— City Hospital No. 3. Intensive care.
— Alright, I’ll come.
She hung up and looked at her parents. They had heard the conversation.
— You’re going? — her father asked.
— Yes.
— Why?
— I don’t know. To get closure, I guess.
Her father grunted.
— Big words. But essentially, you’re right. Go. Just don’t let her hurt you again.
— I won’t, Dad. I’m not the same person anymore.
She arrived at the hospital two hours later. City Hospital No. 3, old buildings, shabby walls, the smell of bleach and medicine. Intensive care on the third floor. They didn’t want to let Marina in, but she insisted. “She asked for me. Please tell the doctor.”
Ten minutes later, she was led into the room. Tamara Nikolaevna lay on the bed, connected to IVs and monitors. Thinner, pale, with sunken cheeks. She looked like an old woman to Marina, although she was only sixty-five.
— You came, — her mother-in-law rustled when she saw her. Her voice was weak, barely audible. — You came. I didn’t think you would.
— Neither did I.
Marina sat on the chair next to the bed. She looked at the woman who had poisoned her life for so many years and felt nothing. No anger, no pity. Emptiness.
— Why did you call me?
Tamara Nikolaevna closed her eyes. Her lips trembled. She wanted to say something.
— What?
— Forgive me.
Marina couldn’t believe her ears.
— What?
— Forgive me for everything. — Her mother-in-law opened her eyes. They were filled with tears. — I was wrong the whole time, from the very beginning.
— Why are you telling me this?
— Because I’m dying. The doctors don’t say it, but I know, I can feel it. — Marina was silent. — I wanted the best for Oleg. I thought I was protecting him from you, from everyone. But in reality… — she coughed. — In reality, I destroyed everything. His life. Yours. My own.
— That’s true.
— I know. Now I know. — She held out her hand, thin, with protruding veins. — Forgive me, Marina. Please.
Marina looked at that hand. The hand that had put a laxative in her juice. The hand that had pointed to the door. The hand that had taken eight years of her life. And she took it.
— I forgive you.
Tamara Nikolaevna began to cry. Quietly, silently. Tears rolled down her cheeks and were lost in her gray hair.
— Thank you, — she whispered. — Thank you.
— I’m not doing this for you, — Marina said. — I’m doing it for myself, to let go.
— I understand. And it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. I haven’t forgotten and I won’t forget. But hatred is too heavy a burden. I don’t want to carry it anymore.
Tamara Nikolaevna nodded.
— You’re strong. You always were. I saw that. And I was afraid.
— Afraid?
Comments are closed.