Igor sucked in his stomach so tightly that colorful circles floated before his eyes.
The mirror hanging in the hallway mercilessly reflected the truth he desperately tried to stuff into his fashionable, ripped jeans.
The button hung by a single thread, ready to pop off at any moment, just like his marriage, which now creaked and groaned at every seam.
He exhaled loudly, trying not to look toward the living room, but he felt his wife’s heavy, scrutinizing gaze on the back of his neck. Marina sat in the armchair, legs crossed, slowly twirling the stem of her wine glass.
She wasn’t crying, tearing her hair out, or trying to slam doors. She was just looking at him as if she were watching a boring TV show.
— Marusya, don’t make that face — Igor adjusted the collar of his polo, which betrayed him by emphasizing his double chin. — You’re a smart woman; you understand everything perfectly.
Marina took a small sip, and the glass tapped faintly against her teeth.
— I understand, Igor, that you’re heading into the sunset in search of a second youth.
— Don’t be sarcastic, it’s not a sunset, it’s a sunrise! — he waved his hand theatrically, almost dropping the suitcase beside him. — Understand, our shared energy is spent, like an old battery. I need current, I need tension, so sparks can fly!
Igor finally zipped up his jacket, feeling sweat run unpleasantly down his back. He was hot, but he couldn’t loosen up — his stomach would spill out of the pants immediately.
— Sveta… she’s full of life, twenty years old, Marina! She has so much energy that even the lights turn on around her. You’re cozy, but predictable.
He tried to make his voice sound velvety, but it came out pathetic and guilty.
— I’m leaving the apartment to you, acting like a real man. I’ll take the car; the two-bedroom is yours, live, be happy, get a cat if you want.
He was expecting an argument, expecting Marina to throw a vase they had bought in Prague ten years ago. He needed that fight to leave offended, slam the door with a sense of his own righteousness.
But Marina just set her glass on the table.
— Cozy, then — she smiled only with the corners of her mouth, but her eyes remained cold. — Fine, Igor, go to your energy. Just don’t forget your blood pressure pills, they’re in the left pocket of your bag; Sveta certainly won’t have a monitor.
— I’m healthy as a bull! — he shouted, grabbing the suitcase.
The handle dug sharply into his palm; the door slammed, cutting off the scent of home — a mix of fabric softener and something indefinably familiar. The hallway smelled sharp, damp, mixed with grilled fish.
Freedom smelled of cat urine on the first floor.
Sveta’s studio looked like a plush toy factory had exploded: plush bears and brightly colored pillows were scattered everywhere. Igor sat on the only chair, afraid that even a single movement would be too much, as his back ached mercilessly.
The tight jeans that seemed “rebellious” in the store now squeezed his circulation like a press.
— Daddy! — Sveta popped out of the steam-filled bathroom.
She wore a T-shirt that barely covered her hips, and Igor swallowed reflexively. His heart skipped a beat, then raced, not with passion, but panic.
— Bunny — he stretched his lips into a smile, feeling his jaw clench. — Maybe not so loud? The walls are made of cardboard.
— Who cares about the neighbors? We’re young! — she jumped on the bed, springs whining under her weight. — Daddy, you’re the best; now we’ll finally start living!
The word “Daddy” cut his ear like styrofoam on glass; he had asked her three times not to call him that. She just laughed, saying it was “cute and modern.”
— Yes, we’ll live, Sveta, of course.
He tried to stand to hug her, after all, this body was why he had ruined his well-ordered life. But Sveta caught him, holding him at arm’s length.
— N-no — she giggled, pointing with her finger painted bright green. — Igor, we agreed I’m a girl of strict rules.
— Svet, we’re adults… — he started, feeling like a schoolboy begging for a cigarette.
— I’m an adult, but principled. My mother raised me that way: “Respect yourself, Sveta, don’t give yourself away.” We’ll file the papers on Tuesday, and then you’ll have your first wedding night; everything must be beautiful.
