— Were you married?
— I was. Not for long.
— Want to talk about it?
She shook her head:
— Not really. It’s in the past.
He nodded:
— Got it.
And he didn’t insist. She liked that.
Her grandmother died at the end of October. Peacefully, in her sleep. Kira came for the funeral and cried so hard she couldn’t stop. It was her grandmother who had given her freedom. It was she who believed that her granddaughter deserved more. After the funeral, Kira returned to the city and, for the first time in many months, felt tired. Tired of being strong, tired of proving herself, tired of starting over.
But then she remembered that New Year’s Eve. The look on Zhanna Borisovna’s face when she opened the envelope. The look on Artem’s face when he realized she wasn’t joking. And how she walked out of that apartment without looking back.
Kira took out her phone and texted her friend: “Let’s meet tonight. I want to have a drink to the fact that I finally did it.”
Her friend replied immediately: “Of course, I’m proud of you.”
Kira smiled and thought: yes, she was proud of herself too.
Another six months later, she sold her grandmother’s house. Three million. It was enough for a down payment on a one-room apartment in a new building. Her own. Completely her own. Friends came to the housewarming party. The programmer came too — with a bouquet and a bottle of wine. They sat on the floor, as there was hardly any furniture yet. They laughed, drank, and made plans.
In the early morning, after the guests had left, Kira lay down on her new sofa. Tomorrow she would hang the curtains. The day after, she would buy a table. Small steps, but forward. And before falling asleep, she remembered how Zhanna Borisovna had shouted after her: “You’ll regret this! You’ll come back on your knees!”
Kira smirked in the darkness.
No, she wouldn’t be back.
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