Evenings at Ilya Kostromin’s house always followed the same routine. First came the dry rustling of store receipts, and then the familiar squeak of a ballpoint pen as the head of the household carefully recorded each expense.
Ilya would settle in at the large oak kitchen table, pull his round desk lamp closer, perch his thin-framed glasses on his nose, and open a hefty household ledger with a thick fabric cover. Next to it, a meticulous pile of receipts from the village shop, collected throughout the day, sat waiting to be recorded.
Varvara had just turned forty-four, her husband was forty-seven. They had celebrated their wedding exactly twenty years ago. Back then, the young bride was twenty-four and her chosen one was twenty-seven. Through all those years, Varvara had gotten used to measuring her life by the amount of money spent, the weight of groceries purchased, and the constant, torturous feeling that she owed her husband something.
“Let’s see,” muttered Ilya, moistening the tip of his mechanical pencil before tracing a nail along the narrow receipt tape. “White loaf – forty-two hryvnias. Rye bread – thirty-eight. Butter… Varvara! Did you buy the one that’s one hundred eighty again?! How many times have I told you to get the spread for ninety-five! In porridge you can’t even tell the difference! That’s eighty-five hryvnias you’ve just thrown away!”
Varvara stood by the heavy cast-iron stove. Her shoulders drooped helplessly, and her thin fingers nervously twisted an old kitchen towel, its original color long faded from countless washes.
“Ilyusha, but they make that spread with palm oil… Remember in spring your liver was hurting? The medic said it’s better to use natural fats…”
“Don’t hide behind the medic!” Ilya roared, slamming his thick fist onto the table so hard the saltshaker bounced. “That medic isn’t going to pay for you at the store! Have you ever earned even a single one of these kopecks?! Brought anything into this house yourself?! Useless freeloader! Penniless orphan! I took you in from the orphanage when all you had was a cheap cotton skirt—no home of your own, nothing! I sheltered you, kept you warm, gave you everything you needed, and now you toss my hard-earned money around like it’s nothing!”
The word ‘orphan’ had long become Ilya’s most effective tool for humiliating his wife. He repeated it almost every day, deliberately hurting Varvara, seeming to derive a special pleasure from reminding her again and again who was the real master in their home and who she supposedly owed her whole existence to.
Varya really had grown up without parents. Her mother died of tuberculosis before the girl turned four. She barely remembered her father. All she knew from scraps of others’ stories was that he had come from far away, and worked as either a geologist or an engineer at northern mineral sites. Even before his daughter was born, the man had gone on yet another expedition and vanished without a trace somewhere in the endless taiga forests.
Varvara spent her childhood in a district orphanage. After finishing trade school, she moved to a village and found work as a librarian’s assistant. The pay was very modest, but at the time, it was the only job available to her.
When Ilya, a strong local guy from a well-off family, asked her to marry him, the village women exchanged surprised glances.
Kostromin was the only son of wealthy parents, owned an auto repair shop and a small sawmill. Neighbors couldn’t stop talking about the orphan’s unexpected good fortune.
“Now that’s what you call luck!” they would say. “Varenka will never be in need now! With a husband like him, it will be like living behind a stone wall!”
But over time, it became clear that the promised stone wall felt more like the high, impenetrable fence of a prison.
Soon after, Ilya’s parents both passed away. Their entire estate was left to their son: the well-run household, a spacious two-story house made of quality timber, various equipment, and a hefty amount of savings.
However, inheriting all this didn’t make Kostromin more generous or calm. On the contrary, alongside this wealth, a sickly, almost spider-like stinginess took hold within him.
Ilya didn’t drink, didn’t vanish off to parties, and never wasted money on other women. Yet he clung to every coin in such despair, as if someone might take away all he had and leave him penniless.
The couple had a daughter, whom they named Masha.
Now their daughter is already nineteen. She’s moved to the city and is in her second year at a teacher’s college.
But even the birth of their child didn’t change Varvara’s situation.
Throughout their marriage, her opinion in the house hardly mattered. Even the money she earned through her own hard work she couldn’t spend independently.
Each month, Varvara received a modest salary at the library—fifteen thousand hryvnias. Every payday, Ilya would unfailingly take every last bit of it.
When it came to herself, she was hardly allowed to buy anything at all.
