— Are you stupid? — Oleg stood in the doorway of the living room, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. His face was red, a vein bulging on his neck. — I said get out! In five minutes, I don’t want to see a trace of you here!I stood there holding the salad bowl, still not placed on the table. My hands were shaking;
the porcelain clinked. From the room where loud music played and raucous laughter came from the drunken guests, Nadyezhda Vasziljevna emerged. She adjusted the heavy brooch on her chest and pressed her lips together in disgust.— Ksyusha, have some conscience — she said in her saccharine voice.
— It’s your father’s birthday, thirty years! Respectable guests, and you’re pacing around with a sour face. You’ve ruined everyone’s appetite. Go, take a walk for a bit.— Take a walk? — I whispered. — It’s minus twenty outside, at night. Where should I go?
— I don’t care! — Oleg shouted, stepping closer. Alcohol reeked from his clothes, mixed with that heavy perfume his mother had given him. — Go to your own father! The train station! The basement! You ruined my party! Did I ask for a normal table? I did! And what did you cook? Some herbs,
dry fish… My friends are laughing, saying your wife is on a diet!He snatched the salad bowl from my hands. Instinctively, I tried to catch it, but failed. The crystal hit the floor, shards scattering everywhere, mixed with arugula and shrimp.
— That’s how it’s done! — he kicked a shard with the tip of his shoe. — This is my home! I am the boss! And I decide who stays and who leaves immediately! The keys are on the dresser!I looked at them. Three years. Three years I believed we were a family.
That his outbursts were just from work stress. That his mother’s “week-long” visits, which stretched into months, were temporary trials.That morning I had transferred him my last money—forty thousand forints I had saved for a doctor’s visit. He said:
“Set the table nicely, I’m inviting Larisa and her husband, you can’t make things awkward in front of them.”Larisa… his school sweetheart. She was sitting in the living room in a red dress, probably hearing every word.I slowly took my coat off the rack. It was cold;
wind blew through the cracks in the front door, which Oleg had promised to seal back in October but never did.— Fine — I said quietly. — I’ll go.— Quickly! — Nadyezhda Vasziljevna shouted, pushing my bag. — And don’t take any food; this is all your son’s money!
I put on my boots, yanked my coat on. I left my hat in the closet—it was too humiliating to search for it. I opened the door and stepped into the dark entryway.Outside, a real snowstorm raged. The February wind whipped sharp grains of snow into my face.
I went down the steps, brushed the snow off the curb, and sat down. There was nowhere to run. My parents lived forty kilometers away; the buses no longer ran. A taxi would cost fifteen hundred, and I had two hundred on my card.I took out my phone. The screen lit up in the dark: 9:15 PM.
My fingers were numb, but I found the only number that mattered: “Dad.”Ringing. Second time. Third.— Yes, Ksyusha? — my father’s voice was calm, but I felt the tension. He always knew when something was wrong.— Dad… — I tried to hold back my tears, but a sob escaped. — He kicked me out…
— Who?— Oleg. The two of them… Mom and he kicked me out. They said the apartment is theirs, and I’m nobody. I’m outside, Dad.Silence. Heavy, like the moment before a storm.— Are you at the entrance? — my father’s voice grew deep and gruff.
— Yes.— Go to the 24-hour pharmacy on the corner. Wait there. I’m coming.— Dad, don’t… there’s a snowstorm, the road is dangerous…— I said wait.I sat on the plastic chair in the pharmacy, staring at shelves filled with vitamins. The pharmacist, an elderly woman with glasses, looked at me strangely but said nothing.
She only once offered water, which I refused. My hands shook, not from the cold, but from humiliation.Half an hour later, my father’s black SUV screeched to a halt at the door. He had bought it six months ago for fishing, but now it looked like a tank.
My father came in, shaking snow off his shoulders. He wore an old but good-quality fur coat. Seeing my tears, he pressed his jaw together.— Get up, my little girl.— Dad, let’s go to yours… — I whispered.— No. Now we’re going to your home.
We returned to our apartment. The music and buffet sounds filtered through the door of “our” apartment.My father didn’t call anyone. He took out a keyring. I had forgotten it existed—“if they leave, the flowers need watering.”The lock clicked, drowning out the music. We entered.
Oleg had Larisa’s arm around him, dancing too closely. Nadyezhda Vasziljevna sat with the boss, stuffing cake into her mouth—right from what I had baked. The guests were already drunk, loudly arguing about politics.— Well, well! — Oleg noticed first. He released Larisa, staggered.
— You showed up? And you even brought your dad?The music quieted. Someone turned off the stereo.My father walked calmly, didn’t take off his shoes. Dirty, wet footprints remained on the floor.— “I kicked her out!” — Oleg repeated loudly, insolently. — What now? I have the right! My home—my rules!
My father pulled out a property deed: no gift, no share. Larisa started packing abruptly, but at my father’s command, she couldn’t leave.Reality hit Oleg: he wasn’t the boss, the house wasn’t his, Ksyusha wasn’t nobody’s.The guests backed away. Larisa left last, giving Oleg a disdainful look.
My father closed the door, changed the lock, and finally, there was silence.I buried my face in my father’s sweater and cried. Real tears, letting go of three years of lies.
