— We know, we know. You’re a good daughter, no matter what.
Polina laughed, for the first time in a long while — easily, without bitterness.
A month and a half later, a message came from Viktor: long, rambling, full of typos. He wrote that he had been an idiot, that his mother had been pressuring him for years and he hadn’t noticed, that he had betrayed the only person who was on his side. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, saying he didn’t deserve it. He just wanted her to know. He understood everything now.
Polina didn’t reply immediately. She thought for a week, weighing everything, remembering. Then she called.
The conversation lasted three hours. Viktor explained: his mother and Ulyana had rented an apartment on Lychakivska Street and were living off the rental income. Ulyana was about to give birth. He had moved in with a friend and barely spoke to his mother, as she still blamed him for his weakness and for betraying the family.
— Polina… — His voice sounded hollow. — Can I come to Odessa? Just to talk.
A long pause.
— Come. But you’ll stay in a hotel. And if your mother ever shows up in my city — the conversation is over forever.
— She won’t. I told her everything I think.
March brought the first spring sun to Odessa and the smell of the sea, cutting through the winter dampness. Polina stood at the window of her new apartment in a new building overlooking the Gulf of Odessa. The down payment was made, and the mortgage seemed ridiculously small after the sale of the three-room apartment in Kharkiv. She watched the ships at anchor in the roadstead.
In the kitchen, Viktor was making dinner. Clumsily, but diligently, getting confused with the spices and asking again how much salt to put in the pasta. He had arrived a month and a half ago for a week — to talk — and had stayed. He found a job at a construction company, proving every day that he had changed.
A photo arrived from Ulyana. She had given birth to a girl, named her Milana. Viktor looked at it, nodded, wrote a short congratulatory message, and put his phone away. His mother hadn’t called. He had blocked her number a month ago.
— Polin, it’s ready! — he shouted from the kitchen, his voice filled with the pride of a man who had done something himself for the first time in his life.
She smiled and walked towards him, past the boxes they still hadn’t unpacked, past the window with a view of the port lights, past everything that was left behind. Sometimes, to start over, you have to burn everything to the ground. Polina had, and from the ashes, something new had grown, still fragile, but alive.
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