Her father moved forward, but Marina stopped him with her hand. — Get out of here, Vladimir. — Let me in, I just want to see what you’re spending the money on! My money, by the way, I supported you! — I supported myself. You just ate and yelled.
Vladimir swung his arm, but her father caught his hand. He squeezed it tight, and Vladimir winced. — Let go! — Leave, — her father said quietly. — While you still can. Vladimir wrenched his hand free, stepping back to the doorway. — To hell with you both! Rot in here together! He turned and left. Marina closed the door, leaning her back against it.
— You okay? — her father asked. — I’m fine. He looked at her intently, then nodded. — Let’s go finish the shelf. They went back to work. Marina was painting, her father was holding a board. They were silent. Then she said: — Thank you. — For what? — For not leaving for good back then.
Her father put the board down, wiped his hands. — I’m the one who should be thanking you. For not chasing me away. Marina smiled. For the first time in many days—a real smile. The bakery opened in March. It was small, with just four tables and a display case. Marina baked at night—bread, buns, pies. Her father helped in the mornings, delivering orders to the neighbors.
People came. At first out of curiosity, then for the taste. Marina didn’t skimp on ingredients, kneading the dough by hand, just as she had been taught at the bread factory. One morning, a woman with a child came in—young, thin, in a worn-out jacket. She took a long time choosing, then came to the counter.
— Could I have two cabbage pies. Only… I don’t have any money right now. I’ll bring it tomorrow, I promise. Marina took two pies, wrapped them up, and handed them to her. — Take them. And you don’t need to bring money tomorrow. The woman froze. — But I can’t just… — You can. Just come again when you have the chance.
The woman clutched the bag to her chest, her eyes glistening. — Thank you. You have no idea how much this means right now. When she left, her father came up to Marina. — You did the right thing. — I remember what it’s like. In the evening, after the bakery had closed, Marina sat by the window with a cup of tea. Her father was fixing a stool nearby. Outside, the snow was melting, and puddles glistened on the asphalt.
— What are you thinking about? — he asked. — About how strangely everything turned out. — What’s strange about it? — If Vladimir hadn’t kicked me out that night, I wouldn’t have found the passbook. I wouldn’t have found out about you. I would have just kept living with him, thinking that’s how it was supposed to be…
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