“And now?”
“Now I feel nothing. Just want to live my life. Without him.”
Tamara Ignatyevna paused.
“So that’s it. You’re leaving him.”
“No. He broke everything himself. I just didn’t glue it back.”
“Well what kind of wife are you after this?” Mother-in-law’s voice became sharp. “Betrayed husband in difficult moment. Kicked out of home, left alone.”
“He’s not alone,” said Lida calmly. “He has a mother, has friends, let him go to them.”
“You…”
“Tamara Ignatyevna,” interrupted Lida. “You are calling me to say how bad I am. Fine. I am bad. Selfish, callous, ungrateful. Whatever you want. But I won’t tolerate anymore. Neither him nor you. Goodbye.”
She hung up. Breath caught. Hands trembled. Lida sat motionless, squeezing phone. Then opened settings. Found this number in call history. Blocked.
Kettle boiled. Lida got up, turned it off. Brewed tea. Sat back at table. Drank slowly, in small sips. It got dark outside. City lit up with lights. Car drove by somewhere. Entrance door slammed. Someone shouted something cheerful.
Lida finished tea. Got up, washed cup. Wiped hands. Went to bedroom. Took robe out of closet. Went to bathroom. Stood under hot shower for long time, washing away fatigue. Came out, dried off, dressed. Combed hair, looking at her reflection.
Returned to kitchen. Opened fridge. Groceries appeared there. She went to store yesterday evening. Took out chicken, vegetables. Started cooking dinner. Cut, stirred, fried. Leisurely, with pleasure. Cooked only for herself. Set table for one. Sat down. Started eating.
Phone vibrated again. Lida glanced at screen. Alla. “How are things? Haven’t written in long time. Everything okay?” Lida typed reply: “Everything good. Just sorting things out.” “Let’s call on weekend?” “Of course. Kisses.”
Lida put down phone. Finished dinner. Washed dishes, wiped table. Looked at kitchen. Clean, calm, quiet. Her kitchen, her apartment, her life.
Lida approached wall where their joint photo in frame still hung. Took it down. Looked at snapshot. Both smiling, hugging, happy. It was three years ago, at sea. Then it seemed everything would be good. Lida opened frame, took out photo. Tore in half. Then once more. Threw scraps in trash can. Put frame in cupboard.
Went to storage room. Took oak board from behind boxes. The one Andrey brought at beginning of this whole story. Heavy, beautiful, expensive, useless. Lida returned to kitchen. Looked at wall where photo used to hang. Took hammer, nail. Drove nail into wall. Hung oak board on it. Board hung on wall not as kitchen utensil. It hung like a picture, like a reminder, like a trophy.
Lida stepped back, looked at it. Board reflected lamp light. Dark wood shined. She turned off light in kitchen. Went to bedroom. Closed door. Lay on bed. Covered with blanket. Looked at ceiling. City made noise outside window. Life continued. Lida closed eyes. Breathed evenly, calmly.
She was alone. In her apartment. In her life. And she felt good.
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