He read it between two calls and didn’t reply. Just noted to himself: good.
The move happened Friday evening. Alina packed her things—one large bag and a diaper bag—and came over in a cab. Sophie walked in first, looked around seriously, like a grown-up, and asked quietly:
— We’re going to live here?
— Yes, — Alina said. — Here.
Sophie walked into the small bedroom, stood by the window, looked out at the courtyard. Then turned back to her mother.
— Can I have yellow curtains? — she asked. — I’ve wanted yellow ones for a long time.
Alina knelt in front of her right there in her coat, with Katie in her arms, and looked at her daughter. Sophie looked back seriously, expectantly. Four years old, and already that look children get when they’ve learned too early that not everything you ask for is possible.
— You can, — Alina said. — I promise.
Saturday morning she went to a store and bought yellow curtains. Not expensive, cotton, sunny-colored—the kind she thought Sophie would love. She came back and hung them herself, standing on a chair while Sophie stood beside her giving instructions.
— A little higher, — Sophie directed. — No, now lower. There. That’s good.
Katie lay on a blanket in the middle of the room, watching everything with the expression of a person who found it all interesting but wasn’t ready to participate yet. Alina hung the curtains. Climbed down from the chair. Looked. The room changed. Warmer, more alive, as if someone had let sunlight in, even though outside there hadn’t been much of it for weeks. Sophie came over, stood beside her mother, took her hand, and looked too.
— Pretty, — she said with satisfaction.
Alina squeezed her hand and said nothing. Just stood there looking at the yellow curtains in the little room of an apartment that wasn’t home yet, but had already stopped feeling чужой.
That same Saturday evening Daniel Walsh called. Introduced himself, explained who he was and how he had gotten her number. His voice was businesslike, and at the same time she understood immediately: no condescension, the kind she had been afraid of. Just a professional who knew his work and didn’t waste time.
— We need to meet, — he said. — I’ll go over your situation and explain how the process works. Nothing dramatic at the first meeting. Just a conversation.
— When? — she asked.
— When works for you? I can do Monday after six. I understand you have children.
— Monday at six-thirty, — she said.
— Done.
She hung up. Sat in the kitchen in silence, the children already asleep, dark November evening outside the window. For the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t press on her. It was just silence. Monday. Meeting with the attorney. The beginning of the process. She poured herself tea, wrapped both hands around the mug, and thought that for the first time in two months she had something like a plan. Not just survival one day at a time, but a plan. Steps. Sequence. A horizon. It was a strange feeling. Almost forgotten.
Monday morning she came to work on time, the first time in many weeks. Exactly at nine, as required. Walked down the hallway, greeted coworkers who looked at her with the usual office indifference. Nobody knew anything. Nobody asked anything. Everything was as usual, and that was good.
At nine-thirty Susan handed her a copy of the flexible scheduling policy. Alina read it. The policy was written for all employees with children under one year old. No personal note, no names. Just a change in internal rules. She could leave for an hour at lunch without explanations, come in twenty minutes late, and leave twenty minutes early if needed. She folded the paper neatly and tucked it into a folder.
That day she ran into Mike in the hallway. By accident: he was coming from a meeting, she was coming back from the printer. He gave her a short nod, the way a boss nods to an employee. She nodded back. They passed each other. No special look, no meaningful pause. Just two people in a hallway, each on their own business. More than anything else, that calmed her. More than any words could have. He wasn’t making her feel indebted now, wasn’t signaling that he expected gratitude or special treatment. Everything was the same as before. Only better.
That evening at six-thirty she sat across from Daniel Walsh in his small office near the river. He spoke clearly and to the point. Explained the divorce procedure, talked about custody, about how evidence is built in cases where there may not be open violence but there is a pattern of control and intimidation.
— Any witnesses? — he asked.
— A neighbor, — Alina said. — She saw the bruise. Another neighbor heard things.
— Not enough yet, but it’s a start. — He wrote notes. — Anything documented? Texts, messages?
— Yes. On my phone. I didn’t delete anything.
Daniel looked up.
— Good, — he said. — That matters. Bring it next time?
She nodded.
They talked for more than an hour. When she stepped outside, it was already dark and cold. November had finally taken the last of the warmth. She stopped for a second at the entrance, turned up her collar. Somewhere in the city Dennis was living his life, not knowing that in a small office by the river an attorney had just opened a new file and written across the top: “A. Kazakova. Divorce and Custody.”
Alina caught a cab and went home. Home. She caught herself on that word and was surprised by it. For the first time in a very long time, “home” meant something good again. The apartment was lit up; she had left the light on so she wouldn’t come back to darkness. Sophie was asleep hugging a stuffed rabbit. Katie was breathing softly in a crib. A real crib, not a folding cot. Alina stood in the doorway of the children’s room. Looked at the yellow curtains, which in the dark were just a pale shape by the window. Then quietly closed the door and went to the kitchen to put on water for tea.
December arrived suddenly. Not gradually, the way November sometimes slides into winter, but all at once, overnight. Monday morning the city woke up white and quiet, with the first real snow lying evenly on roofs and windowsills, as if someone had spread a clean tablecloth over everything. Alina walked to work. From the train station to the office was about ten minutes, and she had started walking that stretch every day. Not because she was saving money on transportation, but because those ten minutes had become a kind of transition lock between two worlds. In the morning—from home to work, from children’s voices and breakfast oatmeal to documents and screens. In the evening back again—from office quiet to the warm life of the apartment, where Sophie always met her at the door with some drawing in her hand.
Sophie drew a lot. It had started back at the center. There was a children’s corner with crayons and paper, and the girl quickly figured out that drawing was a way to fill time and also say something without saying it out loud. Now she had a whole sketchbook, already the second one. She drew houses, trees, people with big heads and tiny legs, cats they didn’t own but she clearly intended to have someday soon. One day she drew a man: tall, dark-haired, serious face, but with a smile at the corners of his mouth. She showed it to Alina.
— Who’s that? — Alina asked carefully…