She’d worn the same old wool coat, long faded and out of shape, for ten years. Her winter boots had been patched and sewn up countless times. And Varvara didn’t even dare mention wanting a new blouse or a simple face cream.
“That’s all nonsense!” her husband would immediately shut down such conversations. “I give you money for soap and laundry detergent. There’s tea in the house and a roof over your head—what more does a penniless girl need? You should be glad I pulled you out of poverty and made you a respectable person! Any other man would’ve kicked you out long ago!”
And so Varvara kept enduring.
First for little Masha’s sake, wanting to preserve a complete family. Later, because of a deep-rooted fear of the unknown future. And also, because she’d grown up in the orphanage feeling like a second-class person, someone who wasn’t entitled to demand anything for herself.
She learned long ago that at other people’s celebrations, her place was always somewhere off to the side.
That’s why she quietly did all the housework. She scrubbed the floors, polished the dishes until they shined, washed the laundry, took care of the animals, and tended a massive vegetable garden that covered forty ares.
And she silently swallowed her tears when, during lunch, her husband would personally count out two slices of bread for her to have with her soup.
“That’s enough for you!” he’d declare sternly. “No need to stuff yourself with bread and get fat. You’re not living like a noble to be wasting so much bread!”
October had settled outside the window.
Heavy, gray skies hung almost constantly over the village. A chilly, miserable northern drizzle spattered down from morning to night, stripping the last yellow and russet leaves from the birch trees.
That Tuesday, Ilya stayed home.
The hoist at the sawmill had broken, so the man of the house was awaiting a welder from the district center.
Kostromin settled in the kitchen. In one hand he held an apple picked up from the ground, in the other an old knife with a greasy handle. He carefully cut away the rotten parts while, by habit, making pointed remarks at his wife.
“Why is the light still on in the entryway?” he grumbled in annoyance. “That bulb’s been burning since morning! That’s forty watts an hour! Are you planning to pay for that electricity yourself? With your little librarian’s wages?! No shame at all—such a freeloader…”
But Ilya never managed to finish his next insult.
From the direction of the gate came the low hum of a car engine.
A moment later, the car door slammed shut.
Within the minute, confident footsteps of a stranger echoed on the wooden porch.
There was a knock at the door.
The knock was short, clear, and strangely businesslike—almost as though the visitor had come straight from the city.
Ilya scowled, put the knife in his pocket, and muttered:
“What kind of fool would show up in this awful mud? Could it finally be the welder?”
He went to the entrance and flung the door wide open.
But on the porch there wasn’t a workman in greasy overalls at all.
Instead, into the dim hallway stepped a tall, impressive man of about fifty. He wore a perfectly pressed dark graphite coat, a luxurious silk scarf at his neck, and elegant titanium-frame glasses perched on his nose.
The stranger held an impressive leather briefcase with a combination lock.
He gave off a faint scent of expensive cologne, real leather, and cool, damp rain.
“Good afternoon,” the visitor greeted calmly, his gaze steady on the homeowner. “Tell me, please—does Varvara Dmitrievna Kostromina live here? Her maiden name was Sokolova.”
“She does,” Ilya replied coldly.
He straightened unconsciously, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway.
— This is my wife. And who exactly are you? If you’ve come for some kind of inspection, you’re wasting your time! Everything here is legal, all my taxes are paid down to the last penny, and every expense is accounted for in documents!
The stranger calmly took a formal business card with a coat of arms out of the inner pocket of his coat.
— I’m not from any inspection agency, — he explained. — My name is Andrey Sergeyevich Voronov. I’m a notary with the metropolitan notarial chamber. I’ve come to see you personally regarding a particularly important inheritance case. May I come in? The upcoming conversation is strictly confidential and concerns your wife directly.
Ilya was momentarily at a loss for words.
The mention of a city notary had an almost hypnotic effect on his greedy nature, so used to measuring everything in money.
He immediately stepped aside to let the guest in.
— Well, come in… Since you’ve come for a real reason. Varya! Do you hear me? Come out here! There’s a man from the city here to see you!
Varvara appeared from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on an old apron as she walked.
Seeing the imposing stranger, she stopped shyly at the door, instinctively pressing her back against the wooden frame.
Her fearful eyes showed the usual expectation of bad news, as if she was about to be blamed for something again or learn of another misfortune.
— Hello… — she murmured, barely audible.
The notary took off his gloves.
