Vera Nikolaevna started visiting more often. She introduced Elena to other regulars – Lyudmila, Tamara, Zinaida. All were around the same age, widowed or divorced. They would get together, go to the theater, to exhibitions.
“Join us,” Lyudmila suggested. “There’s a retro music concert at the Community Center on Saturday. We’ll reminisce about our youth.”
Elena agreed. She hadn’t been out anywhere in a long time. With Victor, cultural life had ended about ten years ago; he considered it a waste of time. The concert was pleasant. Songs from her youth, the seventies, the eighties. Elena listened to the familiar melodies and felt something inside her begin to thaw. Beside her, her friends sang along, laughed, and shared memories.
After the concert, they went to a café. They talked heart-to-heart. Each had her own difficult story. Lyudmila’s husband left her for a younger woman. Tamara’s husband died at forty-five. Zinaida never married, dedicating her life to her work.
“You know what I’ve realized?” said Tamara. “Happiness isn’t found in men. It’s within ourselves. If you have a passion, friends, a goal—you’re happy. But if all your happiness is in your husband… one moment, he leaves, and that’s it, life is over.”
“That’s right,” Zinaida nodded. “I’ve been single my whole life. I live, I work, I go to the theater. My life is full.”
Elena listened and thought that they were right. All her life, she had built everything around Victor. His schedule, his desires, his mood. She had forgotten about herself. Now she had to remember who she was, what she loved, what she wanted.
At home, she took out an old photo album. Here she was at 20, a student at a pedagogical college. She had dreamed of becoming a teacher. She got married, couldn’t have children, didn’t go to work. She stayed at home for 30 years. But she had dreams. She wanted to draw. To travel. To learn English. She always put it off for later. But now, nothing was stopping her.
Elena took a notebook and wrote: “What I want.” To learn to draw. To visit the next city over. To learn English. To tidy up the garden. To find a hobby. The list was short, but it was a start. Elena smiled. For the first time in months, a genuine smile.
The next day, she signed up for drawing classes at the Community Center. Classes were on Tuesdays and Thursdays, her days off. The teacher, Alina, greeted her warmly.
“It’s never too late to start,” she said. “The main thing is the desire.”
The first lessons were difficult. Her hand wouldn’t obey, the lines were crooked. But Elena didn’t give up. She came home and practiced. By the end of April, she had painted her first still life—apples in a vase. She hung it in the kitchen and felt a sense of pride every time she saw it.
In May, she decided to take a trip. She took a few days off, bought a ticket to the regional capital. She visited museums, took photographs, and felt free and happy. When she returned, she felt a surge of energy. Life goes on. It had started anew, without deceit, without coldness.
One evening in early June, Elena was sitting on the porch with a cup of tea. The air smelled of blooming lilacs; she had planted three bushes in the spring. Maria Ivanovna approached the gate…
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