“Well, he won’t be coming…” sighed Valentina Sergeyevna with a heavy heart. “My husband and I don’t even fret anymore—we’ve grown used to it. The same old story every time. First, promises, then silence.”
“What happened this time?” I asked. “Did your daughter-in-law refuse again? I recall you two never quite got along…”
“Perhaps she did. Though my son never outright said she was the one stopping him. But it’s plain as day… He used to visit more often. Now—nothing. She’s found a way to keep him there. Even the roof—we’ll likely have to hire workmen to fix it. My son, you see, can’t spare a single day,” Valentina said, bitterness barely contained.
She spoke of her forty-year-old son, Arthur. He’d left their village twelve years ago, settling in the county town as a mechanic. Once, he’d done everything with his own hands—now he merely supervised. He’d married in the city, bought a house—all by himself. His wife, Rose, he’d found late in life—neither of them young when they wed.
“She’d never been serious with anyone before him,” Valentina continued. “And I understand why. She’s got a temper… a difficult one. We didn’t take to each other from the start. I tried, truly I did. But she… she seemed determined from the first moment to see me as an enemy.”
“I’ve heard her a time or two on the telephone,” chimed in a neighbour. “She mocks even when she greets you. I can’t fathom what he sees in her.”
Rose hardly spoke to Arthur’s parents. Once a year, by her gracious leave, he might visit them—always alone. This spring, he’d promised to come—to help mend the roof. He’d even bought his train ticket. But his wife, as it turned out, had other plans.
“She’s with child,” Valentina muttered in irritation. “Now, apparently, she can’t be left alone. Though she’s a grown woman, a nurse—what could possibly threaten her? For two weeks, she’s been wearing him down. At first, he resisted, but then…”
“And how does that look?” Valentina’s husband shook his head. “Does he hold her hand at work? Her parents live nearby—let them help. Why must he give up everything for her sake?”
“Precisely,” Valentina went on. “I’ll wager her mother’s behind it. ‘Don’t let him go,’ she’s likely said. ‘What if he returns and asks for a divorce?’ Her younger daughter, mind you, was left with a child already. Now she’s back with her parents.”
“But Arthur isn’t that sort,” I countered. “He’s honourable. And why couldn’t they come together?”
“Good heavens, no!” The woman waved her hand. “Rose would never set foot here. My husband rang her once—after that, she threw such a fit he told me never to call him again. It’s hopeless.”
“What did she say to him?”
“That we’re always demanding something. That we keep him from his family. That she hasn’t the strength to fight us anymore. That his holiday ought to be with his wife and child, not ‘pandering to old folk’s whims.’ And that she’s no need for our house—we should keep it for ourselves.”
“The nerve of her!” I exclaimed. “And your son?”
“He says he’s not at fault. That he won’t provoke her. That he worries for the child. I understand. But it isn’t fair. We raised him, gave him all we could. Now he can’t spare even a single day?”
Valentina’s husband had lost patience. In a fit of frustration, he told Arthur he wouldn’t wait—he’d hire a crew, do it himself. Let his son stay with his wife, if she mattered more than his own parents.
“But he doesn’t see it,” Valentina said quietly. “Wives may come and go… But parents? You only have one. And they won’t live forever.”
