Emily Taylor

When Little Vasily Rogov Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother, “What a big lad. He’ll be a real hero one day.” His mother said nothing. Even then she looked at the bundle in her arms as though it was not her child. But Vasily didn’t become a hero. He became superfluous. The sort of child, you know, who gets born but nobody quite knows what to do with. “Your strange boy is in the sandpit again—he’s scared off all the other kids!” shrieked Auntie Linda from her second-floor flat, the self-appointed voice of neighbourhood justice. Vasily’s mum, an exhausted woman with a dull, distant look, could only snap back, “If you don’t like it, don’t look. He’s not bothering anyone.” And Vasily really didn’t bother anyone. He was big, awkward, his head always lowered, his long arms hanging at his sides. At five he was mute. At seven, he’d grunt. At ten he finally spoke—but so hoarsely and harshly that silence seemed preferable. At school, he was sat at the back of the class. The teachers would sigh at his empty gaze. “Rogov, are you even listening?” the maths teacher would ask, tapping the board with chalk. Vasily nodded. He listened. He just couldn’t see the point in answering. Why bother? They’d give him a C to keep up the stats and send him on his way. The other kids didn’t hit him—they were scared of him. Vasily was built like a young ox. But nor did they befriend him. They gave him a wide berth, like you’d skirt a murky puddle. With distaste, at arm’s length. Home was no better. His stepdad, who moved in when Vasily turned twelve, made things clear from day one: “I don’t want to see him when I get in from work. Eats like a horse, good for nothing.” So Vasily would disappear. Wander building sites, sit in cellars. He learned to be invisible. That was his one skill—he could blend with walls, with grey concrete, the filth beneath his feet. The night everything changed, a cold, miserable drizzle was falling. Fifteen-year-old Vasily was perched on the stairs between floors five and six, unable to go home—his stepdad had guests, which meant noise, smoke, and likely a heavy hand. The flat opposite creaked open. Vasily shrank into the corner, trying to seem smaller. Out came Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna. She was well into her sixties by the look of her, though carried herself like she was barely forty. The whole estate thought she was odd: never gossiped on the bench, never discussed the price of tea, always walked with her back straight. She glanced at Vasily. Not with pity, not with disgust. Instead, she looked at him thoughtfully—as though sizing up a broken clock, wondering if it could be fixed. “What are you doing sitting there?” she demanded. Her voice was low and commanding. Vasily sniffed. “Nothing really.” “Kittens are born for nothing really,” she cut him off. “Are you hungry?” Vasily was. He always was—growing lads need fuel, and the family fridge might as well have hosted mice for all it held. “Well? I don’t ask twice.” He stood awkwardly and followed her in. Her flat was nothing like the others. Books. Books everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, on chairs. It smelled of old paper and something rich and meaty. “Sit,” she nodded at a stool. “But wash your hands first—in there, use that bar soap.” Vasily obeyed. She placed a plate before him—potatoes and a proper stew, with big chunks of beef. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten real meat. He ate fast, barely chewing. Tamara Ilyinichna just sat, chin in hand, watching. “No need to rush. No-one’s going to take it off you,” she said calmly. “Chew, or your stomach won’t thank you.” Vasily slowed down. “Thank you,” he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t wipe your mouth on your sleeve. That’s what napkins are for.” She slid the pack over. “You’re practically wild. Where’s your mum?” “At home. With my stepdad.” “Figured. Not much of a place for you there.” She said it so simply that it didn’t even sting. Just a fact, like ‘it’s raining’ or ‘the bread’s gone dear.’ “Listen here, Rogov,” she said sternly. “You’ve got two paths ahead: drift, hang around alleys and play with trouble until it finishes you; or get your act together. You’ve got strength, I can see that. But your head’s full of wind.” “I’m thick,” Vasily admitted. “That’s what school says.” “School says all sorts. Their curriculum’s for average minds. You’re not average. You’re different. Where’d you get those hands?” Vasily stared at his broad, battered knuckles. “Dunno.” “We’ll find out. Come by tomorrow. My tap needs fixing—leaks like mad and calling a plumber’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll give you tools.” From then on, Vasily began calling on Tamara Ilyinichna most evenings. First it was taps, then sockets, then locks. Turned out his hands were skilled indeed. He could sense the mechanism, knew how things worked, not with logic, but with a kind of animal instinct. Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t gentle, but she taught—firmly, with high standards. “You’re not holding it right!” she’d bark. “No-one holds a screwdriver like a spoon! Put your weight behind it!” And she’d rap his knuckles with a wooden ruler—it stung, too. She gave him books—not textbooks, but tales about people who survived against the odds: explorers, inventors, pioneers. “Read,” she insisted. “Let your brain work or it’ll go to rot. Think you’re the only one like this? The world’s been full of ‘em—and they made it. Why shouldn’t you?” Slowly, Vasily learned her story. She’d been an engineer all her life. Her husband had died young, no children. The factory closed in the 90s, she scraped by on a pension and translating technical texts. But she hadn’t broken. She hadn’t turned bitter. She just lived—straightly, sternly, alone. “I’ve got no one,” she told him once. “You haven’t really, either. Doesn’t mean it’s over. It’s a beginning. Understand?” Vasily didn’t really. But he nodded. When he turned eighteen and the time came for military service, she summoned him to a proper sit-down—pies, jam, the works. “Listen here, Vasily,” she used his full name for the first time. “Don’t come back here. You’ll fall right back in—you’ll sink in this marsh. Same estate, same people, same despair. Serve your time, then move on. North, building sites, wherever. But don’t come back. Understood?” “Understood,” he nodded. She handed him an envelope. “Here’s thirty thousand. All I’ve saved. It’ll get you started, if you’re careful. Remember, you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. Be a man, Vasily. Not for me, but for you.” He wanted to say no, not take her last savings. But when he saw her severe, insistent gaze, he realised—this was her final lesson, her final order. He left. And never returned. Twenty years passed. The estate had changed. The old poplars were gone, replaced by tarmacked car parks. The benches were metal and uncomfortable now. The building aged, the facade peeled, but stood stubbornly, like an old man with nowhere else to go. A black SUV pulled up. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fine but understated coat. His face was hard, weathered by northern winds, but his eyes were calm. Certain. Vasily Rogov. Vasily Sergeyevich, as his employees now called him. Owner of a major construction firm in Siberia. One hundred and twenty on staff, three big projects running, a reputation for honest work. He’d built himself up from nothing on those northern sites—labourer, then foreman, then site manager. Studied at night, earned a degree. Saved, invested, took risks. Went bust twice, rebuilt twice. The thirty thousand Tamara Ilyinichna had given him was long repaid—he’d sent her money every month, despite her protests and threats to refuse it. But she always accepted. Then, suddenly, the money bounced back: ‘Recipient not found.’ He stood and gazed up at the fifth-floor window. Dark now. Women sat on the estate benches—new faces, the old ones gone. “Excuse me,” he asked, “does Tamara Ilyinichna still live in flat forty-five?” The women perked up; after all, such a man, in such a car… “Oh, love, well, Tamara… she went downhill fast,” one whispered. “Memory went, got muddled. Ended up signing her flat over to some relatives, so called. They packed her off to a village somewhere. Do you remember where, Nina?” “Sosnovka, I think,” the second replied. “Some ancient family house. Nephew turned up out of nowhere. Though what nephew—she had no kin. Most odd. Flat’s already on the market.” Vasily felt cold. He’d seen such scams plenty in Siberia: find a lonely pensioner, gain their trust, get a deed signed, then ship them off to rot—if they survive at all. “Where’s Sosnovka?” “About forty miles out. Roads are iffy this time of year.” He nodded, climbed into his car, and sped off. Sosnovka was a dying village of three lanes. Half the houses boarded up, roads washed out by autumn rain. A handful of old folk and families with nowhere else to go. Locals gave him directions—a tumbling shack and a collapsing fence. Mud everywhere. On a line, some threadbare laundry. Vasily pushed the rickety gate, which creaked in protest. A scruffy man in a filthy vest, bleary-eyed from drink, emerged. “What you want, mate? Lost?” “I’m looking for Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily said flatly. “No Tamara here. Off you go.” Vasily didn’t argue. He stepped forward, seized the man by the shirt, and moved him aside, almost gently. The man yelped, landing by the steps. Vasily entered the house. Damp, mould, sourness hit his nose. Dishes, bottles, filth