December Kharkiv greeted her with frost and lights. A taxi was already waiting at the entrance. And for the first time in four years of marriage, she felt she could breathe freely.
A week later, as Polina was settling into her rented studio in Odessa — small, but her own, with a view of the gray winter sea — her phone rang.
— Polina Timurovna, this is Shcherbakov. We were removing the wallpaper in the storage closet, wanted to re-paper it, and found an envelope behind the baseboard. Money. Forty-seven thousand hryvnias. It says ‘for a rainy day.’ Is it yours?
Polina remembered. Dad’s secret stash. He had put it there when he gave her the apartment. “Just in case, daughter. You never know.” She had completely forgotten.
— Ignat Romanovich, keep it as a thank you for your help.
— I can’t. — The voice on the phone was firm. — Taking what isn’t mine is not how I was raised. I’ll send it by transfer tomorrow.
Polina hung up and smiled. There are still honest people in the world.
Another week later, she had a video call with her parents. Timur Sergeevich and Elena Mikhailovna appeared on the screen, both in their 60s, both retired, in their house in the Kharkiv suburbs, with a cat in the background.
— Polinka, we are so proud of you, — her father said, his voice trembling. — You did the right thing. I bought that apartment so you would have a safety net. And it worked.
— Dad, Mom, I can bring you here. Odessa has good doctors, the sea is nearby, the air is fresh.
Her mother shook her head.
— Honey, we’ve lived here our whole lives. Our friends, neighbors, our dacha. Where would we move in our old age? You come visit us more often. And we’ll visit you in the summer, at the seaside.
— If you need anything, at any moment…
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