He turned around. There was no guilt or regret on his face. Only irritation, fatigue, and a kind of relief. As if he had finally decided to do something he had been putting off for too long.
— I’m leaving, Larisa. To another woman, — he said evenly, as if he were announcing a job change or a move to another neighborhood.
The words hung in the air. Larisa knew this moment would come, but hearing them out loud was more painful than she had imagined. Much more painful.
— What about the children? — She barely managed to force out the question, grabbing onto the doorframe.
Grigory smirked. His face twisted into a grimace that couldn’t be called a smile. It was something malicious, cynical.
— Put them in an orphanage. I don’t give a damn about them, — he tossed out, zipping up the bag. — I’m not going to carry this burden. You wanted them, you deal with them.
Larisa felt her legs give way. She gripped the doorframe with both hands to keep from falling. Her vision blurred.
Footsteps came from the hallway. Matvey and Yelisey were standing a few feet from the bedroom, having heard every word. They froze like statues. Matvey looked at his father as if seeing him for the first time. His face turned pale, his lips tightened. Yelisey stood beside him, his eyes wide in disbelief. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, watching his father pack his things.
— Grigory, — Larisa whispered, feeling tears welling up in her eyes, — they are your children. Your own blood.
— They were, — he cut in coldly, picking up the bag and slinging the strap over his shoulder. — Now they’re your problem. Though, judging by the way you look, not for long. A month, two — and it will all resolve itself.
Larisa gasped. She hadn’t expected such cruelty. He had always been an egoist, she knew that. But to this extent… To say such things to his dying wife, the mother of his children…
Grigory headed for the door. Matvey took a step forward, blocking his path. Father and son looked into each other’s eyes. Grigory was taller, broader in the shoulders, but Matvey didn’t back down. His teenage frame seemed fragile next to his father, but there was steel in his gaze.
— I will never forgive you for this, — the teenager said slowly, distinctly. There was no shouting in his voice, no hysterics. Only an icy certainty. These were not the words of a hurt child. It was an oath. A sentence.
Grigory laughed. Loudly, harshly, unpleasantly. The laugh sounded fake, strained.
— As if I care. Forgive all you want, — he shoved his son aside with his shoulder, forcing him to step back. — I don’t care what you think. Live however you want. I’m not interested anymore. I have a new life now.
He walked to the front door, threw it open, and turned around one last time.
— Goodbye, — he tossed out with a smirk and stepped out onto the landing.
The door slammed shut behind him with such force that Larisa squeezed her eyes shut. The echo of the sound reverberated through the stairwell, bounced off the walls, and then silence fell. A terrible, oppressive, deafening silence.
Larisa could no longer stand. Her legs wouldn’t hold her, her hands were shaking. Matvey and Yelisey rushed to her, supporting her from both sides, hugging her, holding her close. She wrapped her arms around them, gathering her last ounce of strength, and began to cry. Quietly, soundlessly, so as not to frighten the children even more. But the tears flowed on their own — hot, salty, endless.
— Mom, don’t cry, — Yelisey whispered, burying his face in her shoulder. — Please, don’t cry. We’ll be together. We’ll manage. Right, Matvey?
Matvey was silent, but his embrace was tight, almost desperate. Larisa could feel his whole body trembling as he held back tears. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to be strong. For her. For his brother.
— My darlings, — Larisa whispered, stroking their heads. — My boys. My precious ones. I love you so much. So very much.
They sat on the floor in the hallway, the three of them huddled together. Outside, it grew dark. Somewhere below, the building’s front door slammed. It was Grigory, leaving the house, leaving them alone with their pain, fear, and uncertainty. He had left for his new life without a backward glance. Without a single moment of regret to hug his children one last time. Without a single word of comfort to his fading wife.
The following weeks were a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake. Larisa barely left her bed. The disease progressed rapidly. Doctors came, shook their heads, and prescribed new, stronger painkillers.
Their neighbor, Maria Pavlovna, a kind woman of about 55 with a gentle voice and warm hands, came every day. She brought food, helped with the cleaning, changed the bedsheets, and talked to Larisa about simple things, trying to distract her from thoughts of death. Her husband, Yevgeny Petrovich, a quiet, reasonable man with kind eyes, brought groceries and fixed things around the house without asking questions. He understood that the boys needed a man’s hand and support. He talked to Matvey, explaining things about life, giving him advice. Matvey listened attentively, gratefully.
Matvey took on everything he could. He woke up early, at six in the morning, made breakfast for himself and his brother, got Yelisey ready for school, and checked his backpack. Then he went to his own classes. After school, he would rush home, not lingering with friends or playing in the yard. He would burst into the apartment, run to his mother, check how she was feeling, and if she needed anything. He helped Maria Pavlovna cook dinner, cleaned, and did the laundry. In the evening, he did his homework by the light of a desk lamp while his mother drifted off to sleep under the effect of her medication.
Yelisey tried to be helpful, but he was still too young to understand the full gravity of the situation. He would just sit by his mother’s bedside for hours, holding her hand and telling her about school, friends, and his lessons. About how they played soccer in gym class, how the teacher praised his essay, how he got an A in math. Larisa would listen, smile weakly, and stroke his hand. These moments were the brightest for her.
Larisa was fading before their eyes. Her skin became translucent, thin as paper. She barely ate, only drinking small sips of water. Every breath was a struggle. The doctors came more often but did less and less. They understood: this was the end…
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