His gaze lingered briefly on the modest furnishings of the country kitchen: a table covered with simple oilcloth, a heavy iron stove, and the hostess’s cheap flannel clothes.
Then he slightly bowed his head to Varvara, and in this restrained gesture, there was genuine, deep respect.
— Good afternoon, Varvara Dmitrievna. It took quite some effort to track you down using old guardianship documents that remained in the archives. May I take a seat?
Ilya immediately sprang into action.
He quickly brushed apple crumbs off a chair, pushed it toward the guest, and hurried to sit down across from him.
He craned his neck forward, his small, beady eyes glittering with greedy curiosity.
— Of course, have a seat! Tell us, what’s this important matter about? But let me say right away: my Varya never had any family! She’s an orphan, all alone in the world! And she’s never owned anything, not even a penny to her name! You must be mistaken, comrade notary!
But the visitor seemed not to hear the host’s words at all.
Without granting Ilya even a short reply, Andrey Sergeyevich placed his heavy leather briefcase on the table.
The metal clasps clicked loudly.
The notary opened the briefcase and carefully took out a thick, dark-blue folder bearing an official embossed seal.
— There’s no mistake, — Voronov answered calmly. — Three months ago, on July 6th, Dmitry Vasilyevich Sokolov passed away. Varvara Dmitrievna, this man was your biological father.
Varvara suddenly forgot how to breathe. It was as if everything inside her snapped, like the ground had disappeared from beneath her feet. Her knees went weak, and she barely managed to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling.
“Dad?.. But he… He vanished during the expedition forty years ago… Mom told me the story…”
“Your father didn’t disappear without a trace,” the notary explained gently. “In the early eighties, the geology team he was working with got caught in a terrible avalanche on a remote mountain pass in Siberia. Dmitry Vasilievich survived almost by miracle. He suffered severe injuries and spent two years in a closed hospital. Because of his injuries, he completely lost his memory. Only after a long time did some of his memories start to return. When he was finally able to come back to your hometown, your mother was already gone, and you had been taken away to who knows where. Dmitry Vasilievich kept searching for his daughter until the end of his life, Varvara Dmitrievna. He never stopped looking, right up to his very last days.”
Varvara pressed her hands to her face. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
For so many years, she had believed that nobody in the world needed her. She always felt abandoned, lonely, like a stray weed growing by the roadside. But now she realized there had always been someone out there searching for her, someone who never forgot her and held onto hope of finding her right up until the end.
Meanwhile, Ilya shifted impatiently in his chair. Other people’s emotions clearly didn’t interest him at all.
“Why does it even matter now what happened to his memory!” he interrupted irritably. “The man’s dead, may he rest in peace! But why did you come all this way to see us? What’s this all about? Are you trying to dump his debts on Varya or something? Just a heads up—we’re not planning to pay off anyone else’s loans!”
Andrey Sergeevich looked at him with such icy disdain that Ilya fell silent, cutting his own sentence short.
“Dmitry Vasilievich was involved in more than just geological research,” the notary continued, turning again to Varvara. “In the nineties, he helped found a major mining company in the Polar Urals and became one of its co-founders. He was a truly decent person. He lived modestly, but over the years managed to build up a considerable fortune. Shortly before his death, Dmitry Vasilievich made a sealed will, notarized and official. According to this document, you are his only direct heir. He had no other children or living relatives.”
Ilya froze.
His mouth slowly fell open and his eyes went wide.
“Heir?..” he repeated, struggling to get the words out. “So what exactly did she inherit? Some house in the taiga? A plot of land?”
The notary unfolded an official document stamped with a seal and began to read, enunciating every line clearly:
— According to the last will and testament of Dmitry Vasilyevich Sokolov, the following assets are transferred into the exclusive ownership of Varvara Dmitrievna Kostromina: a three-room apartment spanning 140 square meters in the historic heart of the capital; a country estate in a gated residential community; investment accounts, along with bank deposits held in three state-owned banks. The combined cash amount totals 240 million hryvnias.
The kitchen became so silent, it felt like even the air had frozen in place.
Amid this deafening quiet, the only sound audible was the faint whistle of the old kettle as the water on the stove began to boil.
Ilya turned deathly pale.
His eyes looked like they might pop out of their sockets, and a thick bluish vein bulged on his temple.
