting over. But it was honest.
One evening, Lyubov Petrovna knocked—she brought over a jar of homemade gooseberry jam. They sat for about twenty minutes in Olga’s kitchen, having tea.
“Have you lived alone a long time?” Olga asked.
“It’s been eight years now. My husband died young,” Lyubov Petrovna replied simply, without sadness. “The first two years, I thought I’d never get used to it. But after a while, it was fine. I even started to like it, you know.”
“Isn’t it scary?”
“No, not really. What’s there to be afraid of? I go to my clubs. Knitting, and sometimes we go to the theater as a group. In the evenings—silence. I think that’s better than always having to do something for someone.”
“Do something for someone?” Olga asked, even though she understood.
“Yes—explaining. Justifying yourself. Adjusting all the time.” Lyubov Petrovna took some jam with her spoon. “Of course, I don’t know your situation.”
“You know enough,” Olga said.
They sat in silence.
“You did the right thing,” Lyubov Petrovna said. Not as a judgment, just a simple statement.
Meanwhile, half an hour outside the city, in the dacha with the new roof, life was different.
Andrey arrived on the third day after Olga left. He hadn’t called ahead, just showed up with a bag. Tamara Ivanovna opened the door, glanced at his bag, at her son’s face, and let him in.
“I’ll stay here for a while,” he said.
“Stay.”
She fed him. Gave him bedding for the small room. She couldn’t sleep that night, listening to him tossing and turning.
In the morning, he sat in the kitchen unshaven, drinking tea and staring out at the vegetable garden.
“She’ll come back,” he said—to himself, not his mother.
Tamara Ivanovna was peeling potatoes. She said nothing.
“Mom. Do you think she’ll come back?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you talked to her.”
“I talked to her,” Tamara Ivanovna said as she dropped potatoes into the pot. “Olya is a strong-willed woman. If she makes up her mind, that’s it.”
“Is all this really about money?”
“Andryush,” she turned to him, “it’s not about the money.”
“Then what is it about?”
She was silent for a moment as she placed the pot on the stove.
“You haven’t worked for six months,” she finally said.
“I’m looking.”
“Looking, sure.” Tamara Ivanovna wiped her hands. “Son, I see how you’re ‘looking’ — on your phone, with Seryoga, or lying on the couch.”
“Mom.”
“I’m not nagging. Just saying.”
He didn’t answer. He went outside to the garden, stood there for a while, then came back in. Tamara Ivanovna watched him through the window. He stood by the greenhouse, hands in his pockets, staring uninterested at the garden beds.
She sighed and went to stir the soup.
In the third week, he called Olga. She answered the phone.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Did you want something?”
“To talk. Olya, maybe we can meet up?”
“Why?”
“Well… to talk. You haven’t filed for divorce yet.”
“Not yet.”
“So you haven’t made your decision for good?”
“I just haven’t rushed to do the paperwork. Doesn’t mean I’m coming back.”
“Olya.”
“Andrey. How are you doing? What are you up to?”
“Living with my mom. Looking for work.”
“Good. Hope you find something.”
“You…” He paused. “Olga. I’m not doing so great without you.”
“That will pass.”
“Olya.”
“Andrey, I have to go. My shift’s starting.”
She ended the call and stood for a moment by the pharmacy door. The street was warm; September hadn’t turned cold yet. She thought that maybe in a year, she’d save something on her “Lastochka” card. Not two hundred forty — that was too big a dream. But something. Fifty thousand would be enough for a little trip. Not two weeks — maybe ten days. But there would be the sea.
She went into the pharmacy.
Zinaida was sorting the morning delivery.
“I’m not late, am I?”
“Right on time,” Olga said. “Let me help you.”
The work felt comfortable, familiar, like an old jacket. Olga knew every drawer here. She knew the second register always jammed a bit with receipts. She knew Zinaida always took her thermos of soup at lunch, and Marina from the first shift only drank instant coffee and never offered it to others. It was a small world, her own.
Around noon, Larisa called her.
“So, how’s it going over there?”
“It’s fine.”
“Been a month already in your new place?”
“A little over a month.”
“Do you regret it?”
Olga stepped outside for five minutes.
“No,” she said. “You know what’s strange? I thought it would feel empty. But it doesn’t.”
“Because now you’re truly on your own.”
“Lar, he called. Says he’s not doing well without me.”
“I believe it. So, who’s paying now?”
“Larisa.”
“Well, it’s true. Olga, don’t listen to that. You know how this goes. While life is uncomfortable without you, he’ll miss you. As soon as it gets easy again, things will just go back to how they were.”
“I understand.”
“So you’re not going back?”
“No.”
“Good. By the way, Vitka says hi.”
“Thank him. How’s he doing?”
“He finally got a job. As a storekeeper for now, but at least it’s something.”
“Lar, see? It’s possible — you just go out and get a job.”
“Don’t compare — he’s twenty-three.”
“You can get a job even at forty.”
Larisa laughed.
“You can. If you really want to.”
Olga went back into the pharmacy. There were still three hours left until the end of her shift.
At the dacha, Tamara Ivanovna was talking to Andrey about job ads. He nodded, scrolling through his phone. The next week, on Tuesday, he finally went into the city. He arrived at ‘Produkt-Opt,’ a big warehouse on the outskirts, where they were looking for a packer. The interview was brief.
“Experience?”
“Worked in logistics. Invoices, inventory.”
“We need a packer. Are you fit for physical work?”
“I’m ready.”
He was hired. First day was set for Wednesday.
He took the bus back to the dacha. It was a long ride, passing through three districts. He stared out the window, watching the city roll by—the city he’d driven around for eight years in his Vectra.
His car was now parked in a lot next to the “Pharma-Plus” pharmacy. Olga was paying for the parking spot every month.
