Larisa Cherdantseva was lying on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, and looking out the window at the autumn sky.
It was gray, heavy, as if it sensed what was supposed to happen that evening. Her body had long stopped obeying her: leukemia was eating her from the inside, draining her strength drop by drop, bit by bit.
The doctors spoke cautiously, vaguely, but she understood: time was measured in weeks, maybe a month. No more. She was 37 years old. Just recently, she could still cook dinner, do laundry, clean the apartment, and go to work.
Now, even getting up from the couch required an effort that consumed the last crumbs of her energy. Every movement sent a shooting pain through her bones, and every breath was a struggle. But Larisa tried not to show her sons how sick she was.
She would smile when they entered the room, asking about school, friends, and homework. She wanted them to remember her alive, not dying. Matvey, the eldest, already understood everything.
He was 15, and his eyes had become adult-like far too early. He no longer asked when his mom would get better. He just silently helped around the house, looked after his younger brother, did his homework, and tried not to cry in front of his mother.
Larisa saw how he was changing, how his character was hardening, how he was taking on responsibilities he shouldn’t have at his age. Yelisey, the younger one, a ten-year-old boy with a lively personality and an open smile, still tried to pretend everything would be alright. He would bring his mom drawings from school, tell her funny stories, hug her, and whisper that she would definitely get well.
Larisa would stroke his head and nod, even though she knew it wasn’t true.
— Mom, would you like some tea? — Yelisey peeked into the room, his face hopeful. — I can make it. Matvey taught me how.
— Thank you, sweetie. A little later, — Larisa answered quietly, smiling at her son. — Go do your homework. It’ll be evening soon.
Yelisey nodded and left.
Larisa could hear him whispering with his brother in the kitchen. They tried to speak quietly so she wouldn’t hear, but the apartment walls were thin. She could make out snippets of phrases: “When is Dad coming?”, “I don’t know, maybe he’ll bring medicine?”, “I don’t think so.”
Matvey stood by the window, leaning on the sill. He was silent, but Larisa could feel his tension. He had always been a serious child, thoughtful and deep. In recent months, he seemed to be turning to stone before her eyes, becoming more and more withdrawn. Larisa knew why. Grigory.
Her husband had stopped being a husband long ago. He appeared home less and less, turning away more often when she tried to speak to him. Before, he at least pretended to be concerned about her health. He would ask how she felt, offer to call a doctor, buy vitamins. Now, even that was gone. Grigory Cherdantsev, a 42-year-old man with an indifferent face and empty eyes, had become a ghost in his own family.
He would come home late, eat dinner in silence, if he ate at all, and go to sleep in another room. Sometimes he didn’t even come home for the night, and in the morning, he would toss out a brief “I was held up at work” and disappear again. Larisa sensed it: he was already gone. He just hadn’t slammed the door yet. She knew there was another woman. She felt it in his detachment, the smell of another woman’s perfume on his shirts, the way he avoided her gaze.
But she remained silent. Not because she was afraid of a fight. She simply didn’t have the strength. All her energy went into just breathing, just living one more day.
That evening, Grigory returned home earlier than usual. He walked in without a greeting, threw his jacket on a chair in the hallway, and went straight to the bedroom. Larisa heard him opening the closet, taking out a bag, and starting to pack his things. Metal hangers clinked, drawers were pulled out and pushed back in. Every sound was loud in the evening silence of the apartment.
Her heart clenched, but she forced herself to get up. Holding onto the back of the couch, then the wall, she slowly made her way to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. Her legs were trembling, her head was spinning, but she held on.
— What are you doing? — Her voice trembled, but she tried to speak calmly.
Grigory didn’t turn around. He continued packing shirts, pants, socks. His movements were sharp, nervous.
— What I should have done a long time ago, — he muttered, not looking at her.
— Grigory, look at me, — Larisa pleaded….
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