“— I asked you not to be late!” Gleb flung his keys onto the console. “Mom made a special trip and cooked all day!”
“Gleb, I told you I’d be compiling documents, and that’s not a five-minute job,” Varvara slipped off her shoes, avoiding his eyes. “You knew that.”
“I knew, I knew… Your job is always more important than family!”
From the kitchen came the voice of Lyudmila Igorevna:
“Glebushka, don’t upset yourself. We’ll have dinner together, just the two of us. And certain people can make do with leftovers.”
Varvara exhaled and headed for the kitchen. Her mother-in-law sat at the table, ostentatiously removing the third place setting.
“Good evening, Lyudmila Igorevna.”
“What’s good about it?” she snorted. “When the hired help shows up home at half past nine.”
“Mom, that’s enough,” Gleb muttered, though there wasn’t much conviction in his voice.
“Enough what? I can’t tell the truth?” Lyudmila turned to Varvara. “Well then, tell me—what was so important in your archive that you couldn’t be home by seven?”
Varvara perched on the edge of a chair.
“We were compiling documents for a report on the foundation’s reorganization…”
“A report!” the mother-in-law cut her off. “Your papers are worth more than your husband now!”
“Mom, calm down,” Gleb poured himself tea. “Let her explain.”
“What is there to explain?” Varvara straightened her shoulders. “Rimma Borisovna entrusted me with a serious task. I can’t let the team down.”
“The team!” Lyudmila snorted. “And your own husband can wait?”
“Sorry, Varya, but Mom’s right,” Gleb set his cup aside. “Lately you’re home less and less.”
“Gleb, I get home by eight at the latest…”
“Eight, nine—what’s the difference? We used to at least have dinner together.”
Had three months of work really changed her life so much?
Author: Vladimir Shorokhov © (1791) Illustration ArtMind ©
Three months earlier, Varvara was sitting in a café with her friend Alisa, scrolling through job listings on her phone.
“Varyush, look at this opening,” Alisa showed her the screen. “Right by your place.”
“Archivist?” Varvara squinted at the tiny font. “They pay peanuts.”
“But it’s steady. And besides, you’re a trained historian.”
“On paper, sure,” Varvara sighed. “But I’ve got no experience working with documents.”
“Who needs experience? You learn fast. Remember how you wrote that term paper in two weeks when others struggled for half a year?”
“That was ages ago…”
“Oh, stop it! You’re twenty-six and in great shape. Send your résumé.”
Varvara looked out the café window. It had been a year and a half since the wedding. At first she and Gleb decided she’d take care of the home, set up their life together. Then… then they just kind of got used to that arrangement.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll try.”
Gleb took the news calmly.
“Good you’ll have something useful to do. You’ve been cooped up at home since the wedding.”
They were on the sofa and he was scrolling the news on his tablet.
“Do you think I was wasting time?” Varvara asked carefully.
“No, of course not. It’s just… well, you know, it’s good for a woman to have something to occupy her. Otherwise you can slip into depression from idleness.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Not yet. Then you’ll start dreaming up problems out of thin air.”
Varvara wanted to argue, but Gleb had already switched to another headline.
Her first day at the archive passed in a fog. Varvara was afraid of doing something wrong, kept asking again, writing down every word of the instructions.
“Don’t worry so much,” smiled the head, Rimma Borisovna Kryuchkova, a woman of about sixty with attentive gray eyes. “This isn’t an operating room. Mistakes can be corrected.”
“It’s just that I’ve never worked with document flow before…”
“That’s all right. The key is attentiveness and neatness. And you’ve got that.”
Yelizaveta Fyodorovna Sinebryukhova, a colleague nearing retirement age, showed Varvara the card files.
“See, dear, everything here is sorted by year. At first it seems complicated, but then you get used to it.”
“And if I mix something up?”
“If you do, we’ll sort it out. We’re all human; we all make mistakes. The important thing is not to be afraid to ask.”
By the end of the first week Varvara had mastered the basic procedures. It turned out a history degree really did help—she oriented herself quickly in dates and understood the logic of systematizing documents.
“You’ve got an excellent memory for case numbers,” noted Rimma Borisovna. “A rare quality in our work.”
“Thank you. I try not to let anyone down.”
“Trying is wonderful. But besides that you have a natural aptitude for what we do. In a week you’ve picked up what takes others months.”
