— Look, all my strength is leaving me, and you can’t even fluff my pillow! — Valera’s voice rang out as if dictating his final will to a notary.
Yet the digital thermometer betrayed him with a mere thirty-eight point zero.
I quietly fluffed the pillow. Valera always dramatized. When a man’s temperature surpasses thirty-seven degrees, the world must halt, birds must fall silent, and his wife becomes a ghost with a tray in her hands.
— I’m freezing, — he complained while pulling on the wool socks I had knitted him last November. — Lyuda, is the chicken ready? I need something warm. My body demands support.
— It’s still cooking, Valera. Ten more minutes.
I carefully closed the bedroom door so as not to disturb my husband in his “resting state.” The kitchen was filled with the scent of simmering onions, that endless aroma of feminine caretaking that had become part of my life.
That smell has followed me for thirty years: first I cared for the children, then my mother, and now my husband, for whom a simple draft of air becomes a world-shattering drama.
The clock showed 11:00, Saturday. Outside, the gray November rain beat against the windows. At times like this, one wants to curl up under a blanket with a book, not strain a second broth to keep the fat from floating on top.
The surprise in the coat
On the hallway rack hung his massive, double-lined “Alaska” coat, which we had bought a month ago. The sleeve bore a white stain. Chalk? Lime?
— At least once he could check where he leans, — I muttered to myself.
A familiar, automatic gesture. Before throwing anything into the wash, we check the pockets.
Not to spy — at fifty-four, secrets are unnecessary — but to avoid washing a wallet, garage key, or forgotten bill.
I slid my hand into the deep side pocket. My fingers met something stiff.
I pulled it out. Smoothed it over my knees.
A long, high-quality thermal paper receipt.
“Water World Store. Yamaha 9.9 HP outboard motor…”
My eyes dropped to the total. The numbers began to dance, forming an impossible combination.
128,400 rubles.
Blink. Perhaps my glasses had steamed over in the kitchen? No. One hundred twenty-eight thousand four hundred. Paid by card.
And the date.
15.11.2025. 18:45. Yesterday.
Yesterday evening, when he came home from work, clutching his chest, he said, “Lyudochka, I’m shaking, I think I caught a cold, I have no strength even to take off my shoes.” I panicked, rushed with raspberry tea, measured his blood pressure…
And an hour earlier, he had carried a thirty-kilogram motor.
But the worst part wasn’t that. A cold, penetrating sensation, sharper than November wind, ran down my spine.
I recognized this sum. I had been saving it for a year and a half.
Stolen joy
It was for my teeth. My complex treatment, three units, postponed, endured discomfort because “it’s not the time,” “the car comes first,” “the summer house needs its roof.”
Last week, I withdrew all my savings from the account and put them in a blue envelope in the linen closet. Valera knew. We had agreed: Monday I would pay the deposit at the clinic.
I moved slowly, dreamlike, to the bedroom, opened the closet, took the box with sheets. The blue envelope lay there.
Empty.
— Lyud! — came the voice from the living room. Determined, demanding. — How long must I wait? My throat is dry. Did you forget me?
I stood in the middle of the room. In one hand, the empty envelope; in the other, the motor receipt.
Inside me something snapped. No shouting, no tears. It felt as if the switch of my soul had been flipped. Click — and silence.
For thirty years, I had been “easygoing Lyuda.”
Lyuda who understands.
Lyuda who waits.
Lyuda who tolerates another year for Valera — for fishing, stress, and the “brotherhood of men.”
He hadn’t just taken my money. He stole my health and patience. And now he lay there, feigning weakness, after having spent everything on his toy yesterday.
— Ly-uu-uda! — Valera’s voice sharpened. — Bring the soup!
Service unavailable
I returned to the kitchen.
The pot on the stove simmered cheerfully. Golden, clear, like a tear, with a sprig of dill — exactly as he liked. Perfect care for the perfect egoist.
I approached the stove. The cooked chicken sat alone in the liquid.
“Service temporarily unavailable,” flashed through my mind.
I turned off the heat. Grabbed the pot’s handles without mitts — resentment stronger than fire. I moved to the sink.
No strainer needed.
I tilted the pot, and the golden broth I had cooked for two hours gushed down the drain. The chicken plopped into the wet sink with a dull thud. Cooked carrots and onions followed.
I turned on cold water to wash away the traces of my work.
— Lyuda, are you coming? — Valera called, slightly irritated. — I’m standing up!
I washed my hands. Picked up the phone. Opened the delivery app.
My finger hovered over “Pizza,” but I withdrew. No. Not today.
I chose the neighborhood’s most expensive Japanese restaurant. Imperial set: eel, salmon, scallop, caviar.
Price — 4,800 rubles.
I pressed “Place Order.” Payment via Valera’s card linked to my phone “for household use.”
A notification appeared: “Your order has been accepted. The courier will arrive within 40 minutes.”
I sank into the kitchen chair, placed the motor receipt under my hand, and pressed down with the heavy crystal sugar bowl.
— Lyuda!!!
— Coming, Valera — I said quietly, but my voice echoed unusually firmly in the empty apartment.
No tray. No medicines. I adjusted my hair, glanced at my reflection in the dark window — a tired woman who had been too kind for too long — and walked to the living room.
