Olga pushed the apartment door open with her shoulder, her hand clutching a bag full of notebooks.
She had been grading geometry tests until eight o’clock. Thirty-two papers, only five written well. The rest were all twos and threes, her eyes aching, a headache drumming at her temples.
— Dimi, hi — she called down the empty hallway.
No reply came; the usual sounds echoed from the room: a tap on the keyboard, a muffled video voice. Dmitrij lay sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, in front of him an empty bowl of fluffy pasta, crumbs from chips, an empty beer can.
Olga went into the kitchen, opened the fridge—empty. Only mayonnaise, ketchup, and a jar of pickles. She had asked him yesterday to buy milk, eggs, bread at least!
— Dimi, did you forget to go to the store?
— Didn’t have time, the meeting ran late.
Olga sighed. That same meeting again. For three months now, every Thursday until nine. Only, it wasn’t the scent of coffee from the office machine she smelled on him, but some expensive, sweet women’s perfume.
She said nothing, took out the last package of pasta from the freezer, and set a pot on the stove.
— Maybe we could visit Aunt Zina this weekend? — she asked, stirring the pot. — She called, wants help with her computer, wants to learn video calls with her grandchildren. They live in Samara, they never see each other.
Dmitrij didn’t even lift his eyes from the screen:
— To that old lady again? Saturday I’m playing football with the guys.
— But she’s alone… She’s seventy-eight!
— Then go yourself, why do you need me?
— Dimi, we haven’t been there in a month…
— Listen, I’m tired! Do you understand? Tired! I’ve been calling clients all day, I meet my targets, and you talk to me about some old lady! Go if you want! Don’t involve me!
Olga swallowed a lump in her throat and stayed silent. Usually, she stayed quiet—it was easier, no shouting, no fights.
Saturday morning, she got ready, bought Aunt Zina’s favorite pastry, the “Potato” from the bakery, and took the bus. For an hour and a half, she rattled across the city until she reached the suburban blocks and the crooked garages.
Gray five-story buildings, peeling paint in stairwells, grandmothers sitting on benches, nibbling sunflower seeds.
Aunt Zina greeted her at the door, small, thin, in a floral apron:
— Olga, darling! Come in quickly! I baked a fish pie, your favorite!
The apartment was tiny, twenty-eight square meters, but incredibly cozy. Crochet doilies on the dressers, flowers on the windowsill: violets, geraniums. The smell of baked goods, cinnamon, fresh laundry.
— Aunt Zina, you’re still the same! — Olga smiled, embracing the fragile old woman.
They sat at the table; Olga showed her how to turn on the camera on the laptop, dial her grandchild’s number, adjust the volume. Aunt Zina watched carefully, taking notes in her notebook with large, trembling letters.
— Olga, you know you’ve lost weight and your eyes are dark—are you okay?
— Yes, Aunt Zina, just tired from work.
— Because of work… or at home? — she squinted mischievously, sipping from the rose-patterned cup.
Olga smiled, but looked away, used to not complaining. Why spoil others’ mood? Everyone had their own struggles.
— Everything’s fine. Dimi’s tired, I’m tired, that’s life.
— Life… — Aunt Zina repeated thoughtfully. — I’ve lived all my life. One thing I say: life is fair if you feel good; if you feel bad, that’s not normal.
Olga drank her tea, and Aunt Zina said no more. She just looked at her with a serene gaze and poured another cup of tea.
— Take a pie home — she said when Olga left, packing half in a bag. — Give some to your husband too, let him know his wife is caring.
Olga returned home at seven, Dmitrij sitting at the computer, playing some shooting game. Dirty dishes in the kitchen, crumbs on the table.
— Dimi, I brought a pie, Aunt Zina baked it.
— Uh — he grumbled, not looking up.
Olga put the pie on the table and began washing the dishes; darkness fell outside.
A month passed.
One evening, Aunt Zina called, her voice weak, trembling:
— Olga, I fell last week, not badly, but hit my knee. The doctor said it’s better to get checked, to make sure it’s not broken. But I’m scared… I’m afraid alone, all the infusions, injections…
— Of course, Aunt Zina! When should we go?
— Monday, but I don’t want to burden you… Your work, your husband…
— No burden at all! I’ll be there after work, immediately!
— You’re my treasure, thank you.
At home, she told Dmitrij, who looked at her as if she’d gone mad:
— That old lady again? Does she have no family? You’re the only one?
— Dimi, she’s my great-aunt! Distant, but still family, no one else can help. The grandchildren in Samara, the siblings scattered.
— Then she should stay in the hospital, doctors, nurses. Why run there every evening? Do you think of yourself at all?
— I won’t leave her alone.
— And what about me? I work all day, come home, no wife! And no dinner!
— Just a quick visit, one hour at most.
— I don’t care! Do what you want!
He slammed the bedroom door; Olga clenched her teeth, didn’t want to argue. It was already over, she understood, but she refused to admit it.
Every evening, after work, she went to the other side of the city. Brought apples, pastries, read newspapers to Aunt Zina, whose eyes were failing. They talked about everything: weather, neighbors, old times.
— Olga, you know, — Aunt Zina said once — here I lie and think… life is short, feels like I was young yesterday, had suitors, and today I lie here, with aching knees.
The point is, don’t give up happiness, don’t exchange it for something meaningless, understand?
Olga nodded, didn’t understand the hint.
Dmitrij came home later and later, citing meetings, clients, sometimes didn’t come home at all, saying he stayed at a friend’s, they were drunk, didn’t want to spend on a taxi.