everywhere. In the second room—on an iron bed—lay Tamara Ilyinichna. Tiny now, dried up. Grey hair matted, her face ashen, bruises beneath her eyes, lips cracked. But it was her. The woman who’d taught him to hold a screwdriver, to believe in himself. The one who’d given him all she had and told him: “Be a man.” She opened her eyes, unfocused. “Who’s there?” Her voice was weak, broken. “It’s me, Tamara Ilyinichna. Vaska. Rogov. Remember? The one who fixed your taps.” She peered at him, blinking tears from her eyes. “Vaska…” she whispered. “Come back… I thought I was seeing things. You’re so big now. A real man…” “I am, Tamara Ilyinichna. Thanks to you.” He wrapped her in a blanket—so light, she barely weighed anything—and lifted her in his arms. Beneath the smell of sickness and damp, he caught the familiar scents of her—old paper and soap. “Where are we going?” she asked, frightened. “Home. To mine. It’s warm there. And there are books. Lots of books. You’ll like it.” On the way out, the sorry man tried to bar the way. “Oi! You can’t just take her! Show me your papers! She signed the house to me, I look after her!” Vasily stopped, looked at him—calmly, with no anger. The man blanched. “You can explain it to my lawyers,” Vasily said evenly. “And the police. And the court. And if I find out you tricked her—believe me, I’ll make sure you pay. Got it?” The man nodded furiously. It took months—hearings, paperwork, court battles—to overturn the deed, proven signed when Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t competent. The so-called nephew was a scam artist, a repeat offender. The flat was restored; he was sent to prison. But Tamara Ilyinichna no longer needed the flat. Vasily built her a home—a real home, not a mansion, but a solid timber house on the edge of a Siberian city. Scents of wood, a crackling stove, and sunlight filled the rooms. She lived in the brightest room on the ground floor. The best doctors, a carer, nutritious food. She got better, gained some colour. Her memory never returned fully, but her spirit was intact. She read again, bossed the housekeeper, pointed out dust on shelves. “What’s that cobweb? This a house or a barn?” she’d grumble. And Vasily would smile. But he didn’t stop there. One night he came home with a thin young lad, wary and skittish, a scar along his jaw, clothes swallowing his frame. “Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily introduced, “this is Alex. Found his way onto the building site. No home. An orphanage boy—just turned eighteen. Great with his hands, mind’s a bit breezy.” She put down her book, fixed her glasses, and took him in, head to toe. “What are you standing around for? Wash up—soap’s in the bathroom. We’ve got meat pies tonight.” Alex jumped, glanced at Vasily for assurance. Vasily smiled and nodded. A month later, a girl arrived—Katie. Twelve, slight limp, head always bowed. Vasily became her guardian after her mum was stripped of parental rights for drink and violence. The house grew fuller—not charity, not for show but for real family. A family of those who never belonged anywhere. The rejects, who’d found each other. Vasily would watch as Tamara Ilyinichna taught Alex to plane wood, rapping his knuckles with that ancient ruler. As Katie read aloud in a slow, stumbling voice but read all the same. “Vasily!” called Tamara Ilyinichna, “Why are you dawdling? Come help! The youngsters can’t move the wardrobe on their own!” “Coming,” he’d reply. He’d step towards them—towards his strange, patchwork, difficult family. And for the first time in forty years, he knew he wasn’t superfluous. He was exactly where he was meant to be. “Well, Alex,” Vasily asked one evening as the house slept, “how do you like it here?” The lad sat on the porch, staring at the stars. The Siberian sky was massive, cold, full of light. “It’s alright, Uncle Vasily. Just weird, that’s all. Why would you bother with me? I’m a nobody.” Vasily sat beside him, handed over an apple from his pocket. “Once someone told me: ‘Kittens are born for nothing, really.’” Alex chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means nothing happens for no reason. Not good, not bad. There’s always a reason, always a consequence. You’re here now—not for no reason. So am I.” Light burned late in Tamara Ilyinichna’s room, her reading way past doctor’s orders. Vasily shook his head. “Off to bed, Alex. We’ve a fence to mend tomorrow.” “Yeah. Goodnight, Uncle Vasily.” “Goodnight.” He stayed a while on the porch. Perfect silence. No shouting neighbours. No fights. No fear. Just crickets and the distant hum of the road. He knew he couldn’t save everyone who’d been cast aside. But these ones—he had. Tamara Ilyinichna. Himself. For now, that was enough. And then, he’d get up and carry on—just as she’d taught him.

