The clerk called a taxi herself, gave Marina her cardigan to cover the housecoat. The driver didn’t ask any questions, just glanced in the rearview mirror. The address was familiar—the neighborhood where Marina had lived as a child. Five-story buildings, shabby entrances, a playground with rusty swings.
She went up to the third floor and stood in front of the door for a long time, hesitating to ring the bell. Then she rang it. A man opened—tall, gray-haired, in work clothes. He looked at her, and his face twitched. — Marinka, — he breathed out. She remained silent. — Come in, — he stepped back, his voice hoarse.
The apartment was tiny—a studio, clean, smelling of paint. Tools lay on the table, and a homemade shelving unit stood in the corner. Her father led her to the kitchen, sat down opposite her. — You found the passbook, — he said, not asking. — I found it.
He folded his hands on the table—large, with old calluses. Marina remembered those hands: they used to put her on his shoulders when they went to the park. — I didn’t dare show up, — he said in a low voice. — I thought you hated me. Your mother was right—I was drinking back then, losing control. I was a bad person.
— Why didn’t you come back later? — I was afraid. You grew up without me, what would you need me for? I just saved money, thinking—at least the money would be useful. I worked rotational shifts, lived in trailers, saved everything I could. Marina looked at him and didn’t know what she was feeling. Anger? Pity? Relief?
— Mother said you had another family. — There was no one else. Only you. He raised his eyes, and Marina saw they were wet. — You can hate me, Marinka. I deserve it. She was silent. Then she stood up, walked over, and placed a hand on his shoulder. — I don’t hate you.
He covered her hand with his and squeezed it hard, as if afraid to let go. Marina only returned home on the morning of January first. She spent the night in a hotel—her father gave her money, walked her there, and said, “Come whenever you want.”
She bought clothes, proper shoes. Then she went to Vladimir’s. He didn’t open the door right away. He stood on the threshold, disheveled, swollen, in sweatpants. — Ah, it’s you, — he scratched his belly. — Well, come in. Mop the floors, and we’ll call it even, forget about it.
Marina handed him an envelope. — What’s this? — he took it, opened it. Divorce papers, the keys. His face turned gray, then red. — Are you out of your mind? You think anyone will take you? Look at yourself—who needs you, you downtrodden doll!
Marina turned towards the stairs. Vladimir grabbed her arm. — Wait, where are you going?! Twenty years together, I fed you, I clothed you! — I fed myself. — You can’t even buy bread on your salary! You’ll perish in a ditch without me!..
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