Two hundred and forty million hryvnias…
A spacious apartment right in the center of the capital…
A country estate…
For someone used to counting every penny his wife spent on butter, such wealth seemed absolutely unbelievable.
Just the thought of that kind of money made it hard for Kostromin to catch his breath.
Two hundred and forty million!
With that kind of sum, he imagined you could buy the entire district—sawmills, repair shops, river, and even the village council building altogether!
At that moment, the expression on Ilya’s face began to change rapidly.
His usual mocking sneer vanished. The deep dissatisfied lines by his mouth seemed to smooth out on their own.
And suddenly, his small, sharp eyes lit up with a fawning, almost feverish gleam.
“Varusha…” he breathed out.
There was such sticky, cloying affection in his voice, the kind Varvara hadn’t heard from her husband—not even twenty years ago when they’d just married.
Ilya jumped up from his chair, rushed over to his wife, and tried to grab her hands.
“My darling Varenka! My dearest! My goodness, what happiness we’ve been blessed with! Why such grace?! I always knew it! Always said you’re an extraordinary woman, a true treasure! This is our reward for all our honest work! Now we… Now we’ll live like real royalty! We’ll buy Masha a luxurious apartment, start a new business, completely revamp the sawmill!”
He turned to the notary and hurriedly rubbed his sweaty palms together.
“Andrey Sergeevich, please explain how we can get all this sorted? Varvara and I have been officially married for over twenty years! That means the property is ours, marital, right? Hand over the documents, I’ll sign everything as the head of the family! I’ve got my passport, let me get it!”
But the notary didn’t even change his position.
He simply adjusted his glasses slowly, and said in an utterly dry, official tone:
Please return to your seat, Mr. Kostromin. According to Article 36 of the Family Code, any property inherited by one spouse is considered their personal property. It is not included in joint assets and can’t be divided between husband and wife—now or in the case of a possible divorce. Furthermore, Dmitry Vasilievich specified an additional condition in his will: all financial assets belonging to him are to be solely at Varvara Dmitrievna’s personal disposal. No third parties are allowed to manage these assets by power of attorney.
Ilya sucked in a breath and started coughing, as if he’d just been hit on the head.
He slowly sank back down onto his chair.
His chest was rising and falling heavily, and the way he looked at his wife was both greedy and afraid.
“Well… these are just legal technicalities, right, Varenka?” he finally said after a pause. “We’re husband and wife! One family, one unit! We’ve spent twenty years together. I’ve always protected you, taken care of you… You’ll make out a power of attorney for me, won’t you, Varushenka? I’ll handle this money the right way, invest it, and make even more! You don’t really understand financial matters, you are so inex—
He broke off mid-word.
That cursed word—’dowerless’—almost slipped out by habit, just like so many times before.
Ilya swallowed quickly and began speaking again, this time with a pleading tone:
“My darling, you know how hard I’ve always tried for our family’s happiness!”
Varvara stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen.
She looked at the man with whom she’d spent twenty long years.
In front of her was the same burly, physically strong man who had made her live with constant hardship for two decades.
He would reproach his wife even for an extra spoonful of sugar in her tea. He’d count how much cheap margarine she used for cooking. He wouldn’t let her throw away old boots, no matter how worn-out and patched up they were.
And now this man stood before her, his hands trembling, his smile pitiful and fawning.
In his eyes, Varvara saw a real, animal-like fear.
But his fear wasn’t about losing his wife.
He was terrified of losing a fortune that had suddenly appeared within reach, even though none of that money was truly his.
And at that moment, something inside Varvara just broke.
It was as if a heavy iron weight, that had been pressing on her chest for twenty years, suddenly collapsed and shattered.
The fear was gone.
Along with it, the familiar timidity of an orphan girl—raised in an institution and always feeling lesser than others—vanished.
Now, she no longer saw the fearsome head of the family, nor the rock her village peers once admired.
Sitting in the chair was a pitiful, small-minded man, spiritually impoverished and willing to sell his own conscience for a little extra cash.
Varvara straightened up slowly.
She straightened her hunched shoulders and lifted her head.
Her gray eyes were still shining with tears, but now there was a remarkable, calm determination in them.
Ilya had never seen this look in his wife’s eyes—ever, in all their years together.
“No, Ilya,” she said quietly, but her words were crystal clear.
Her husband blinked in confusion.
“What do you mean, ‘no,’ Varyushenka?”