When they brought Simon Turner out of the maternity ward, the midwife told his mother, “

La vida

Rex the Loyal German Shepherd Bowed His Head at the Sight of His Old Owners, but Refused to Leave—A Heartwarming Winter Tale of Betrayal, Community, and a Dog’s Unbreakable Loyalty in a British Suburb

The dog dropped his head when he saw his owners, but he didnt budge an inch. It all kicked off in December

La vida

The Angel in the Surgery: From Schoolgirl First Aid to Respected London Doctor—How Elizabeth Bennett’s Compassion and Resolve Changed the Life of a Difficult Colleague and Helped a Patient Find Love and Hope in the NHS

Fairy By the time she was in Year 7, it was clear to everyone that Lisa Bradshaw would make a wonderful

La vida

012

The Further Apart We Are, the Closer I Feel… “You know what, my dear grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one option: I won’t go stay with my daughters anymore, nor wander from friend to friend, and I’m not going to look for a ‘companion’ at my age. Honestly! Trying to marry me off in my sixties! “Gran, it’s what I keep telling you! Mum says it too — move into a retirement home. Just transfer the house to my name, they’ll give you a room, Mum will sort it out. You’ll have neighbours your age, someone to talk to, and you won’t be in my way.” “I’m not leaving my home, Sasha. If I bother you, there’s the door in every direction. You’re young and clever, go find a flat and live as you please. Didn’t want to study? Go get a job. Bring a new girlfriend over every day if you want. I’m nearly 65; I need my peace and quiet. “I’ve drifted about long enough — it’s time to come home. It’s not right, being forced out of my own house, while you and your parade of fiancées live off my pension. My pension isn’t endless, you know. You have one week. Find a flat or go stay with your friends, or that, what’s-her-name — forgot again — but I want you out by tonight. Imagine it! Trying to send me to a home, or set me up with a suitor at my age! “The grandson tried to argue, but Lydia turned away, went to her room, and shut the door, head pounding. She’d have taken a pill, but didn’t want to cross paths with her grandson in the kitchen, so she sipped the last of the mineral water from her bedside bottle instead. *** Lydia surprised herself with her resolve. Years of frustration had finally boiled over. She’d put up with it for two years — bouncing from one daughter’s house to the other, always shooed home after a hint that her stay had ‘dragged on.’ “Now her twenty-year-old grandson is playing master in her cottage. One week it’s this girlfriend, next week another, and Gran gets in the way, wheezing on the other side of the wall, ruining the romance. “Gran, go visit someone. Then Dasha, Masha, Chloe, Sarah — whomever I’m dating this week — and I could have the place to ourselves.” And so Lydia would traipse to her cousin’s, or her mate’s, or an old colleague’s — overstaying each welcome until, inevitably, she wore out her hosts. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a new baby. Life in London, a mortgage, an older child at school — she needed Gran’s help as much as ever. Lydia moved in, and at first, everyone was delighted: hot meals, a spotless flat, looked-after grandchildren. But within a few months, the son-in-law — just ten years younger than Lydia — began to complain: “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages — they’re dreadful for us. You’re home all day, is it really that hard to make proper food? Cutlets, maybe, or roast chicken…” “Cutlets are good, but you’re spending a fortune on groceries!” “Do I look like some grass-munching herbivore? There’s barely any meat!” On and on, always something not quite right. “You’re at home with the kids, surely you could help the older one with her homework — why pay tutors with a grandmother here?” Even her older granddaughter — only in Fourth Year, mind you — was mortified by Gran’s unfashionable clothes and her insistence on studying. “Gran, why are you even here? You’ve got your own cottage in the country, go back there and be bossy!” Lydia stayed silent, making up for her “shameful” granny ways by giving pocket money, buying meat out of her tiny pension, sometimes topping up her grandson Sasha’s energy bills. Telling her daughter was useless — the girl wouldn’t hear a word against her precious husband, never mind she’d poached him from another family. Whenever the little one was in nursery, they’d gently drop hints — Lydia’s help was no longer needed. The moment she realised it, Lydia left without waiting to be pushed. Coming home, she found Sasha, her eldest daughter’s son, installed — and not alone, but with his girlfriend, her little house a mess, bills unpaid. She had no choice but to cover the costs with a loan and tidy up. But apparently, her presence ruined her grandson’s “personal life” in the two-bedroom cottage. Almost before she could settle, her younger daughter called for help with the new baby, and off Lydia went again. Three months later, sensing she was a nuisance once more, she returned home — but Sasha was still dissatisfied. So she might have endured it all again, had one incident not tipped her over the edge. *** “Sasha, I’m off to Shirley’s for her birthday — I’ll be late, just lock up, I’ll sneak in the back so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay overnight? Give us a couple days to ourselves, yeah?” “I’m only just home a week — how could you be fed up with me already?” “Well, a week is long enough. Staying over or not?” “No. I’m coming home.” At Shirley’s, they celebrated — memories, laughter, trying not to mention the problems. Then Shirley got a call — Lydia’s daughter, asking Shirley to keep her mum overnight so the young couple could have the house to themselves. “She even rang last week,” Shirley whispered after the call, “asking me if I knew any older fellas with a spare flat for you to move in with. All so Sasha could have the cottage.” *** Lydia poured her heart out — about living with her eldest daughter and then the youngest, about feeling like an intruder in her own home thanks to her good-for-nothing grandson. “I’m not even mistress in my own house anymore. Sasha left for town after school, but his step-granddad made him feel unwelcome, so he came back, no college, not drafted. Now he’s my permanent houseguest.” Lydia refused to stay that night, went home, and finally told Sasha everything she’d kept bottled up. Sasha complained to his mother, but Lydia stood her ground. Sasha moved out in a huff — “Don’t expect help from me, Gran!” he snapped. Lydia was glad to be alone. For once, she could breathe, after a life spent catering to everyone else. Her daughters begged her to move back in for help with the grandchildren. But Lydia refused. “Bring them to me,” she said. “The air’s healthier here. At last, I’m mistress of my own home.” Now, whenever her daughters and grandchildren visit, she welcomes them gladly — but no more moving or putting her life on hold. Lydia says, the further apart we are, the closer we become. And I think she’s right.

