Six months later, Olya ran into Tamara Lvovna at the store. She was standing at the checkout, placing cheap pasta, bread, and canned goods on the conveyor belt.
She looked older, tired. Olya walked past without saying hello. But at the exit, she turned around. Tamara Lvovna was watching her. There was malice in her eyes, but also something else. Bewilderment, perhaps.
Olya went outside. It was snowing. She lifted her face to the sky, letting the cold flakes touch her cheeks. At home, silence, a clean apartment, and a cup of hot tea awaited her.
No more demanding phone calls, no more reproaches, no more manipulation. Only her own life, in which she could finally breathe freely.
She opened her laptop, turned on some music. A notification popped up on the screen — a message from a colleague. An invitation to a corporate party. Before, she would have declined, citing family matters. Now she wrote back: “I’ll definitely be there.”
Olya stood by the window, placing her palm against the cold glass.
Outside, snow was falling, and the streetlights were on. Somewhere out there, in this city, Kirill and his mother were dealing with their own problems. Without her money, without her support, without her. And that was right.
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