He took out his phone, opened the gallery. There were old photos: him with Olga at the book fair where they met. She is laughing, clutching a stack of books to her chest. Their wedding: she in a simple dress, he in a suit, both happy. A trip to the sea three years ago: Olga stands on the shore, wind ruffles her hair, she squints from the sun and smiles.
When did he stop seeing that smile? When did he stop appreciating what he had?
Igor closed the gallery, put the phone on his knees. Sat in the darkening room and thought about how he lost not just a wife. He lost a person who loved him not for money, not for a position, not for status. Simply loved him. The way he was. And he didn’t appreciate it. Took it for granted. And paid the price.
Somewhere outside the window, streetlights came on. The apartment was dark and quiet. Igor sat in the chair and for the first time in many months allowed himself to cry. Not from anger, not from resentment. From shame and the bitter realization that some things cannot be returned, no matter how hard you try.
And at this time, Olga sat on the porch of her house, wrapped in a blanket. A cup of herbal tea steamed in her hands, an open book lay on the bench nearby. The first stars were lighting up in the sky, and inside the house, a light burned — warm, cozy, homey.
She looked at the stars and smiled quietly. Smiled at the new life, new opportunities, new self. The one who wasn’t afraid to be strong. The one who knew her worth. The one whom grandmother Ekaterina Fedorovna once taught this.
“Thank you, Granny,” Olga whispered into the night silence. “For everything. For wisdom, for strength, for believing in me more than I did myself.”
The wind brought the smell of apples from the garden. Somewhere far away a dog barked, someone among the neighbors called children home. The ordinary evening life of a small village. Calm, measured, kind.
Olga finished her tea, got up, went into the house. Closed the door, turned the key in the lock. Her house. Her life. Her rules. And it was wonderful.
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