The measuring probe clinked dully against the tiled laboratory table as I set it down a little too sharply. The echo seemed to run through the room, dissolving into the soft hum of machines and the steady murmur of ventilation shafts.
— Forty-two percent. Too high again — I said quietly, but firmly. — Send the shipment back, Petrovich. With this flour you can barely make paste, not proper Borodinsky bread.
Petrovich, the warehouse manager, nervously licked his lips, as if still hoping I might change my mind. But he knew better than to argue with me.
I had been working at this factory for twelve years, and my nose often detected excessive grain moisture long before the instruments even registered it.
Slowly I wiped my hands on my white lab coat, then reached for my cup of tea.
It had already gone cold, bitter, without sugar—just the way I liked it. Igor, however, never remembered. He always added two spoons, as if sweetness could fix everything.
Then my phone suddenly vibrated on the table so violently it shifted, bumping into the thermometer case. Unknown number. Landline.
— Inna Viktorovna? — a dry, official female voice said. — This is Vest-K Bank, senior account officer Svetlana speaking. I’m calling regarding your “Savings” account.
Your authorized representative is insisting on closing the account. Four hundred eighty thousand in cash.
I slowly sat down on a stool. My coat rustled softly, and a strange sharp pain shot through my back.
— What representative? — I asked. — I don’t have any authorized persons.
— Tamara Stepanovna Savina. She presented a general power of attorney issued two years ago. She claims you are in the hospital and urgently need money for surgery.
For a moment, all sound around me disappeared.
— Tamara Stepanovna is at the dacha — I said finally, but my voice sounded чужим, foreign. — In Nerekhta. She left three days ago.
— No, she is here at the central office. She insists you are unconscious. Should we call the police, or will you come?
— I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not release anything.
I hung up. I wasn’t shaking. It just felt as if my hands had become heavy, like raw dough.
One number kept spinning in my head: 480,000.
An inheritance from my aunt in Vologda. Igor and I had planned to use it to pay off the loan for a new fermentation line—I dreamed of opening a small bakery of my own.
He knew everything.
I called him.
— Yes, Inna, I’m in a meeting — he whispered.
— Your mother is at the bank. She’s trying to take my money.
Silence.
— It must be a misunderstanding — he finally said.
— If you don’t come there, I’ll file a police report.
— Don’t call the police! — he snapped. — I’m coming. Just don’t do anything stupid, Inna. She’s an elderly woman.
I took a taxi. The car smelled of cheap “New Car” air freshener and tobacco. Through the window I watched the gray facades of the city, the Volga River dull like lead that day.
Tamara Stepanovna. Two years ago, when we first got married, she had convinced me to sign that power of attorney.
“Just in case, dear. You work with heavy equipment, Igor travels. Let it sit there, it won’t hurt anyone.”
And I believed her.
Now I knew it had been a mistake.
When I arrived at the bank, I saw her immediately. She was wearing my mustard-yellow coat, standing by the entrance, arguing sharply with the security guard.
My coat.
From my closet.
This was no longer just about money. This was a boundary crossed.
— Tamara Stepanovna? — I called.
She turned. For a moment she froze, then quickly recovered.
— Inna! You’re already better?
She was lying.
Openly. Effortlessly.
— Leave this place — I said quietly.
— You don’t understand! — she grabbed my arm. — Yura is in mortal danger!
— That is my money.
— Everything belongs to the family!
Then Igor arrived. He looked between us, confused.
— Inna… maybe we should give them part of it…
In that moment, I understood everything.
He wasn’t protecting me.
He was protecting them.
Inside the bank, things got worse. The power of attorney was valid. The money had already been prepared.
I had to bluff.
— I revoked the authorization — I said.
It wasn’t true.
But it had to work.
The security manager checked the system.
— There is no record of revocation.
Tamara smiled victoriously.
Then I made my next move.
— Check the coat pocket — I said. — There is a document there. About Igor’s debts.
Igor went pale.
There was no document.
Just a note.
But Tamara’s reaction gave everything away.
Panic.
Fear.
Guilt.
— I’m calling the police — I said.
And they came.
She didn’t scream when they took her. She looked broken, but her eyes still burned with anger.
Outside, Igor caught up with me.
— You’re really pressing charges against my mother?
— Yes.
— But she’s family!
— So was I.
I got into the taxi.
— The factory? — the driver asked.
— Yes — I nodded.
As the car pulled away, a strange calm settled over me.
At the factory, real problems were waiting.
Over-moist flour.
A faulty shipment.
Things that could be fixed.
Because at least those things didn’t lie.