At home, Varvara told Gleb about her work with enthusiasm.
“Imagine, today I found documents about an old neighborhood they demolished in the eighties! Such fascinating materials…”
“Uh-huh,” Gleb nodded without looking up from his phone. “Sounds great.”
“Rimma Borisovna says I’ve got a knack for archival work. Maybe in six months they’ll trust me with more complex tasks.”
“Of course they will. You’re smart.”
“Gleb, are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening, I’m listening. Documents, aptitude, they’ll trust you… Got it.”
Varvara fell silent. He sounded politely indifferent, as if she were talking about a trip to the store.
A month and a half later, Rimma Borisovna called Varvara into her office.
“Have a seat. I want to discuss a proposal with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“We’ve decided to introduce the position of senior archivist. It involves working with the most important documents and coordinating junior staff. I want to offer it to you.”
Varvara was taken aback.
“But I’ve only been working a month and a half…”
“And in that time you’ve proven yourself better than employees with many years of experience. You’ve got not only diligence, but initiative. Remember how you suggested a new system for cataloging the wartime cases?”
“It just seemed more convenient…”
“Exactly. You think. You don’t just follow instructions; you consider how to do the job better.”
Varvara hesitated.
“Won’t the others be against it? I’m the new girl…”
“Yelizaveta Fyodorovna supports you. The others think well of you too. Besides, the position comes with a salary increase—ten thousand.”
“Rimma Borisovna, I… I’m grateful for the trust.”
“This isn’t just trust; it’s recognition of your abilities. What do you say?”
“Of course I accept!”
Varvara practically flew home. A promotion after a month and a half! A raise! She pictured how happy Gleb would be and how they would celebrate.
Gleb met the news coolly.
“They promoted you? And you kept quiet?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. I got my first paycheck with the bonus today.”
“And how much now?”
“Thirty-five thousand.”
Gleb whistled.
“Not bad for an archive. A whole ten thousand more.”
There was something odd in his tone—not joy, but a touch of irony.
“Gleb, are you happy for me?”
“Sure. Good job. We’ll be living large now.”
He said the last words with a smirk, and Varvara couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.
Trouble began at the construction firm where Gleb worked. Clients were late with payments, management was cutting employee salaries.
“They promise next week again,” Gleb reported gloomily over dinner. “Third month in a row.”
“Maybe you should look for another job?” Varvara suggested cautiously. “There are lots of openings now…”
“Easy for you to say—look. Think I’m not looking? Everywhere it’s either low pay or crazy hours.”
“Well, not everywhere…”
“Varya, you don’t get it. You’ve got stability in your archive—clock in at nine, clock out at six. Construction is different.”
Varvara wanted to say that sometimes her workday stretched out too, but she kept quiet.
A few days later she was working at home on a complicated report, documents spread all over the kitchen.
“Your papers all over the place again!” Gleb came into the kitchen and began sweeping the sheets off the table.
“Gleb, careful! Those are work materials!” Varvara rushed to save the documents. “I’m preparing an important report!”
“Preparing it at home? Don’t you have enough time at work?”
“Rimma Borisovna asked me to help with the annual report.”
“Rimma Borisovna, Rimma Borisovna…” he mimicked. “Isn’t one promotion enough for you? Now you’ll toil at home for free?”
“Not for free. They’re paying me extra for overtime.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand for the report.”
Gleb stopped.
“Five thousand? For some papers?”
“For an analytical report on archival collections. It’s hard work.”
“Serious work…” he sneered. “Of course. The most serious work in the world.”
Varvara gathered the documents.
“I’ll go into the other room. I won’t bother you.”
“Sit wherever you want! You’ve turned the whole house into an office anyway!”
The second promotion came three months in. Varvara was named deputy head of the archive. Her salary rose to fifty thousand—a figure she wouldn’t have dared dream of not long ago.
“Congratulations, Varvara Sergeyevna!” Rimma Borisovna shook her hand with a firm, confident grip. “You’ve earned it.”
“I… I didn’t expect it so soon…”
“You systematized the entire archive for the nineties. That’s colossal work. Management took note.” Rimma smiled maternally. “You know, I’ve been here thirty years. You don’t meet employees like you very often.”
“I was just doing what needed to be done…”
“Exactly! You didn’t wait for instructions, didn’t look for excuses. You went ahead and did it.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now go home and celebrate. Things like this don’t happen every day.”
