We had discussed it so many times. She believed it so strongly that when she saw the crowd of people at the entrance to the hotel on Voskresenskaya Street, her first thought was that they were there to greet her. It was only when Regina Valeryevna stepped forward with her arms crossed over her chest, followed by the rest of the relatives—Arkady’s older brother Stanislav, his aunt Izolda Mitrofanovna, and about fifteen other people, all in festive attire, all with the same hostile expressions—that Taisiya realized this wasn’t a greeting. It was a wall. “We spent a fortune on guests, and where have you been?” Regina Valeryevna’s voice rang with barely suppressed fury. “You think you’re the smartest one here, don’t you? Everyone’s waiting like fools, and she’s off gallivanting somewhere.”
“There was an emergency surgery,” Taisiya tried to speak calmly, though everything inside her was trembling. “A five-year-old child, a ruptured spleen, they brought him in at five in the morning.” “I don’t give a damn about your surgeries,” Regina Valeryevna didn’t even let her finish. “You always have an excuse. It’s either a shift, or a surgery, or your useless dissertation. You picked a fine time.” “A doctor should also understand,” Stanislav interrupted, stepping forward with the air of a man accustomed to his word being law. “That a wedding day is a wedding day. To leave my brother in front of all the guests—that’s a disgrace for the whole of Dnipro.”
“How is he supposed to look people in the eye now? A careerist like her is no wife for a normal man,” added Izolda Mitrofanovna with the special kind of pleasure some people take in saying cruel things, savoring every word. “I said it from the beginning, she’s not a match for our Arkasha, not a match.” Taisiya felt her face burn, felt dozens of eyes on her, and in each one, she read a verdict, delivered in advance, with no right to appeal. Years of patience, of mockery about her night shifts, hints that decent women don’t work 20 hours a day, constant comparisons to the domestic Inna Kovalenko, who could cook dinner, take care of her mother, and never talk back—it was all for nothing. She had hoped that her dignified behavior and professionalism would eventually earn their respect, but she was wrong.
“Where is Arkady?” she heard her own voice as if from a distance. “I want to see him, let him say it himself.” Regina Valeryevna let out a derisive, piercing laugh, and that laugh hurt more than any words. “My son has already exchanged rings with Inna, with a girl who knows what family and respect are, who wouldn’t abandon her husband for some strangers in a hospital.” Music, the host’s toasts, congratulations, and applause could be heard from the banquet hall. A celebration was underway there, guests were having fun, and her groom was standing next to another woman.
Taisiya stood motionless, unable to move. The world around her lost its shape and became blurry, as if she were looking at everything through frosted glass. “They’ve already submitted the application, they’ll be officially married in a month,” Stanislav looked at her with unconcealed contempt, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Now get out of here before we call security. No need to make a scene.” She remembered how Arkady had proposed to her in a restaurant on the Dnipro embankment, how he had gotten down on one knee, how his voice had trembled, how he had said he would protect her and not let his mother interfere in their lives.
He said he understood her work and was proud of her, that she was the only woman he had ever truly loved. For three years, she had believed his every word, made plans, dreamed of a future together. And now, after a four-hour absence, he was standing with a ring before another woman, before that very Inna whom his mother always held up as an example. Was Inna a backup plan from the beginning? Was he forced into it? Or was he just too weak to stand up to his mother, as always?
Or had he long been looking for an excuse to get rid of her, her night shifts, her constant busyness? These questions ate at her from the inside, but Taisiya didn’t cry. She remained silent, because she knew: if she uttered a single word, her voice would break. And then, behind her, she heard the roar of a powerful engine. Everyone turned. A black Rolls-Royce in the parking lot of a Dnipro hotel was an event in itself. Such cars were rarely seen here, perhaps only in the news about visits from capital officials…
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