“I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. I didn’t check. I didn’t care. I only saw a threat to my family and wanted to eliminate it. Maybe she really was sick. Maybe she made it up to evoke pity and get money. I didn’t bother to find out.”
“But if she was sick… if she really needed help…” Dasha trailed off. “Wait. She said she would die within a year without surgery. But three years have passed, and she’s alive. So either she lied about the illness, or she found the money somewhere else, or she was cured some other way. Or the illness went into remission. Or it never existed.”
They fell silent. Dasha tried to piece the puzzle together, but the pieces didn’t fit. Too many contradictions. Too many questions.
“I’m not trying to justify myself,” her father said quietly. “What I did is unforgivable. I should have told your mother the truth. I should have given her a choice. Instead, I decided for her. And now I live with that every day. But I want you to be careful with Natalya. She’s not who she seems.”
“And which of you is who you seem?” Dasha stood up. Her legs were weak, but she forced herself to stand straight. “You’ve been lying to me and Mom for years. Natalya says one thing, you say another. Grandma Zina is hiding something too. I don’t believe any of you anymore.”
“Dasha…”
“I need to be alone.”
She left the kitchen, walked down the hall, went into her room, and closed the door. She leaned against it and slowly slid to the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks—hot, angry. She cried silently, as she had learned to do over these two years. Only now she wasn’t crying for her mother. She was crying for everything at once. For lost illusions. For a family that turned out to be built on lies. For the truth that slipped away like water through her fingers.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from an unknown number. Dasha wiped her eyes and looked at the screen.
“Dasha, it’s Natalya. I’m sorry to text so late. But I need to tell you something. Something important. Something I couldn’t say at the café. Can you come over tomorrow? Please. It’s about your mother and your father.”
She reread the message three times. Your father. Natalya knew more about her father than she had let on. She knew and had kept silent. Just like everyone else.
Dasha typed a reply with trembling fingers: “I’ll come at noon. But first, answer one question. You said you found information about Mom six months ago. But my father claims you came to our house three years ago. Who is lying?”
She sent it. And waited. A minute passed. Two. Five. No reply.
Dasha turned off her phone, lay on her bed, and stared at the ceiling. It was getting dark outside. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained gray, hopeless. One of them was lying. Her father or Natalya. Or maybe both. Tomorrow, she would find out the truth. No matter how terrible it was.
That night, she dreamed of her mother. They were sitting in the kitchen—the old one, from Dasha’s childhood, with the yellow curtains and funny magnets on the fridge. Her mother was smiling and pouring tea into a big mug with a cat painted on it.
“Did you know?” Dasha asked in the dream. “Did you know you had a sister?”
Her mother shook her head.
“No, sweetheart. I didn’t. But that’s not what’s important.”
“How is it not important?”
“What’s important is what you know now. And what you’ll do with that knowledge.”
“I don’t understand. Everyone is lying to me. Dad, Natalya, Grandma. How do I find out the truth?”
Her mother leaned closer. And Dasha smelled the familiar scent of floral perfume that she loved so much.
“Don’t look at words,” her mother whispered. “Look at actions. Words are easy to fake. Actions are not.”
Dasha woke up in tears. Dawn was breaking outside. She looked at the clock: six in the morning. Six more hours until her meeting with Natalya. Her phone was on the nightstand. She turned it on and saw an unread message from Natalya. It had arrived at three in the morning.
“Come. I’ll explain everything. But only in person. Not over the phone. It’s too important.”
No confirmation, no denial. Just a promise to explain.
Dasha got up, washed her face, and looked at herself in the mirror. A pale face, red eyes, tangled hair. She looked ten years older than her fourteen. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Her father must have been up all night. Dasha didn’t want to see him. But the path to the bathroom led past the kitchen. She walked quickly, staring straight ahead.
“Dasha,” he called.
She didn’t stop.
“Dasha, please. Be careful today.”
She froze at the bathroom door. And turned around. Her father was standing in the kitchen doorway, disheveled, unshaven, with a cup of coffee in his hands. He looked broken. Defeated.
“I texted her yesterday,” Dasha said coldly. “I asked about three years ago.”
“She didn’t answer the question?”
“She just wrote: ‘Come, I’ll explain everything.'”
Something flickered in her father’s eyes. Relief? Fear? She couldn’t tell.
“That means she has something to hide,” he said.
“Or she wants to explain in person, not over the phone. Just like you yesterday—first you asked to talk, then you laid it all out at once. Those are different things.”
“Really?” Dasha gave a bitter laugh. “I think they’re the same. You’re both hiding something. You’re both lying. And you both want me to believe your version of the story.”
“I only want one thing—for you to be safe.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m in danger when I’m around you?”
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. She leaned against the cold tiles and closed her eyes. In a few hours, she would know the truth. Or another lie. But one thing she knew for sure: whatever happened today, her life would never be the same.
The apartment Natalya was renting was in an old five-story building on the outskirts of the city. Dasha took a forty-minute bus ride, staring out the window the whole way, replaying possible conversation scenarios in her head. What would Natalya say? Would she admit to lying? Would she blame her father? Would she reveal something new that would turn everything upside down?
The entrance smelled of dampness and cats. There was no elevator, just a narrow staircase with peeling railings. Third floor, apartment number 12. Dasha stopped in front of the door, gathering her courage. Her heart was pounding so loudly it felt like the whole building could hear it. She rang the bell.
Footsteps behind the door. The click of a lock. And there was Natalya. She looked different today: no makeup, in simple house clothes, her hair in a messy bun. Without the composed exterior she had at the café. More vulnerable. More real.
“You came,” she said quietly. “I was afraid you’d change your mind.”
“I want the truth. Only the truth.”
Natalya nodded and stepped aside, letting the girl in. The apartment was small: one room, with a tiny kitchen and a combined bathroom. But it was clean, cozy. Photos in frames on the walls, flower pots on the windowsill. A laptop and a stack of papers on the desk. The home of someone trying to settle down, to put down roots.
“Sit down,” Natalya pointed to the sofa. “Tea? Coffee?”
“I don’t need anything. Just talk.”
Natalya sat in the armchair opposite her. She was silent for a while, as if gathering her thoughts. Then she began to speak—slowly, choosing her words carefully.
“You asked me yesterday who was lying—me or your father. I didn’t answer because it’s not a question you can answer with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.'”
“Really? Is it more complicated?”
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