At home Varvara found Gleb with a bottle of beer in front of the TV. He was lying on the couch in the same T-shirt she’d left him in that morning.
“How was your day?” she asked cautiously, taking off her shoes in the hall.
“As usual. They pay every other time and promise the moon. Today again: ‘Hang in there, guys, it’ll be fine soon.’” He took a swig. “And you?”
“I… I got promoted. I’m deputy head now.”
Gleb abruptly switched off the TV and turned to her.
“What? Deputy? After three months?”
“Rimma Borisovna is retiring in a year. She’s preparing a successor.”
“Damn it…” Gleb set the bottle on the table. “And how much will you make now?”
“Fifty.”
He jumped up so fast the beer nearly spilled.
“Fifty? Are you kidding me! I’m not even making that now! They’re constantly late!”
“Gleb, this is good. For our family,” Varvara tried to keep her voice cheerful.
“For the family?” He paced the room. “You’re coming home at nine now! What family? I sit here by myself like an idiot!”
“Gleb, the job demands…”
“Your job! It’s always your job!” He waved a hand. “We used to at least have dinner and watch a movie. Now you’re like a stranger.”
Varvara wanted to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. Maybe he was right? Maybe she really had changed?
The quarrels became daily. Everything irritated Gleb: Varvara’s late nights, her stories about colleagues, even the new clothes she bought with her first higher paycheck.
“New suit?” he looked her up and down one morning.
“Yes, I need to look the part at work.”
“Who are you dressing up for? Your precious Rimma Borisovna?”
“Gleb, stop it. I’m a deputy; I should look presentable.”
“Presentable…” he smirked. “You used to be fine with what you had.”
“I used to be a junior archivist. Now I have a different status, different responsibilities.”
“Status…” Gleb poured himself tea, clanking the mug on the table. “Do you hear yourself? ‘Status,’ ‘presentable’… Where are you getting these words?”
“It’s normal business vocabulary.”
“Normal for who? Your new friends at the archive?”
His mother, Lyudmila Igorevna, added fuel to the fire at every opportunity. She came by more often than usual, as if sensing instability in her son’s home.
“Glebushka, son, you’re the man of the house. You can’t let your wife behave like this,” she’d say, shaking her head reproachfully.
“Mom, stay out of it,” Gleb would reply.
“How can I stay out? She doesn’t respect you! Her job is more important!” Lyudmila would cast meaningful glances toward Varvara. “In my day, wives respected their husbands.”
“Lyudmila Igorevna, I respect Gleb,” Varvara spoke up.
“Respect?” the mother-in-law snorted. “You roam other people’s offices till night, and that’s respect?”
“I don’t roam. I work.”
“Work… And who’s going to cook borscht? Who’s going to keep house?”
“I manage both.”
“You manage?” Lyudmila looked around the apartment. “Dust on the shelves, dirty windows. That’s what you call ‘manage’?”
Gleb kept silent, but Varvara could see how carefully he listened to his mother’s reproaches. And with each passing day his eyes grew colder.
A new employee appeared in the archive—Yelizaveta Fyodorovna Sinebryukhova, an elegant woman of about seventy with intelligent gray eyes and neatly pinned gray hair. She transferred from HR of her own accord.
“You know, Varvara Sergeyevna,” she admitted on the first day, “I’m tired of other people’s problems. I want to work with documents. They don’t lie, and they don’t scheme.”
Varvara helped her settle in, showed her the catalogs, explained the storage system.
“Thank you,” Yelizaveta would say. “I wouldn’t have figured it out without you. Everything is so logically organized.”
“It’s nothing. People helped me when I came.”
“Yes, Rimma Borisovna told me how quickly you fit in with the team. She says such diligent employees are rare.”
Once, during their lunch break in the small rest room with cups of tea, Yelizaveta looked closely at Varvara.
“You seem a bit down today. Is everything all right at home?”
“Oh, you know…” Varvara stirred sugar in her tea. “My husband isn’t happy that I work so much.”
Yelizaveta set her cup down and looked seriously at her companion.
“Familiar story. My first husband used to say the same. I worked at the Ministry of Social Development, my career was taking off. They even wanted to transfer me to Moscow with a promotion.”
“And what did you do?”
“I turned it down. And then I quit altogether. I was a foolish young woman.” Yelizaveta sighed. “He convinced me a woman should be by her husband’s side, that a career isn’t a woman’s business.”
