“At a wellness retreat,” Dasha said evenly. “At a hotel spa. In a cabin somewhere. Nature’s good for people. This is a condo with thin walls, noisy neighbors, and a first grader. Not exactly a healing environment.” “We’ve already decided,” Eleanor cut in, dropping her heavy coat right onto the little bench where Nastya usually kept her school backpack. “Susan will stay in the child’s room. It gets good light, and the walls are a soft color. Your daughter can sleep on a folding cot in your room for a while. She’ll survive.”
The microwave in the kitchen beeped as if it, too, objected to the absurdity of the moment. Dasha looked at her husband. Mike was studying the laminate floor with the concentration of a man praying his wife would somehow let this pass.
Dasha and Mike had bought this condo eight years earlier. The down payment had come largely from Dasha’s freelance income. She was a landscape designer, the kind who dug into every project until it was done right, while Mike had spent years drifting through mid-level office jobs trying to “find the right fit.”
They paid the mortgage from a joint account, but Dasha contributed most of it, and she had designed Nastya’s room herself, choosing every paint color and piece of furniture so her daughter would feel safe and happy there. “Nastya keeps her room.” Dasha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight that even the cat, Barsik, who had been napping on the shoe bench, quietly slipped off toward the kitchen.
“I can offer the couch in the living room.” Susan spoke for the first time that evening. Her voice was bright, spoiled, and entirely out of step with the image of a devastated woman.
“Dasha, are you serious?”
