Silence. The refrigerator hummed. The street noise came from outside the window. A television was on in a neighboring apartment—muffled, indistinct. Grandma Zina slowly put her cup down on the table. Her face didn’t change: the same dry reserve, the same impenetrability. But Dasha saw it: something flickered in her eyes. Something like fear.
“Where did you get that from?” Her voice was even, too even.
“So it’s true? I asked where. A woman approached me. At the cemetery. She said she was Mom’s sister, a twin. That they were separated as children and given to different families.”
Her grandmother was silent. For a long time, a full minute, or maybe an eternity. Then she slowly stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to Dasha.
“So she found her?” she said quietly. “She finally found her.”
Dasha jumped up from her chair.
“You knew? You knew and kept silent all these years?!”
“Sit down!” her grandmother’s voice became harsh. “Sit down and don’t shout! I’ll explain everything.”
Dasha sat. Her hands were shaking so much that she clasped them together to stop the trembling. Her grandmother returned to the table but didn’t sit. She looked down at her granddaughter, and for the first time in all these years, Dasha saw not dry reserve in her eyes, but pain. Real, living pain.
“I found out about Olya’s sister a year before her wedding to Sasha. By accident. Raya let it slip. She and Olya had a fight over some trifle, and in the heat of the argument…” Her grandmother shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I learned Olya was adopted at age three, and her twin sister was taken by other people. Raya didn’t know where—they weren’t told. That’s how they did things back then. It was considered better for everyone.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone? You didn’t tell Mom?”
“Olya didn’t remember her sister. She didn’t remember anything before she was three. That’s normal for that age. Raya raised her as her own daughter. Gave her all the love, care, education. Why dig up the past? Why cause pain?”
“But that’s her sister! Her own sister!”
“So what?” Her grandmother leaned forward. “What would have changed if Olya had found out? She would have started searching. Wasting energy, nerves, money looking for someone who might not even be alive. Or she would have found her. And then what? A stranger with a different life, different problems, a different fate? It could have destroyed her. Destroyed our family.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make!” Dasha jumped up again, knocking the chair back. “Not yours! It was her life, her truth!”
“I was protecting my son!” Her grandmother’s voice rose for the first time in the entire conversation. “Sasha loved Olya more than life itself. She was his light, his everything. I was afraid. Afraid that if she found out, if she started digging into the past, it would destroy her. And that would destroy him too. So I kept quiet. Yes, I kept quiet. And I’ll keep quiet until the end if I have to.”
They stood facing each other: the old woman and the teenage girl. Two Terekhovas. Two stubborn people.
“You lied,” Dasha said quietly. “You lied to Mom. And to Dad. And to me.”
“I was protecting the family.”
“With lies?”
Her grandmother didn’t answer. She turned away, and her shoulders slumped as if the air had been let out of her all at once.
“This woman. Natalya,” she said finally. “What does she want?”
“She wants to be a part of my life. She said she searched for Mom for twenty years. That she found her too late. That I’m all she has left.”
“And you believe her?”
Dasha thought. Did she believe her? The woman at the cemetery seemed sincere. Her tears were real. Her pain, too.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I want to find out more.”
“Then be careful.” Her grandmother turned around, and something like fear flickered in her eyes. “People are not always who they seem. And they don’t always want what they say they do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just… be careful.”
That evening, Dasha took out the business card and dialed the number. The phone rang. Once, twice, three times.
“Hello?” Natalya’s voice was just as Dasha remembered it: low, slightly hoarse, similar to her mom’s.
“It’s… it’s Dasha. We met at the cemetery.”
A pause. Then an exhale, almost inaudible.
“Dasha, I’ve been waiting for your call. I waited every day.”
“I want to know more. About you. About Mom. About everything.”
“Of course. Of course, I’ll tell you. Can you come to my place? Or we can meet somewhere in the city, whatever is more convenient for you.”
“I…” Dasha hesitated. “Can we meet at a café? There’s one near my school. ‘Three Cups.’ It’s quiet there.”
“Alright. When?”
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