“And how did it turn out?”
“I sat at home for five years and had two children. Then he left for a woman ten years younger. Said I’d become boring, that I had nothing to talk about but the kids and the household.”
“Yelizaveta Fyodorovna…”
“And I was left with nothing—no decent job, no connections, not even the person I used to be. I had to start over from scratch with two little ones.” She looked out the window where gray clouds drifted by. “Varenka, don’t repeat my mistakes. Your work is your independence, your confidence in tomorrow. Don’t give it up for anyone.”
“But family matters too…”
“Of course it does. But a real family supports you; it doesn’t demand sacrifices. My second husband was proud of my success. We spent twenty happy years together until he died.”
“So you think I’m wrong to spend so much time at work?”
“I think you’re doing what you ought to be doing. And if your husband doesn’t understand…,” Yelizaveta shrugged. “Maybe you should have a serious talk with him? Explain what this job means to you?”
That same evening Gleb met Varvara in the hall with a grim face and his arms crossed.
“Enough! It’s either the job or me! Choose!”
“Are you serious?” Varvara stopped, still in her coat.
“Absolutely! You’ve turned into a careerist! You’re never home, you don’t have time to cook, you don’t talk to me!”
“I get home at eight. That’s a normal workday. And I cook every day; I just don’t always have dinner ready the minute you walk in.”
“Normal?” Gleb laughed bitterly. “You used to be home by five! Dinner on the table!”
“I wasn’t a deputy then! I have different responsibilities!”
“Exactly!” He jabbed a finger at her. “That title’s gone to your head! You think because you make more than me now you can boss me around?”
“I’ve never bossed you around! And the money has nothing to do with it!” Varvara raised her voice.
“Nothing to do with it?” He stepped closer. “Your nose is in the air! You buy suits, sip tea with the boss, stroll in at nine as if you’re doing me a favor!”
“That’s nonsense! What tea with the boss? I work!”
“Nonsense?” His face reddened. “Fine! Tomorrow you quit! Or I walk out of this house for good!”
“Are you out of your mind? Quit because of what—your insecurities?”
“Insecurities?” Gleb slammed his fist against the wall. “Because of our family! If it still means anything to you!”
Varvara slowly took off her coat and hung it on the hook.
“Gleb, let’s talk calmly. Tell me why my job makes you so angry.”
But there was no conversation.
The night stretched on endlessly. Varvara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling where reflections from passing cars painted strange shadows. Yelizaveta’s words about her own fate wouldn’t leave her in peace. “I chose my husband over my career,” the elderly colleague had said at the archive the day before. “And I regretted it all my life. Don’t repeat my mistakes, Varenka.”
In the morning Gleb came into the kitchen looking resolute. He poured himself coffee and got straight to the point.
“Well? Have you decided?”
Varvara set down her spoon. The porridge in her bowl had gone cold, but she didn’t feel like eating anyway.
“Gleb, let’s find a compromise. I can stay late less, come home earlier…”
“No compromises!” his voice hardened. “Either the family or your little office. Either-or!”
“I’m not quitting.”
Gleb froze with the cup halfway to his lips.
“What?!”
“I said—I’m not quitting. It’s my job. My life.”
“Your life?” He set the cup on the table. “Where do I fit in your life? Our home? Our family?”
“You’re my husband,” Varvara stood and walked to the window. “But that doesn’t mean I have to give up myself, give up what matters to me.”
Gleb’s face darkened; veins bulged on his neck.
“Give up yourself? I picked you up off the street! You sat without a job for six months, running to interviews!”
“Let me remind you—you asked me to stay home after the wedding, and later to look for something suitable,” Varvara turned to him. “And I found it.”
“Suitable?” Gleb snorted. “You think you’re indispensable! Shuffling papers in your archive and calling it a career! A scholar, an intellectual!”
“If to you my work is just shuffling papers, then we really have nothing to talk about.”
“Exactly!” Gleb pointed at the door. “OUT! Pack your things and get out!”
“Gleb, come to your senses…”
“OUT, I said! Run to your precious Rimma Borisovna! Maybe she’ll take you in at her almshouse!”
Varvara walked slowly to the bedroom. She took a travel bag from the closet and began packing the essentials.
“Fine,” she returned to the kitchen with the bag in hand. “I’ll GO. But remember—this is YOUR choice.”