Igor sank back into the chair. Sveta didn’t let him close, keeping a full arm’s length distance, driving him crazy.
Sveta sat in front of the mirror, applying face cream. Igor watched her profile, and a small, familiar detail began to scratch at his memory.
On Sveta’s left cheek, just below her ear, a tiny brown birthmark appeared, almost perfectly heart-shaped.
Igor rubbed his nose as a wave of déjà vu washed over him. He had seen that birthmark. He had seen it exactly, not in a movie or a magazine.
Sochi, 2003.
A business trip from the factory, heat that melted the asphalt, and cheap cognac in plastic cups. The cafeteria girl at the “Volna” boarding house, her name was Tamara.
Tamara — fiery, loud, with a turned-up nose and contagious laughter.
Igor was relatively young and passionate then; the holiday romance flared up like dry grass and burned out in a week. He hadn’t even properly said goodbye, simply caught the morning train, leaving money on the nightstand “for fruit.”
He shook his head, dismissing the specter: everyone has birthmarks; half the country does.
— Daddy, what’s wrong? — Sveta turned to him. — Should we order pizza? I’m starving, dying, only with pineapple!
— With pineapple — Igor echoed. — Right now.
The phone in his pocket vibrated, irritating his hip; Igor pulled it out. A message from Marina.
Something tightened inside him: maybe she had changed her mind and was telling him to come back? That would amuse his wounded pride.
He opened the chat.
“Igorek, you completely forgot, you were in such a hurry to start your new life that you didn’t take the family archive.
I went through the papers and found a photo from your new love’s graduation. You like knowing everything about someone, right? Look closely at her mother; I think you’d get along well.”
The photo loaded agonizingly slowly: first, the colorful top, balloons, and the “2021 Graduate” ribbon. Then Sveta’s happy face.
And then the woman who hugged her at the shoulders appeared.
The world tilted. Tamara was looking at Igor from the screen.
She was twenty years older, wider, but it was her — the same determined chin, the same gaze. But the real blow wasn’t that.
In the photo, they stood in profile, laughing at something.
Both — the mother and the daughter — had exactly the same nose. Igor’s nose, with a subtle familial bump he had hated all his life.
And Tamara’s birthmark was in the same spot under her ear — a small heart-shaped dot.
Igor brought the photo closer with trembling fingers: Tamara held a sign, written in marker: “Raised her myself while dad was finding himself.”
His ears rang like an airplane taking off, and the air in the room became thick and sticky.
He turned to Sveta, who sat on the floor choosing a selfie filter. She turned her head, and the lamp’s light highlighted every feature.
Igor saw his nose, his brow ridge, and the shape of his ears, which he had always hidden under his longer haircut.
— Daddy? — she called.
Now the word was no longer a playful joke but a verdict, with no right to appeal. The phone slipped from his damp hands and thudded on the carpet.
— Daddy, why are you silent? — Sveta laughed, not noticing that all the color had drained from Igor’s face. — By the way, guess what, my mom always said my eyes change color like my father’s, it’s hereditary! What about yours? Show me!
Igor slowly, dreamily, turned toward the large sliding wardrobe mirror. In the mirror, an old man looked back at him.
His temples, which he had carefully tinted with expensive dye yesterday, were now completely white.
He had left his wife for his own daughter.
And now he was about to…
A nauseating spasm twisted his stomach, and a lump rose to his throat. Sveta jumped up, ran to him, and hugged him from behind, pressing her body against his.
— You’re so tense, honey — she whispered in his ear, exuding the sweet smell of chewing gum. — Maybe let’s skip the official stuff? Maybe we try today? I want you so much…
Igor gasped for air but couldn’t inhale; his chest felt encased in a steel hoop. He turned to her, gripping her thin shoulders, staring with wide, horrified eyes.
— Sveta… — he croaked in a foreign, hoarse voice, staggering back as if fleeing fire. — Tell me, your mother never said the name of the man she met in Sochi?
