Viktoria sat at the table in the cold kitchen, barely heated by the old stove; a cup of long-cold tea stood before her. She silently pushed a folder of papers toward him. He snatched it greedily, opened it. The triumphant smile on his tanned face turned to confusion, then to anger.
Inside was a stack of receipts and bills: medications not covered by the program, for one hundred and fifty thousand; adult diapers for three months for twenty thousand; caregiver services for twelve thousand; calls for private medical help; the funeral and cremation for forty thousand; memorial meals for the ninth and fortieth days for fifteen. In total—almost half a million hryvnias. As well as IOU notes from friends and a credit card statement with growing interest.
“What kind of circus is this?” He threw the folder on the table, and the papers scattered across the floor. “Where’s the inheritance?”
“These are the expenses for your mother’s treatment and funeral.” Viktoria looked at him calmly, not averting her eyes. “I spent all my savings, down to the last penny, and went into debt. You’re her son, you’re obligated to reimburse at least half.”
“You’re insane!” He turned purple, veins bulging on his neck. “I don’t have that kind of money! It’s all tied up in the project, I explained that!”
“You had enough for a forty-thousand jacket.” She nodded at his down coat, gleaming in the dim light from the window. “And for a hotel in Bukovel at twelve thousand a night. Transactions don’t disappear from the banking app, Valera. I saw everything.”
He turned pale under his tan, and his gaze darted around the room—trapped, looking for a way out of the pit he had dug for himself. But a second later, he pulled himself together, straightened his shoulders, and changed his tone to a conciliatory, almost affectionate one.
“Alright, alright. We’ll sort this out, we’ll definitely sort it out. But right now, something else is more important: where’s Mom’s money? You mentioned an inheritance, some millions.”
Viktoria looked at her husband, at his shifting eyes, the greedy curve of his lips, the fingers nervously drumming on the table in impatience, and she understood with absolute clarity: he had no intention of paying a single penny for the treatment and funeral of the woman who had called him son for thirty years. He was only interested in one thing now—how to grab whatever was left for himself.
Viktoria silently took copies of the documents from her bag (the originals were in a bank safe deposit box in Dnipro; she had taken care of that in advance, before his arrival, knowing her husband was capable of any treachery). The court’s adoption decision and the birth certificate lay on the table in front of Valery. She watched as he suspiciously picked up the papers, as he began to read, his lips moving over the more complex phrases, and his face changed: first confusion, then disbelief, then a horror that twisted his features.
“This… what is this?” His voice broke into a squeal. “Is this a fake?”
“It’s a court decision from 1986.” Viktoria spoke evenly, without emotion, looking him straight in the eye. “You were found on the steps of the hospital in Podgorodnoye, in a January blizzard, three days old, with an unhealed umbilical cord. Mom Nastya and Dad Savely adopted you and kept it a secret their whole lives. You are not their biological son. You’re a foundling.”
“You’re lying!” He jumped up, knocking over the stool, which clattered across the floor and hit the leg of the table. “She loved me! She would have told me, she definitely would have told me!”
“She loved you more than a biological son, which is exactly why she kept silent her whole life.” Viktoria didn’t raise her voice, though everything inside her was trembling with tension. “And how did you repay that love? You left her to die in a stranger’s care while you were off with your mistress at resorts and gambling away money?”
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