— Evelina Sergeyevna? — the nurse’s voice was formal. — Your husband asked to convey that he needs some things from home: a change of clothes, toiletries, a phone charger. Can you bring them?
Evelina felt a chill. Just this morning, Timur had said he didn’t want to see her, and now he was asking for help.
— Of course, — she replied after a pause. — I’ll bring them tomorrow morning.
— Thank you. And Klavdiya Gennadyevna also asked for a few things. She dictated a list, I’ll send it to you in a message.
— Okay.
A minute later, the phone beeped with a message. The list was striking in its length and pretentiousness: “Robe (only the silk one, it’s hanging in the master bedroom), slippers with embroidery, nightgown, face cream (the French one, in the gold jar), special shampoo…”
“Master bedroom?” Evelina smirked bitterly. “There’s only one bedroom in our apartment, and it’s definitely not a master.”
The list continued for another dozen items, including “a photo of my little Timur as a child (it’s on the dresser)” and “the Gospel in a red cover for peace of mind.” Evelina put the phone down. She would pack the necessary things for Timur, out of human decency. But fulfilling her mother-in-law’s whims was not part of her plans.
She went back to packing her things: clothes, shoes, cosmetics, jewelry, laptop, work files, an external hard drive with photos, her favorite books, a few souvenirs that were personally dear to her. Her gaze fell on the wedding photo in a frame. Happy faces, a white dress, a bouquet of peonies. Evelina picked up the frame, ran her finger across the glass. Who was that girl in white? A naive dreamer who believed in eternal love? She put the photo back on the shelf. This was no longer her story.
By midnight, the main things were packed. Evelina looked around the living room, checking if she had forgotten anything important. Her gaze stopped on her mother-in-law’s bags, still standing by the stairs. Curiosity got the better of her, and she went closer. The top bag was unzipped. Inside were neatly folded clothes: blouses, skirts, some documents. Evelina noticed the edge of a photo album and, giving in to an impulse, took it out.
Old, yellowed photographs. Klavdiya Gennadyevna in her youth — a slender woman with the same determined expression. A man who looked like Timur, probably his father. And Timur himself: a baby, a schoolboy, a teenager, a student. In one photo, little Timur, about five years old, stood next to his mother, holding her hand tightly. His face expressed such fear, as if he was afraid of being carried away by the wind. And Klavdiya Gennadyevna looked at the camera with a triumphant smile.
Evelina turned a few more pages. Timur in his school uniform with a certificate at graduation. And in every photo, his mother was always there, always with the same expression of proprietary pride. “Poor Timur,” flashed through Evelina’s mind. “He never had a chance to be independent.” This thought brought no malicious glee, only sadness. Perhaps their marriage never stood a chance from the beginning. You can’t build a healthy relationship with a person who has been an extension of his mother his whole life, not a separate individual.
Evelina put the album back and closed the bag. Then she went to her suitcases, checking if everything was ready for the move. For a second, she imagined her mother-in-law’s face when she discovered that her daughter-in-law had disappeared, leaving her and her son alone. Perhaps Klavdiya Gennadyevna would even be happy. She had always dreamed of having Timur’s attention all to herself. Well, now she would get it in full measure.
Evelina’s gaze fell on the wedding photograph. It was time to leave, but something was still bothering her. She picked up the frame again, took out the photo, and put it in her bag. Not out of sentimentality, she just didn’t want this piece of her life to be subjected to Klavdiya Gennadyevna’s mockery.
The phone rang again. This time it was Marianna.
— Where have you been? — her friend asked without preamble. — I’ve been trying to reach you for three days.
— Sorry, — Evelina sighed, — I’m having a bit of a crisis here.
— What happened?
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