The mother-in-law’s booming, authority-soaked voice cut through the stale air of the old two-room apartment on the outskirts of Moscow.
“Olya, you’re not a stranger. You understand—we’re family. And in a family, how is it? Everything is shared. Shared joys, and so… shared opportunities too.”
Olga, a literature teacher with twenty years of experience, silently stirred a spoon in tea that had gone cold long ago, in her favorite mug bearing a Vrubel reproduction. She sat on the very edge of an old sofa, unconsciously drawing her head into her shoulders. Across from her, in the only “master’s” armchair, lounged Alla Mikhailovna—a woman like a boulder, a warehouse supervisor at a sausage factory. She always smelled of smoked meats and power—small, petty power, but absolute, the kind you get from controlling scarce goods.
Beside her, on a hard chair, Angela—Igor’s sister—kept squirming. At thirty-two, she still hadn’t found a “decent” job.
“What ‘opportunities,’ Mom!” Angela whined, staring at her gaudy manicure. “Money! That’s what it is—money! I got rejected again last week. They said I ‘don’t have enough experience.’ Please. I could run circles around those dried-up old bats in HR! They’re just jealous. I told them straight: ‘You don’t understand who you’re losing.’ And they…”
“Then write a proper resume,” Igor grunted, studying his own reflection in the dark screen of the switched-off TV. He adjusted the collar of the “expensive” shirt he always bragged about and glanced at his watch. The watch was heavy, with a golden shine, and Igor wore it like a medal.
Igor worked as a personal driver for some banker. He drove a company-issued S-Class Mercedes and behaved as if the “Merc” were his own. He loved casually dropping the keycard with the three-pointed star onto the kitchen table and holding forth about “traffic on Kutuzovsky” and “the quality of Nappa leather.” The family listened in awe. Olga knew the suit had been bought on credit, and at home Igor walked around in stretched-out sweatpants.
“What does a resume have to do with anything?!” Angela snapped. “Igor, you should understand! Status! I need starting status! And what status do I have if I’m living with Mom? I need my own apartment. To get started.”
Alla Mikhailovna gave a theatrical sigh, pressing a hand to her massive chest.
“That’s exactly what we’re talking about, sweetheart. Exactly. Olechka,” she fixed her daughter-in-law with her gaze again, “we didn’t get together for nothing. We… did some figuring.”
Olga lifted her eyes. Her gray, usually warm, teacher’s eyes now looked like two chips of ice. She waited. She knew this talk was inevitable from the day her great-aunt-by-marriage—Aunt Katya—died half a year ago.
“So, here’s how it is,” Alla Mikhailovna switched into “warehouse boss” mode. “That apartment from your aunt in Moscow. On Sokol. Good area, a Stalin-era building. Igor and I checked the prices. It’s…” she chewed her lips meaningfully, “…very good money, Olya. Very.”
“And we decided,” Igor cut in, standing up and beginning to pace the room like a businessman deciding the fate of the world, “that us cramming in here… it’s ridiculous. I’m a man… in the public eye. I have to keep up appearances. We’re selling that Stalin-era apartment.”
Olga said nothing.
Angela leaned forward, her eyes glittering feverishly.
“Igor, you’ll start it! You know I need it more!”
“Hush!” Alla Mikhailovna barked. “There’s a plan. Approved by Igor. So. First—Angela gets the down payment for a mortgage. Enough sitting around single; it’s time to build a life. Second—I get money for the dacha. Finish the second floor and the bathhouse. I worked my whole life like a draft horse for you; I have a right to rest.”
“And us?” Olga asked softly, almost in a whisper.
“And us—the main thing!” Igor stopped in front of her, legs wide. “We’re getting me a new car.”
“But you already have—”
“Olya, don’t be funny. That one is a company car. Do you understand? COM-PA-NY. Tomorrow I might not be driving it. I need my own vehicle. A normal one. So I’m not embarrassed. I’ve already picked out… an SUV. For Mom’s dacha and for the city.”
“And with what’s left,” Alla Mikhailovna continued, “you’ll have your own down payment too. For your apartment. A normal one. Not this… kennel.”