The further away, the closer to heart You know what, my dear grandson! If Im truly such a burden to you

La vida

Why My Wife Brought Home an Unlucky Stray Cat Who Couldn’t Stay Out of Trouble, Got Him a Chihuahua for Company (Whose Luck Was Somehow Worse), and How Two Hapless Pets Taught Our Family That Love Is the Best Kind of Luck

Diary Entry Today has been another reminder of just how unpredictable life can be when you have unlucky

La vida

026

I Spent Five Years in This Relationship – Two Years Married and Three Years Living Together, with Most of Our Engagement as a Long-Distance Romance Where We’d Only Meet Every Few Months, but What Seemed Like a Perfect Love Unravelled When I Discovered Signs of His Cheating, Faced Heartbreak, and Chose to Leave with My Integrity Intact Rather Than Become What He Had Been to Me

I was in that relationship for five years. Wed been married for two, and before that, we lived together

La vida

A Little Girl Walked Into a Café and Saw Leftover Food on a Table—She Started Eating, Until a Waiter Stepped In. But What Happened Next Will Melt Your Heart! Maria Was Just 8, With Five Siblings and a Struggling Mum, Yet a Single Act of Kindness Turned Her Saturday Into a Lesson on Compassion You’ll Never Forget

A young girl walked into a restaurant. She noticed a plate with some leftover food on a table and quietly

La vida

Miss, after this old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table—I haven’t got time to waste! I’m feeling generous today; put his bill on me. But the humble old man was about to teach the wealthy snob a lesson he’d never forget! In that cosy little restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of England, time seemed to move differently.

Miss, as soon as that old chap finishes slurping up his cheap soup, please clear his table for me.

La vida

An Old Woman Found a Necklace on the Floor of a Village Church and Refused to Hand It Back… Until She Unlocked a Family Secret That Would Change Her Life Forever

Sunday, 3rd September Today, something extraordinary happened, the kind of day that gently unsettles

