— You know, Vera, what would be the best gift this year, on New Year’s Eve? — Maxim didn’t even look up while he spoke. He poured himself some champagne, leaned back in the chair.
— If you didn’t exist. Seriously. I would wake up in the morning — and you wouldn’t be there. At all.
Vera stood by the stove. She was flipping the meatballs in the pan. One. The other. The third. The fat was sizzling. She didn’t turn around.
— Can you hear me, or are you lost in your own world again? — her voice grew stronger.
— I hear you — he said calmly. — Go, drink. Ten minutes until midnight.
She giggled, stood up. Vera heard the clatter of glasses in the living room. She turned up the TV. She turned off the stove. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel.
She picked up the folder with documents from the table that she had prepared in the morning. Went up to the bedroom. Lay on the bed under the blanket. Her hand didn’t tremble. Downstairs, Maxim was shouting something, laughing alone.
When the clock struck twelve, Vera closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would wake up in a different life. One that her father had prepared for her over seven years.
It all started with the garage. Six months after the unfortunate accident, she was arranging her father’s affairs. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it before.
Maxim constantly pressured her — the space should be cleared out, sold to someone, why let it sit empty. He said it every evening while eating, while watching TV. He said it without even looking at her.
Vera found a notebook behind the desk. Worn, the leather cover cracked. Her father had recorded every signed document in it. Dates, numbers, amounts.
She flipped through the pages, her fingers froze. Here it was — the note — the business transfer to Maxim. Date — a week before their wedding. And next to it, in her father’s handwriting, a remark: “Without me. Verify.”
Vera sat on the concrete floor. Cold in the garage, the smell of rubber. She sat there for a long time. Then she got up, hid the notebook under her coat, and went home.
Maxim was waiting at the door.
— You were gone for three hours. I guess you’ll have to reheat the dinner yourself? Or do you think I’m your servant?
— I’ll reheat it now — Vera walked past him to the kitchen.
— By the way, stop with this garage. There’s nothing for you there. Your father, may he rest in peace, was a good man, but he left a terrible mess behind.
Vera listened. Maxim stood in the doorway for a while, then left. She heard the TV click. She took the notebook and placed it on the table.
Opened it to the right page. Read it again. Then she hid it in the furthest drawer — under the cereal boxes.
The lawyer received her a week later. Mikhail Borisovich listened to her without interrupting. He took notes. When he finished, he looked up over his glasses.
— Twenty years have passed. You understand this is nearly impossible? The mistakes in the papers aren’t enough. Forgery is required. Criminal intent. Evidence.
— I will find it — Vera gripped her bag.
— It could take years. Perhaps more. I can’t give any guarantees.
— I have time.
He nodded. He seemed to understand something. Gave her the fee. Vera took out the envelope. She was surprised.
— You don’t work, do you? Your husband gives money for this?
— My father left me a deposit. A small amount. He doesn’t know. I withdrew it gradually.
Mikhail Borisovich took the envelope. Hid it in the desk drawer.
— All right. Let’s start with the archives. We need a copy of your father’s company registry. Original. If Maxim really forged the documents, the discrepancies will be there.
Vera volunteered at the city archives. She told everyone she wanted to help, to spend her time usefully. Maxim laughed when she said it.
— You? In the archives? Enjoy your papers. Just have dinner ready by seven. I don’t run a business for my wife to volunteer.
For two years she sorted dusty boxes. Found, checked, noted. The archive staff got used to her and ignored her. Vera worked slowly, meticulously. And she found it.
The company’s charter copy was in the registration files of that year. Her father’s signature did not match the one on the transfer to Maxim.
She immediately called Mikhail Borisovich from the archives. Her hand trembled as she dialed.
— I found it. Different signature.
— Come here. Today. Immediately.
The expert worked for a week. When Vera came for the verdict, he handed her the folder without a word.
— Forgery. Not even a good quality one. Twenty years ago the expertise was simpler. Now it’s obvious immediately — the pressure is different, the slant is wrong. Your father didn’t sign this.
Vera took the folder. Sat by the window, her legs shaking. Mikhail Borisovich poured water for her.
— That’s not all — he said. — We need to understand why your father didn’t contest the transfer. Why he stayed silent. If we don’t find an explanation, the court may rule he consented retroactively.
— He didn’t have time — Vera finished the water. — The accident happened six months after the wedding. The brakes failed.
Mikhail Borisovich looked at her attentively.
— You don’t think it was an accident?
— I think we need to find out who fixed the car.
The mechanic’s name was Grigory Petrovich. Vera remembered him — he had worked for her father for fifteen years. He resigned and disappeared after the accident. The neighbors said he had gone somewhere.
Vera searched for six months. She found him at a nursing home on the city’s outskirts. He sat in the shared room, staring out the window. When Vera sat beside him, he didn’t even turn.
— I’m Vera. Anatoly Ivanovich’s daughter.
— I know. I recognized you immediately. I was waiting for you to come.
— Tell me about the brakes.
He was silent for a long time. Then he spoke. Quietly, without looking at her. Maxim came to him the day before the accident. Asked him to “adjust” her father’s car. Paid a lot.
Grigory Petrovich’s wife was sick at the time. No money for treatment. He agreed. Set it so that the brakes would fail at speed. Then stayed silent. Afraid. His wife passed away a year later. And that’s how he lived.
— I’ll write everything. With a signature. Just help me. I need surgery. I won’t survive the spring without it.