On Wednesday, Andrey started his first shift. At five in the morning. He got up at four, ate whatever was there—Tamara Ivanovna had left some porridge in a pot, covered with a lid. He ate it cold. Got dressed. Stepped out into the darkness.
His first day at the warehouse was tough. Boxes, shelves, tape, scales. By evening, his legs were numb. He came back at eight at night, quietly took off his shoes in the hallway, left them by the door, and walked into the kitchen.
“Should I heat up some soup?” Tamara Ivanovna asked.
“Go ahead, heat it.”
She put the pot on the stove and stood there stirring, her back to him.
“So, how was it?”
“It was alright,” he said. “Tough.”
“Work is work.”
“I’m pretty much the only one there with a college degree.”
“That doesn’t get in the way.”
He stayed quiet.
“Mom. Do you think it’s my fault?”
Tamara Ivanovna poured the soup. Set a bowl in front of him, placed some bread next to it.
“Eat.”
“Come on, Mom. Answer me.”
She sat down across from him, folded her hands on the table, and looked at him—long and without rushing.
“Andrey. There’s one thing I keep thinking about.”
“About what?”
“Olga saved up for eight months. Working nights.”
“Yeah.”
“I never really thought about it before—that she worked nights. Then you sent me that money and I was happy: the roof, thank God, everything’s fine. But then I realized.” Tamara Ivanovna shook her head. “She was working nights, my son. And I took that money and never thought about where it came from.”
“Mom. You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know. But you knew and you didn’t tell me.”
He started eating, slowly.
“Are you going to call her?” he asked.
“I already did.”
“And?”
“She answered. We talked. She was polite.” Tamara Ivanovna stood up and walked to the sink. “That’s it, just polite. She used to talk differently.”
“How differently?”
“Warmer.” She turned on the water. “Did you notice when she started being just polite?”
Andrey finished his soup. He didn’t reply.
“Maybe I’ll call her again,” Tamara Ivanovna said. “Say…I don’t know what. That I understand.”
“She’s not going to come back just because you call.”
“I know. That’s not why. I just… need to say it.”
He pushed his bowl aside.
“Pour me some more.”
She refilled his bowl.
Outside, night was falling fast. September. The garden was no longer green like last month, but rusty and quiet. The greenhouse was empty. The new roof reflected the last bit of light.
Tamara Ivanovna was washing the dishes, her mind wandering to Olga. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one moment. Last winter, Olga had come to visit after a night shift—she was pale, her eyes red. She set the kettle on, wanted to lie down, but since her mother-in-law was visiting, Olga came over, sat at the table, nodded and listened. Tamara Ivanovna had started telling a long story about her neighbor at the dacha, detailing every little bit. Olga sat there, nodding, listening quietly. Then she apologized and went to bed. Back then, Tamara Ivanovna felt a bit hurt—after all, she was a guest. But now, thinking about it, she realized Olga had just come from a night shift. Eight hours on her feet, yet she still sat and listened.
The dishes were done. She left them to dry.
“Andryush,” she called out.
“What?”
“You left your shoes by the door.”
“Put them away for me, Mom. I’m tired.”
Tamara Ivanovna walked into the hallway, picked up the shoes, put them on the shelf. Then she went back and grabbed the back of a chair.
“I put them away,” she said.
He didn’t reply. He was looking at his phone.
She stood there for a moment. Then she went to her room.
***
The studio felt cozy that evening.
Olga came in after her shift and set the kettle on. While it was boiling, she changed into something comfortable, stretched, and rolled her shoulders. The sun was setting outside the window. On the windowsill, a pink geranium sat, glowing almost red in the golden light.
Olga picked up her phone and opened the ‘My Wallet’ app. The ‘Lastochka’ account.
Eight thousand rubles.
She looked at the number. Not much. Really not much. But there was no one she had to report it to. No one would stay awake or send money to her mother for the roof. These were her eight thousand.
She poured herself some tea. Picked up her phone again and called Larisa.
“Hello! Olya, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just felt like calling.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Larisa laughed. “You usually call when something’s up.”
“No, really. It’s just a nice evening. I’m sitting here, drinking tea.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. It actually feels good to be alone.”
“See, I told you.”
“You did,” Olga smiled. “Lar, I already have eight thousand in my ‘Lastochka’ account.”
“Wow. In a month?”
“It’s not much—really, it’s nothing.”
“It’s a start. Remember how ‘Mechta’ started?”
“With five hundred.”
“There you go.” Larisa paused. “Olya, do you remember how a year ago you said you were saving up for a trip to the sea?”
“I remember.”
“You described it so well. The balcony, morning coffee, listening to the water.”
“Yes.”
“Will you go next year?”
“I will.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. Why not?”
Larisa laughed.
“That’s the spirit. You’ll have to get me a souvenir magnet.”
“I’ll get you two.”
It got darker outside. Olga sipped her tea and chatted with her sister. The studio was quiet and warm. The geranium on the windowsill sat perfectly still.
***
Meanwhile, at the dacha thirty minutes from the city, Tamara Ivanovna reheated a pot of pasta. Andrey came home at nine, tired and silent. He dropped his shoes by the door—she put them away again, didn’t say a word. He sat at the table and waited.
“It’s only pasta tonight,” she told him. “I was too late to buy anything else.”
“That’s fine.”
She brought him a plate. He started eating.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Who do you think is to blame here?”
Tamara Ivanovna wiped her hands on a towel. Stood by the stove for a moment. Then she turned around.
“Who could be to blame, son?”
Andrey chewed, staring down at his plate.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
“I don’t know either,” said Tamara Ivanovna.
She left the kitchen. It was dark outside. The new roof above their heads didn’t creak.
Andrei finished his pasta. He put his plate in the sink and stood for a moment. Then he went to bed.