Two weeks later, Aunt Zina was discharged. The doctor was strict:
— Rest, don’t carry anything, just lie down. Come for a check-up in a month.
A week later, Vera Ivanovna, Aunt Zina’s neighbor, called:
— Olga, your great-aunt is very ill, barely eating, only two spoons of soup… Maybe she could stay with you for a while? I’m afraid something could happen…
That evening Olga went immediately. Aunt Zina lay on the couch, pale, thin, smiling faintly:
— Don’t worry, dear, I’m just tired. Aging is no joy.
— Aunt Zina, come with me! I’ll take care of you, feed you!
— Your apartment is small, rented, where would I sleep? Dmitrij won’t like it.
— We’ll manage! There’s a couch, just say yes!
The old woman nodded. Olga packed her clothes: robe, nightgowns, medications, photographs, and called a taxi.
At home, Dmitrij stood in the doorway, looking as if she had brought a homeless person:
— What are you doing?! An old lady! Where do I sleep?!
— Dimi, she’s sick, has nowhere else to go.
— And what do I endure? Snoring, the smell of medicine! I didn’t move to a hospital?!
Aunt Zina looked at Dmitrij, said nothing. She went to the room and lay on the couch, facing the wall.
The next day Dmitrij was already at a friend’s:
— I want proper sleep! Impossible with this old lady! Smells, moans, pills!
Olga didn’t argue, it was over, she understood.
Three weeks passed.
Olga cooked, washed, gave medications. Aunt Zina barely got up, only occasionally saying:
— Olga, thank you, I don’t know what would’ve happened without you… You’re the only one who didn’t leave me.
— Aunt Zina, don’t say it like I’m your mother. My mother died when I was fifteen, remember?
— I remember, dear, I remember. It was good. Poor girl, gone too soon.
Then one morning, Olga entered the room with breakfast and immediately knew. Aunt Zina lay quietly, peacefully, a pale smile, no breath, gone in sleep.
Olga cried, holding her cold hands.
Dmitrij came to the funeral, stood at the back, looking at his phone, and when the coffin was lowered, leaned toward Olga and quietly asked:
— Now at least we can live normally? Without all the sickness and old people?
Olga looked at him and saw coldness, emptiness, indifference in his eyes.
A week passed.
Olga walked through life like in a fog, work, home, work, home. Dmitrij acted as if nothing had happened.
Then the notary called:
— Are you Olga Sergeyevna Petrova? Zinaida Fedorovna Kovaljova left her apartment to you. Come for the documents and don’t forget the death certificate.
Olga could not believe her eyes.
At home, Dmitrij waited, already knew, Katya, his girlfriend, had told him when Olga called in shock.
— So that’s how it is, — Dmitrij said formally, without greeting. — We’ll sell the apartment, I found a realtor, Sashka’s friend. Three million. Enough for a three-bedroom in the new building!
— Dimi, I don’t want to sell, it’s Aunt Zina’s memory.
— What memory?! It’s money! Real money! How much is rent per month? Thirty thousand! And here a ready apartment! We sell and buy a better one downtown! Or take a loan, the money as down payment! Are you stupid?
Olga clenched her fists, wanted to shout, but swallowed it. She asked for a week to think.
— A week to think?! There’s nothing to think about! Tomorrow we sign the contract!
— Dimi, give me a week.
— One week! No more!
That weekend, Olga went to the apartment to tidy things. Sitting on the floor among boxes, she cried, recalling Aunt Zina’s words:
— The most important thing in life isn’t things, but people. Real people. Those who stay when times are hard.
Olga opened cabinets, looked through old clothes, scarves, photographs. Here Aunt Zina young, beautiful with her husband. Here at a wedding, with a grandchild in her arms.
When she returned home, the phone rang suddenly. Dmitrij had left it on the table. The screen showed a message:
“Kitten, hang in there a bit longer. Soon we’ll sell this dump, get us a flat in Sochi. Already picked: two rooms, sea view, huge balcony! Sveta.”
Olga felt everything freeze inside. Her hands shook as she opened the message. Dmitrij had been seeing Sveta for six months, since February.
Promising a new life after the sale. Calling his wife “boring teacher,” saying he’d soon be rid of her, just hold on a little longer.
She closed the phone, looked out the window. Gray buildings, blue sky, trees.
And a strange relief came over her; now everything was clear, everything in its place.
That evening Dmitrij sat at the laptop…waiting for some new online game, texting Sveta, smiling at the screen. Olga stood silently in the kitchen among the boxes, and finally felt no guilt for anything.
Three days later, she handed over the keys. The apartment Aunt Zina had left her was locked, boxes put away. She did not cry, only felt in her heart the freedom that never came from her husband or anyone else, but from herself.
The next morning, she went to school. The children were already waiting, ready for geometry class. Olga entered the classroom, set down her bag, and took a deep breath. Her work remained, the one thing that did not betray her, did not abandon her.
Dmitrij eventually sold the apartment, moved in with Sveta, to the large seaside balcony. Olga never saw them together again, and somehow that was comforting.
She knew freedom is sometimes quiet and slow, not a lightning strike, but a small step on the floor, a choice that finally separates the fake from reality.
And when she came home in the evening, sat in the kitchen, took out her notebooks, grabbed a pencil, and began grading. The children’s smiles, the small moments of simple life—these were what gave life meaning again.
Aunt Zina’s memory lived on not in things or an apartment, but in the care, love, and quiet strength Olga had learned to give and accept.
And finally, after one chapter closed, a new one began: her own life, her own choices, her own freedom.