“I’m not going to give you any power of attorney. Actually, I won’t sign a single document in your favor.”
“Do you… Do you even realize what you’re saying?!” Ilya shot to his feet.
For a second, the old household tyrant inside him seemed to awaken. But instead of his usual menacing roar, only a nearly hysterical shriek escaped his throat:
“I am your legal husband! I’ve supported you for twenty whole years!”
“No, Ilya. You didn’t support me,” Varvara replied calmly.
She walked over to the table and, for the first time in ages, looked her husband directly in the eyes—no longer lowering her gaze.
“For twenty years, you tormented me. Every day, you reminded me I had no dowry. You demanded I justify every crumb of bread I ate. You treated me worse than a stray dog. And you did it because you knew there was no one to protect me. I have no parents, no family to turn to—not a soul to complain to.”
“Varya, what are you saying!” Ilya stammered, involuntarily taking a step back. “I didn’t mean any harm! I was only trying to save money for the good of our family!”
“Be quiet,” Varvara commanded firmly.
There was such unexpected authority in her voice that Ilya immediately shut his mouth.
“My father stood up for me. Even after his death, he managed to protect me. That means my tears were finally heard.”
She turned to the guest.
“Andrey Sergeyevich, could you please show me where I should sign to claim my inheritance?”
“Right here, Varvara Dmitrievna,” answered the notary, handing her an expensive fountain pen.
She took the pen and signed the necessary documents.
Her handwriting was steady and confident.
Her hand no longer trembled.
When she finished with the paperwork, Varvara headed to the bedroom.
She opened the closet, took out her old travel bag, and began packing the essentials.
She packed her passport, her diploma, and a few beloved photos of little Mashenka.
Then she carefully added an old silver ring—the only keepsake left from her late mother.
She took nothing else.
Not a single thing Ilya had ever bought with his own money.
Even the faded woolen coat that had served her for ten years remained hanging in its place.
Varvara stepped out into the hallway, pulling a simple warm sweater over her shoulders.
“I’m leaving you, Ilya. I’ll file for divorce through a lawyer in the city. I don’t want this house or any of your possessions. Cling to your money if you want. Tomorrow I’ll buy Masha an apartment in the city and pay for all her tuition until she graduates. I’ll do it myself. And I won’t need your endless household ledgers.”
“Varya!” Ilya howled in a terrifying voice.
He rushed to the front door, trying to block his wife’s way, then suddenly collapsed onto his knees before her, right there on the muddy entryway floor.
“Varusha, my dear, don’t go! I beg you! Forgive me, old fool that I am! Something must have gotten into me! I’ll do anything you want now! I’ll buy you the finest fur coat! I’ll cover you in gold! If you want, I’ll get down on my knees before the whole village and ask for your forgiveness! Please don’t leave me, Varenka! We were married before God!”
He reached out his hands, desperately trying to catch hold of her clothing.
But Varvara calmly stepped over his hands, as if they were nothing more than an ordinary muddy puddle in her path.
“It’s too late, Ilya. For these past twenty years, you called me a pauper and treated me like I was worthless. But the real pauper in our home wasn’t me. It was you all along. And that’s how you’ll stay for the rest of your days.”
She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
By then, the rain had stopped.
Heavy, leaden clouds suddenly parted, and a bright, slanting ray of the cold autumn sun broke through.
The sunlight lit up the birch trees by the fence, making the golden leaves left on the branches shine even brighter.
After the rain, the air felt amazingly clear and fresh, carrying the sharp scent of autumn.
To Varvara, it seemed as if the air smelled like freedom.
And the beginning of a completely new life.
A notary’s car was waiting for her near the gate.
The driver had already gotten out and, with a courteous gesture, opened the rear door for her.
Varvara settled onto the soft seat, carefully placed her hands on her lap, and took a deep breath.
For the first time in twenty years, she was able to breathe freely, filling her lungs without feeling the familiar heaviness inside.
Behind her, on the damp wooden steps of the porch, the master of the big two-story house remained.
Ilya crouched there, gripping his balding head tightly in his hands.
He stared motionlessly after the car as it drove away, his eyes utterly empty, lifeless.
Around him, the wind scattered thin strips of store receipts over the wet boards.
Those very receipts he used to pore over every night, calculating his wife’s expenses down to the last penny.
Now, they lay at his feet.
And nobody needed them anymore.
