— Galina Petrovna, what exactly are we talking about? You are a modern woman, yet you argue as if we still lived in serfdom — said Vadim, adjusting his sunglasses, unwilling to rise from the lounge chair.
His thumb lazily swiped across his phone screen: up, down, like, scroll.
— Vadim, we just need to dig three meters. After yesterday’s canning session, my back won’t bend anymore,
but the garlic must be planted while the moon is in the proper phase — replied Galina, pressing her forehead against the faded sunflower-patterned scarf, worn from countless washes.
— Moon phase, — Vadim chuckled, still staring at his phone. — Let’s do some math. One of my workdays, even on a day off, costs five thousand rubles.
If I get up now, change clothes, take the shovel… at least an hour. Three kilos of garlic will cost you five thousand. Not worth it. It would be cheaper to hire old man Vitya from the village with a bottle. That’s delegation.
Galina Petrovna quietly wiped her hands on her apron. The sunflowers had faded from too many washes, yet the patterns lingered, like memories: past summers of hard work in the kitchen and garden.
— Vitya has been drunk for three days — she murmured. — And the lower back pain cannot be delegated.
She turned and walked toward the shed. The shovel was heavy and coated with sticky clay. At sixty-two, formerly head nurse of the surgical ward, Galina knew human anatomy inside and out.
Now her own body screamed: the third lumbar vertebra held only out of pride and pain-relief ointment.
This was their third summer in such order. Galina had once thought that “the cottage for the grandchildren” was joy; now she realized it was a military operation: preparation, shopping, cooking, washing, and the same cycle every day.
Preparation for the “dear guests” always began a week in advance.
Galina’s pension, twenty-one thousand four hundred rubles, had become strategic but limited in June. Feeding her daughter, son-in-law, and the two-week-old twins required financial acrobatics.
Last Tuesday, she withdrew fifteen thousand rubles from her savings account. “For the farewell,” as the neighbor joked. “Reserve fund,” Galina corrected herself.
The shopping list resembled a small restaurant’s budget:
— Yogurt for the boys (sugar-free, due to dietary restrictions);
— Steaks for Vadim (“Galina Petrovna, no pork, cholesterol!”);
— A bottle of red wine for Lena, at least a thousand rubles, otherwise they get headaches;
— Cottage cheese, sour cream, milk — only from the market, never store-bought.
“Mom is bringing vitamins!” Lena had shouted over the phone a week ago. — “The boys need fresh air, Vadim needs rest. He’s so burned out at work.”
Galina sighed, pressing the shovel into the dry soil. “Burned out.” Beautiful word. In her department, surgeons would stand twelve hours at the operating table when critical trauma cases arrived.
They didn’t burn out. They simply went gray by forty and smoked quietly on the fire escape. Vadim, however, burned out from air conditioning and Zoom meetings.
— Grandma! — Artem shouted sharply. — We’re hungry! Where’s the pancakes? Mom said you’d make them!
Galina Petrovna pushed the shovel into the soil, straightened, placed her hand on her back, as usual, and glanced at the clock. Eleven. The “city folk” were awake.
The kitchen was chaos, as if a minor battle had taken place. Coffee stains on the table, crumbs, open hardened butter. Lena sat in her silk pajamas, stirring cold tea with a spoon.
— Mom, why do we have to dig so early? — she yawned, failing to cover her mouth. — We woke up and the table is empty. You know Vadik likes omelets with tomatoes straight from the pan.
— Good morning, darling. I’ve been up since six. I watered the tomatoes, picked the cucumbers, opened the greenhouse.
— Ah, here comes your heroic discovery again — Lena grimaced. — We asked: don’t overwork. We came to talk, but you’re always… in the garden with your back.
Galina went to the stove. With practiced hands, she cracked four eggs.
— Lena, for tomatoes to appear “straight from the garden” on the table, you have to be in the garden. Otherwise, they would just rot.
— Then don’t plant them! — Lena snapped, pushing the cup aside. — Mom, it’s the twenty-first century. You can buy anything. Even VkusVill delivers here.
— It delivers — Galina replied calmly, slicing the sun-scented tomatoes. — But there it costs 400 rubles per kilo. I have three buckets a week. And three times as tasty. Calculate the difference.
Lena rolled her eyes — a gesture inherited from adolescence: “old people are stupid,” now: “aging is no pleasure.”
— You turn everything into money. Aren’t we helping enough? Vadim paid for your internet for a year.
— He did — Galina nodded. — So he could work in the pergola.
Vadim entered the kitchen. In shorts, barefoot, towel around his neck. No doubt, he looked good — three workouts a week had paid off.
— Oh, breakfast! — he rubbed his hands. — Galina Petrovna, is there coffee? Just not instant, please. Turkish with cardamom, the way I like it.
Galina silently produced the Turkish coffee pot. She was no servant. She was a hostess. But the two-week vacation days had merged into one continuous blur.
The days became an endless tape.
Morning: breakfast for five (porridge for the boys, omelet for the son-in-law, toast for Lena). Dishes.
Afternoon: soup, main course, salad, compote. Three liters gone in an hour. Dishes.
Evening: barbecue. Here, of course, Vadim was the boss.
— Women, away from the fire! — he yelled, pouring liquid on the coals. — Meat was not made for female hands.
It was his hour. He stood with skewers like a conductor. Meanwhile, in the kitchen:
— washed vegetables;
— chopped herbs;
— boiled new potatoes;
— made sauces;
— set the table in the pergola;
— wiped spilled juices.
When everyone sat down, Vadim ceremoniously placed the meat on the plates:
— Taste it! The marinade is my intellectual creation.
— Divine, darling! — Lena exclaimed. — Mom, does Vadim have talent?
— Talent — Galina nodded, subtly massaging her knee under the table. — Very tasty.
After dinner, everyone leaned back. The nightingales sang, mosquitoes buzzed.
— How wonderful it is to be in the countryside — Vadim sighed, cleaning between his teeth. — This is life. Quiet, fresh air. No traffic, no deadlines. Galina Petrovna, you are lucky. You live here like in God’s embrace.
— Yes — Galina whispered, watching the pile of dirty dishes at the table’s edge. — A true retreat.
