Inna, let’s agree on something right away so there are no hard feelings later. I’ll support you, and in return you won’t lay claim to my property. Everything will go to my children. Deal? my new husband, Artyom, looked at me questioningly.
“Deal,” I sighed.
We made that arrangement five years ago.
I never dreamed of getting married. I was fine on my own. I’m probably a complete egoist. A job, my own apartment, a friend, my cat Barsik—what else do you need?
But time passed, everyone around me started families and had kids. And my best friend Katya up and moved to the Czech Republic with her husband.
When acquaintances met me, the first thing they asked was, “Well, already or still?”
What was I supposed to say? Already married, or still waiting for my prince?
Then I met a guy. I decided: why not? I’ll change my status. I used to be a spinster; I’ll become a married lady. I ensnared my Seryozha—he didn’t even have time to catch his breath. He was a decent guy: calm, handy, an excellent cook. Only one problem—I didn’t love him. And I couldn’t make myself. Sergey tried to please me, I could feel it, but…
We lived together for three years. And then he suddenly died. He wasn’t even forty—his heart. Death doesn’t ask if we’re ready. Guilt ate me up. I berated myself for my indifference, for not being able to love him. I decided that was it—never getting married again!
Katya would call, brag about her Czech life, and invite me to visit. I packed up and flew to Prague. Everything around me felt unfamiliar.
Katya chattered nonstop about her daily life.
“Inna, we’ve been invited to my husband’s boss’s birthday party tonight. Will you come? I already told him about you. Viktor is dying to meet you—I showed him your photo!” my friend gushed.
“Are you out of your mind? What do I need him for? He’s Czech! I’m not going!” I protested.
“You’re a fool! Viktor’s a catch! Divorced, two adult sons. Don’t miss your chance, Inna!” Katya wouldn’t let up.
“All right, I’ll think about it,” I gave in. If only you knew how grateful I’d be to her later!
“There’s nothing to think about! We’ll marry you off to him!” Katya suddenly declared.
It felt like everything had already been decided without me. Well then, I’ll go. I didn’t want to upset my friend.
That evening Katya, her husband, and I went to Viktor’s.
We were greeted by an imposing man of about fifty. I was stunned—my “groom” turned out to be so handsome and charming. Viktor kissed my hand and invited me to the table. I was ready to marry him on the spot. All evening we exchanged glances, smiled, joked.
By the way, Viktor spoke Russian pretty well—his grandmother was from Voronezh. Perfect! We had plenty to talk about.
In short, we exchanged numbers. Just in case. Life is unpredictable.
I flew home walking on air.
From then on I could only think about Viktor. I wanted to love and be loved. He called often—our conversations would go on for hours. It felt like we’d known each other a hundred years.
And then he proposed. Without a second thought, I dashed off to Prague.
Viktor met me at the airport with a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. My future husband was standing at the foot of the gangway on one knee. I got flustered—everyone was watching. He handed me the flowers, kissed me passionately, then swept me up in his arms and carried me to a taxi. The onlookers applauded.
We went to his place. Three days of mad passion flew by in a single blink. It was a spark. No need to say anything—everything was clear.
Then Viktor “presented” me—introduced me to his sons and his mother. That’s when my jaw dropped.
Two married sons gave the future stepmother (me) an appraising once-over and exchanged meaningful looks—as if to say, “You’re exactly what we didn’t need.” Viktor’s mother looked about a hundred. She sat grandly in a wheelchair like a queen. Neither the sons nor the mother spoke a word of Russian.
I thought: what a family! Is this really my “luck”? Viktor sensed the awkwardness, but the ritual of introductions was done—so we could sit down at the table. You don’t have to chatter there; you can just quietly sample the dishes.
Thank God, everyone lived separately. The sons in another city, his mother in a nursing home. She was, in fact, exactly ninety-three.
Once all the relocation formalities were settled and the wedding fanfare died down, Viktor set a condition: after his death, everything would go to his sons. For me—decent funeral arrangements. I agreed. We had it notarized.
But that wasn’t enough for the sons. They constantly pried into our lives. Every week Viktor dragged me either to the children or to his mother in the nursing home. I put up with it, meek as a mouse under a broom.
First, I wasn’t working. Second, I flew to Europe twice a year. Third, I loved my husband. The pros outweighed the cons.
Four years passed. And then Viktor fell ill. Seriously. He took to bed and didn’t get up. Caring for him, visits to his mother, tense dealings with his sons—all of it fell on me. Life stood still.
After a year of illness and my care, Viktor rewrote his will in my favor. I had no idea.
But the sons were on our doorstep the very next morning. Cue panic.
The conversation was unpleasant. Drilling me with hateful stares, the sons urged their father to “come to his senses.” Wives are a dime a dozen, but sons are forever. Blood is thicker.
I sat aside. I could see Viktor was tired. I asked everyone to calm down and listen to me. By then I spoke passable Czech.
“Don’t worry, guys. I don’t want anything except your father’s health. I never had any illusions.”
The sons called their wives. They’d been waiting outside on a bench. Two ladies came in. They looked at their husbands—the husbands nodded.
Viktor asked everyone to leave except me. Relatives reluctantly withdrew.
“Inna, are you really refusing everything? Why? If something happens, you’ll be left with nothing,” he said, surprised.
“The main thing for me is you. That’s all,”