La vida

An Elderly Gentleman Struggled From His Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Made His Way to the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Squinted at His Slumbering Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away?”—He Sank to His Knees. “Seems She’s Breathing.” He Stood and Slowly Shuffled Into the Kitchen. Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Headed to His Room. Lying Awake, He Thought: “Lena and I Are Both Ninety. What a Life We’ve Lived! Soon We’ll Be Gone, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter Natasha Died Before Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, But She’s Been in Germany for Over Twenty Years—She Never Remembers Us. She Probably Has Grown-Up Children of Her Own Now.” He Didn’t Notice When Sleep Overtook Him. He Awoke to a Gentle Touch: “Kostya, Are You Alive?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Leaning Over Him. “Lena, What’s the Matter?” “I Saw You Lying So Still, I Was Frightened. Thought You’d Died.” “Still Alive! Go and Sleep!” Shuffling Steps Echoed. The Kitchen Light Flicked On. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Visited the Loo, and Headed to Her Room. She Lay Down, Thinking: “One Morning I’ll Wake to Find Him Gone. What Will I Do Then? Maybe I’ll Be the First to Go. Kostya’s Even Arranged Our Funerals Already—Who’d Have Thought You Could Organise Your Own? But It’s a Good Thing—Who’d Bury Us Otherwise? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us Completely. Only Polina the Neighbour Pops In Anymore—She’s Got a Key. Granddad Gives Her Part of Our Pension. She Gets Our Shopping and Medicines. Where Else Do We Have to Spend Our Money? We Can’t Even Get Down from the Fourth Floor Alone Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sunlight Was Peeking Through the Window. He Stepped Out Onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Tip of the Bird Cherry Tree. He Smiled: “We’ve Lived to See Another Summer!” He Went to Check on His Wife, Who Sat Pensively on Her Bed. “Lena, No More Pouting! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve No Strength Left!” She Struggled from the Bed. “What Are You Up To?” “Come Along Now!” He Supported Her to the Balcony. “Look, the Bird Cherry’s Green! And You Said We’d Never See Another Summer. But We Did!” “It Is—The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Together on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Invited You to the Cinema Back at School? The Bird Cherry Was Leafing Out That Day, Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago Was That?” “Over Seventy… Seventy-Five.” They Sat for a Long Time, Reminiscing About Their Youth—So Much Slips Away With Old Age, Even What Happened Yesterday, but Your Youth—That Sticks with You Forever. “We’ve Chattered Away! Haven’t Even Had Breakfast Yet.” “Lena, Make Us Some Proper Tea, Will You? I’m Tired of This Herbal Stuff.” “We Shouldn’t Really.” “Just a Weak Brew, and a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Weak Tea, Nibbling Cheese on Toast, Remembering How Breakfasts Used to Mean Strong Sweet Tea with Pies or Pasties. Their Neighbour Dropped In and Smiled Fondly: “How Are the Pair of You?” “What Can Possibly Be New When You’re Ninety?”—Granddad Joked. “Well, If You’re Jokers, You Must Be Fine. Do You Need Anything From the Shops?” “Polina, Could You Get Us Some Meat, Please?” “You’re Not Supposed to Have That.” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Make You Some Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Get Something for My Heart?” the Old Lady Asked. “Elena Ivanovna, I Got You Something Not Long Ago.” “We’ve Run Out Already.” “Maybe I Should Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Tidied the Table, Did the Washing Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Back Out on the Balcony—Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! Can’t Bear Sitting Cooped Up.” Polina Returned, Bringing Their Porridge onto the Balcony Before Starting Soup for Lunch. “She’s a Good Woman,” He Said as She Went. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And You Only Give Her Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, We Left Her the Flat in Our Will and Had It Notarised.” “But She Doesn’t Know That.” They Sat on the Balcony Until Lunch. Lunch Was Chicken Soup—Tasty, with Finely Diced Meat and Mashed Potato. “I Always Made It Like This for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Little,” Elena Ivanovna Reminisced. “And Now, in Our Old Age, It’s Strangers Who Cook for Us,” Her Husband Sighed Heavily. “Seems That’s Our Lot, Kostya. We’ll Die and No One Will Even Shed a Tear.” “Enough, Lena—No More Gloom. Let’s Have a Nap!” “They Say ‘Old Folk Are Just Like Children.’ Here We Are—Pureed Soup, Afternoon Naps, Tea Time…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed Briefly, Then Woke Unsettled—Perhaps the Weather Changing. He Checked the Kitchen—Polina Had Thoughtfully Poured Two Glasses of Juice. He Took Both to His Wife’s Room. She Sat Gazing Out the Window. “Why So Sad, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice!” She Sipped: “You Can’t Sleep Either, Can You?” “It’s the Weather—Must Be My Blood Pressure.” “I Haven’t Felt Right All Morning,” She Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Long Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off, Won’t You?” “Lena, Don’t Talk Nonsense—What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Always Goes First.” “Enough, Now—Let’s Go Onto the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Cheese Fritters, Which They Ate Before Watching TV—As Always, Soviet-Era Comedies and Cartoons, Since Modern Plots Were Hard to Follow. After One Cartoon, Elena Ivanovna Stood: “I’ll Go to Bed—I’m Tired.” “I’ll Join You, Then.” “Let Me Take a Good Look at You,” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “No Reason—Just Let Me.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time, Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Lay Ahead. “Come, I’ll See You to Bed.” She Took Her Husband’s Arm, and They Walked Slowly Together. He Tucked Her In Gently and Left for His Own Room. His Heart Felt Heavy—Sleep Would Not Come. Maybe He Hadn’t Slept at All, but the Clock Showed 2am. He Went to His Wife’s Room. She Lay Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open: “Lena!” He Took Her Hand—It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened! Lena!” Suddenly He Himself Struggled for Air. He Barely Reached His Room, Laid Out Their Documents, and Returned to His Wife. He Looked Long at Her Face, Then Lay Down Beside Her and Closed His Eyes. He Saw His Lively, Beautiful Lena, as She Was Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant Light. He Ran To Catch Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered the Bedroom. They Lay Side By Side, the Same Serene Smile On Both Their Faces. When She Recovered Herself, Polina Called for an Ambulance. The Doctor Who Arrived Looked at Them, Then Shook His Head in Wonder: “Died Together. They Must Have Truly Loved Each Other.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank Powerless onto a Chair, Only Then Noticing the Burial Contract and… a Will in Her Name. She Dropped Her Head in Her Hands and Wept.

The old man struggled upright, his bones creaking like crumbling timber, and, clutching the wallpaper