— Write it down — Vera took the notebook and pen. — I’ll pay everything.
He wrote slowly. His hand shook. Vera sat beside him, looked out the window. It rained outside. When he finished, Vera took the papers. Carefully folded them.
— In two days, the clinic will call. Surgery paid.
He nodded. Didn’t raise his eyes.
Vera got home late. Maxim was sitting at the table, a plate of cold food in front of him.
— Where have you been? I waited two hours. The food is cold. Do you understand I work all day? I want a proper dinner, not your charity work.
— Sorry. I’ll reheat it now.
— No need. I’m tired of it. — He stood, walked past her. Turned at the door. — You know, maybe it’s enough with the archives? Why? They don’t pay.
The house is a mess. Look at yourself — you look like a homeless person. I’m ashamed to appear in public with you.
Vera listened. Went upstairs. Slammed the door. Sat at the table. Opened the folder with Grigory Petrovich’s statement. Read it again. Put it on the table. Sat like that for a long time.
Then got up, hid the folder in the secret compartment — behind the kitchen cabinet, where Maxim never touched.
Everything was ready. The expert’s opinion. The mechanic’s testimony. The charter copy from the archives. Her father’s notebook. Mikhail Borisovich said a lawsuit could be filed.
But Vera asked him to wait. Until New Year’s Eve. That’s when she wanted it to happen. So Maxim would spend the holiday at the peak, self-satisfied. And wake up in hell in the morning.
Only the last detail remained. Power of attorney. Maxim had signed it twelve years ago, when something similar had happened in the family.
He went on a long business trip, gave her the right to manage the accounts. Then forgot. Vera kept the document in a separate folder.
In the last week of December, she transferred all available money to the charity foundation’s account. Opened in her name — safer that way.
Maxim never checked the banking apps. He just withdrew money when he needed it, not thinking where it came from.
On December 31, Vera woke early. Set the table. Everything as usual: salads, appetizers, main course. Maxim arrived at nine in the evening. Smelled of smoke and unfamiliar perfume.
He didn’t even try to hide it. Sat at the table.
— It’s been a successful year — he said to the air. — Profit increased. We expanded the warehouses. Your father, may he rest in peace, would be proud. I made an empire from his little office.
Vera sliced cheese. Thin slices. Precisely.
— You know, Vera, what would be the best gift this year, on New Year’s Eve? — he raised his glass, looked at her. His eyes drunken, angry. — If you didn’t exist.
Seriously. I would wake up in the morning — and you wouldn’t be there. At all. Your voice, your face. Silence. Freedom.
She put down the knife. Looked up.
— All right. So be it.
He didn’t understand. Smiled, turned to the TV. Turned on the New Year’s program. Vera stood from the table. Went to the bedroom. Lay down on the bed. Downstairs, Maxim laughed at something.
When the clock struck twelve, she didn’t toast. She just lay there, waiting for morning.
The phone rang at half-past seven. Vera was already in the kitchen. She heard Maxim cursing upstairs. Noise. Quick steps. He burst in, phone in hand. Face gray.
— What did you do?! — grabbed her shoulders, turned her around. — They won’t let me into the warehouses! Bailiffs! What have you done?!
Vera freed herself. Stepped to the window.
— I returned what’s mine. Legally.
— What’s yours?! I’ve been running this business for twenty years! I built it! My father gave it all to me!
— He didn’t. You forged his signature. There’s an expert’s opinion.
Maxim turned pale.
— You… insane. What expert opinion? Twenty years ago!
Vera took the folded papers from her robe pocket. Handed them to him. Spread them out. Read. Her hand shook.
— This… this is forgery. Intentional…
— Forgery is when you ruined my father’s brakes — Vera said quietly, calmly. — Grigory Petrovich is alive. He told everything. Signed it. The prosecutor’s office has already initiated proceedings.
Maxim sat in the chair. The paper fell from his hand.
— You don’t understand what you’ve done. This is the end. Where will you live? What will happen to you?
— With my father’s money. Which you thought was yours for twenty years. Accounts frozen. Warehouses seized. Even the house — all from my father’s money. The local channels will talk at lunch about how you killed your father-in-law for business.
She looked at him. For the first time in decades, she saw fear in his eyes.
— Vera. Wait. We can settle. I’ll give you half. More than half. Just stop. Prosecutors, proceedings. I’ll pay. Anything you say.
— With what would you pay? — Vera stepped closer. — You have nothing. I already used the power of attorney you signed twelve years ago. All the money is transferred. Yesterday you woke up in the world you dreamed of. Where I didn’t disappear. You did.
She picked up the car keys from the table. Put on her coat. Maxim sat motionless. Staring at the floor. She stepped out the door.
— Happy New Year, Maxim.
Closed the door. Got into the car. Drove through the empty streets. The city slowly, reluctantly waking. The wipers swept colored confetti. Somewhere music played — someone was still celebrating.
Vera stopped at the quay. Got out. Stood by the railing. The river dark, cold. Wind tossed her hair. She took out her phone. Messaged her daughter: “Happy holidays. We’ll meet today. I’ll tell you everything.”
The phone vibrated. Mikhail Borisovich: “Everything is set in motion. Well done. Persevere.”
Vera put away the phone. Stood a little longer. Then returned to the car. Got in. Looked in the mirror. Saw her face — tired, aged, but for the first time in twenty years alive.
She started the engine. Drove off. She didn’t know where she was going. And that was the best feeling of the past twenty years — not knowing where you’re going. Just going.