“My choice?” Gleb laughed nastily. “You chose that dingy office over your family! Over your husband!”
At the door, Varvara looked back.
“Gleb, don’t regret this.”
“The only thing I regret is marrying such a selfish woman!”
The door slammed. Varvara stood on the landing, clutching the keys to an apartment that was no longer her home.
“Var, sweetheart, come in!” Alisa flung open the door of her one-room flat. “It’s small, but we’ll make it work.”
“Thank you,” Varvara sat on the sofa where bedding was already laid out. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Tell me what happened,” her friend set a cup of tea in front of her.
Varvara told her about the late-night showdown, the ultimatum, the scene in the kitchen.
“How do you feel?” Alisa asked gently.
“All right. A bit in shock, but all right. Strangely, I even feel a kind of relief.”
“Maybe you’ll go back? Try to talk it out nicely?”
“He gave me an ultimatum. I made my choice.”
“But you loved each other once…”
“We did. As long as I was the convenient housewife. As long as I didn’t dare have interests of my own.”
Alisa sighed.
“And you’re not afraid of losing your job over this scandal?”
“Lose my job? Why would I do that?” Varvara was surprised. “I already said I’m not quitting.”
“But he threw you out!”
“So what? That doesn’t mean I should give up what matters to me.”
The next day at the archive, Rimma Borisovna immediately noticed her subordinate’s state.
“Varvara Sergeyevna, come to my office,” she called after the morning meeting. “I have news for you.”
“Yes, of course,” Varvara closed her folder and followed her boss.
“Sit,” Rimma indicated the chair. “First, tell me what’s happened. You look like you’re going through something serious.”
Varvara briefly described the family crisis.
“I see,” the head nodded. “Then my news will be especially timely. You know I was planning to retire in a year?”
“Yes, you mentioned it.”
“Plans have changed,” Rimma took off her glasses and wiped them. “The doctors strongly advise me to take care of my health. I’m submitting my resignation for a month from now.”
“So soon?” Varvara felt a pang of anxiety. “And who’ll be the new head?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” warmth crept into Rimma’s voice. “I recommended you as my successor. The institute’s leadership reviewed your candidacy and agreed.”
Varvara froze.
“I… Rimma Borisovna, I don’t know what to say…”
“Don’t say anything yet,” the woman smiled. “Just know—you’ll manage. You have the knowledge and the character. By the way, the head’s salary is ninety-six thousand plus bonuses.”
“Ninety-six?” Varvara almost jumped. “That’s…”
“Twice your current pay,” Rimma confirmed. “Think it over for a couple of days and give me your answer.”
Varvara left the office completely stunned. In the corridor she was intercepted by Yelizaveta.
“Varenka, what’s wrong? You’re as pale as a sheet.”
“Yelizaveta Fyodorovna,” Varvara glanced around to make sure no one heard. “They’re appointing me head. Rimma is retiring early.”
“My goodness, that’s wonderful!” the older colleague threw up her hands. “Sincere congratulations! You’ve earned it.”
“Thank you… It’s just…” Varvara was breathing hard. “Yesterday my husband threw me out because of this job. And today…”
“My dear,” Yelizaveta took her hand. “It’s a sign from above. You made the right choice, believe me. Don’t doubt it for a second.”
“What if I can’t handle it?”
“You’ll handle it. I believe in you. Besides,” the elder’s eyes twinkled, “now you have every reason to be proud of yourself.”
That evening, sitting on Alisa’s sofa, Varvara dialed Gleb’s number. Her heart hammered.
“Hello?” her husband’s voice sounded indifferent.
“Gleb, it’s me.”
“Oh, you… What do you want?”
“I’m going to file for a DIVORCE.”
A long pause.
“What? Are you serious?”
“Completely. I’ll come by tomorrow for the rest of my things.”
“Varka, have you lost your mind?” panic crept into his voice. “Divorcing over some job?”
“Not over the job, Gleb. Over your attitude toward me. Because you can’t accept me as I am.”
“I looked out for you!” his voice turned pleading. “I wanted you at home, to focus on family, to have kids!”
“You wanted me to be convenient. Obedient. Dependent on you.”
“That Rimma filled your head with nonsense!”
“No, Gleb,” Varvara stood and walked to the window. “You showed your true colors. Turns out you couldn’t handle being married to an equal.”
