“Don’t call anymore. I don’t get involved with losers.” She pressed “Send,” then blocked his number in all messengers and social networks.
Three days later at work, Denis, the foreman from the neighboring section, approached her. A handsome man of about thirty-five who drove a Toyota Camry and was recently divorced. They met on Friday evening, went to a cafe, and Svetlana took a selfie in his car. She posted the photo on social media with the caption “New chapter.”
Maxim saw the post a week later when he went online using someone else’s phone in the smoking area at the vegetable warehouse. He looked at the photo, where Svetlana was smiling, snuggled up to Denis’s shoulder, and felt that there was nothing left inside him.
The divorce hearing was scheduled for the end of November. Maxim showed up in a wrinkled shirt he hadn’t had time to iron, with dark circles under his eyes from the night shifts. Vera sat next to her lawyer, in a smart gray suit, her hair pulled back, looking calm and confident.
The judge, Irina Vladimirovna Karataeva, a woman in her fifties with a tired face, listened to both sides. Maxim tried to justify himself, saying he didn’t mean to hurt his wife, that circumstances had just turned out that way. But his voice sounded unconvincing even to himself.
Elena Viktorovna presented bank statements showing that Vera had received a salary, but the money was withdrawn the same day. She presented witness testimony—from a neighbor who had seen the bruise on Vera’s face after that slap. She presented the audio recording of Lyudmila Vasilievna’s threats.
The court ruled to dissolve the marriage, to order Maxim Viktorovich Sokolov to pay alimony in the amount of 1/3 of his income monthly, as well as compensation for moral damages in the amount of 300,000.
Maxim left the courtroom and sat down on a bench in the hallway, unable to move. Three hundred thousand. On his salary of 28,000, of which 9 went to alimony, it meant he would be paying off this debt for ten years, if he could at all. He sat on the cold bench and stared into space, realizing that the life he had known was over, completely and irrevocably.
Vera and Artem moved in with her father in early December, when a thick layer of snow already covered the ground, and the city was immersed in pre-New Year’s bustle. Pyotr Nikolaevich met them at the door, took his grandson in his arms, and said only one thing:
— “Now you’re home.”
Vera entered the apartment, which smelled of fresh renovations and something homey and cozy, and felt something inside her soften, let go. Her father had set up a children’s room for Artem in his former study. There was a new bed shaped like a car, shelves with bright books and educational toys. On the wall were stickers of cartoon characters. Artem ran around the room with delight, touching everything, laughing, and Vera stood in the doorway, unable to hold back her tears.
Every evening, Pyotr Nikolaevich read fairy tales to his grandson. Artem would climb onto his lap, point his finger at the pictures, and his grandfather would patiently explain, show, and answer the endless childish “whys.” Vera would sit in the kitchen, listening to their voices from the next room, and for the first time in three years, she felt safe.
One evening, after Artem had fallen asleep, they were sitting at the table drinking tea. Her father was silent for a long time, looking out the window where snowflakes were swirling behind the glass. Then he turned to his daughter…