“An equal? You—”
“Goodbye, Gleb.”
She hung up and blocked his number.
Six months later, Varvara stood in her new studio apartment, taking in the space she could finally call home. Small, but hers. Bought with a mortgage on the salary of the head of the archive—a position she had earned through persistence and professionalism.
Sunlight played on the parquet, reflecting off freshly painted walls. Varvara had chosen light tones—cream and pale blue. The colors of hope and freedom.
“Where do you want this?” the mover nodded toward a corner, holding the last box.
“Right there, thank you,” Varvara replied, handing him a tip.
“Good luck in your new place,” the man said as he headed for the door.
Pots of flowers already sat on the windowsills—violets, orchids, geraniums. Varvara ran a finger across the smooth leaves of a violet. She had taken the plants from the old apartment on the sly while Gleb was at work. Back then it had felt like stealing; now it felt like rescuing living things that needed care too.
A smile touched her lips. She was genuinely happy—something she hadn’t felt in years.
A sharp trill shattered the peaceful quiet. Gleb’s number lit up on the screen. Varvara stared at the glowing digits for a second, then rejected the call and blocked the number. For good.
A week later Alisa dropped by with fresh gossip.
“Varya, it’s so cozy here!” She looked around in delight and sat on the new sofa. “And so bright!”
“I picked a south-facing place on purpose,” Varvara admitted, pouring tea into the pretty cups she’d bought with her first paycheck. “I wanted light after those dark years.”
“By the way, I have news. About Gleb.”
Varvara froze with the teapot in her hands.
“I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“He fell into a depression after the divorce,” Alisa went on, ignoring her reaction. “Quit his job, can you believe it. Drinks every day. Lyudmila Igorevna scolds him, but it’s no use.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry?” Varvara asked, sitting across from her friend.
“Of course not. I’m just telling you. You know, he came by your old building several times,” Alisa said, biting into a pastry. “Your neighbor, Nikolai Palych, told me at the market.”
“What did he want?” Varvara asked without much interest.
“To talk to you. To apologize, probably. Nikolai Palych wouldn’t let him into the entrance. Said you’d moved out and left no address.”
“He was right to say so,” Varvara said firmly. “Nikolai Palych is a wise man.”
Alisa fell silent, studying her friend’s face. Varvara had changed over these months—more confident, calmer. The fretful lines that had appeared around her eyes in the last years of her marriage were gone.
“Var, maybe you should forgive him?” she ventured carefully. “People change…”
“No, Alisa,” Varvara shook her head decisively. “Some things can’t be forgiven. He made his choice; now he can live with the consequences.”
“But you were together so many years…”
“Yes, we were. And I’m grateful to those years for the lesson,” she cut in. “They taught me to value myself.”
A few months later.
Varvara stood in her office, studying the world map hanging on the wall. Red pins marked the places she planned to visit this year. Greece, Italy, Montenegro—everything she’d dreamed of while married, but had never dared even bring up.
“Varvara Sergeyevna,” Yelizaveta peeked into the office. “They’ve brought the documents for your business trip.”
“Excellent,” Varvara smiled. “At last the visas are ready.”
In six months as head of the archive she had launched several important projects, including exchanges with foreign colleagues. The next month promised to be busy—a conference in Prague, a seminar in Vienna, a vacation in the Swiss Alps.
“And one more thing,” the older woman added, half closing the door. “I heard your ex-husband started seeing some woman. Young, about twenty-five.”
Varvara looked away from the map.
“Well, I hope she’s more patient than I am.”
“Turns out she wasn’t,” Yelizaveta chuckled. “As soon as she heard the reason you divorced, she vanished.”
“A sensible girl,” Varvara nodded. “Where did you hear that?”
“His mother said it herself at the clinic. Complained her son’s fallen apart, won’t work, just drinks and moans. Says to him: ‘It’s your fault—you let a good wife go.’ And he shoots back that you’re a heartless careerist.”
Varvara laughed.
“You know what, Yelizaveta Fyodorovna, I’m flying on vacation tomorrow. Two weeks in the Alps, with a colleague from the Vienna archive.”
“Good for you!” the older woman said warmly. “You’re living life to the fullest.”
Varvara glanced at the photo on her desk—herself against the Eiffel Tower during a recent trip to Paris. Joyful, confident, finally the woman she had always wanted to be.