They ran out of steam. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the ticking of Igor’s “gold” watch. They stared at Olga—waiting. Waiting for gratitude, agreement, instant delight at their generosity—because she’d also “get some” for a down payment.
Slowly Olga set her cup on the table. She remembered Aunt Katya: old, dried up, with piercing eyes. Aunt Katya had worked in a library all her life, living modestly, almost ascetically. Igor and his relatives called her a “crazy poor lady.”
Olga remembered visiting her three years earlier, when the illness had only just been discovered.
“Money, Olyenka,” Aunt Katya whispered, holding Olga’s hand in her bird-claw fingers, “is a terrible beast. Either it serves you, or it eats you. It doesn’t like shouting—it likes silence and counting. Do you understand?”
“I do, Aunt Katya.”
“Never spend on what screams—cars, fur coats, trinkets… it’s dust. It’s for people who are empty inside. Spend on what’s quiet and warms you—books, health, a quiet corner where no one can touch you. And never, hear me, never let grabbers decide for you. A grabber is like a weed: give it a finger and it will wrap its roots around your whole soul.”
Back then Olga nodded, thinking it was just old-people talk. But Aunt Katya, it turned out, was not only well-read—she was wise.
When Aunt Katya died, Olga went to the notary alone. She alone waited the six months required by law to enter an inheritance. Igor asked lazily a couple of times, “So what, did your crazy one leave you her books?” and lost interest. He was sure there was nothing to take.
Olga remembered the notary—a dignified woman—peering at her over her glasses.
“You are the sole heir under the will. Ekaterina Lvovna specified everything very clearly. The apartment on Sokol and a bank account. You are entering your rights.”
That day Olga saw the amount in the account for the first time. Aunt Katya, the “pauper,” had saved all her life. And the apartment…
That day Olga understood: Aunt Katya hadn’t given her just money. She had given her freedom.
“Well?” Alla Mikhailovna snapped. “Olya, why are you sitting there mute? Are you agreeing or not? Tomorrow we go to the realtor.”
Olga slowly raised her head. Her back straightened. Twenty years in school had taught her one thing: when the classroom is noisy, you speak quietly—but so the kids in the last row can hear.
“No.”
Three pairs of eyes locked on her.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Igor didn’t understand.
“I’m not agreeing,” Olga repeated calmly.
“So you… you decided to grab it all for yourself?!” Angela choked out. “We won’t let you! We’re family!”
“Angela,” Olga’s voice turned hard, like a ruler, “family is when people support each other. Not when they sit and wait for one person to inherit something so everyone else can solve their problems.”
“How dare you talk to me like that?! Teacher!” Angela screeched.
“Olya,” Alla Mikhailovna tried to regain control, “don’t be stupid. Without Igor, who are you? He’s the man, he’s the head. What he says—”
“Alla Mikhailovna,” Olga cut her off, “and what, excuse me, do you have to do with my great-aunt’s property?”
Her mother-in-law went purple.
“Oh, you… you snake! We took you in! I raised Igor for you, I didn’t sleep nights!”
“Mom, calm down!” Igor stepped toward Olga. “Olya, what’s wrong with you? Lost your mind? These are our shared money!”
“You’re mistaken, Igor.” Olga stood. Suddenly she was the same height as him. “According to Article 36 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation, property received by one spouse during marriage by inheritance is that spouse’s personal property. It is not subject to division.”
Silence returned. But now it wasn’t crushing—it rang.
“What?” Igor forced out.
“Legally,” Olga enunciated like dictation, “neither you, nor your mother, nor your sister have any rights to this inheritance. None.”
“You… you…” Alla Mikhailovna gasped. “We’ll sue! We’ll prove you tricked him!”
“Good luck,” Olga smirked. “But there’s one problem.”
“What problem now?” Igor hissed, starting to realize the “Mercedes” was slipping away.
“There is no apartment.”
It was a punch to the gut. Angela shrieked. Alla Mikhailovna clawed at the armrests.
“How… none?” Igor went pale. “You… what? Your aunt… was she homeless? She lied?!”
“No,” Olga said evenly. “There was an apartment. On Sokol. A beautiful apartment.”
“Then where—”
“I sold it.”
If a grenade had gone off in the room, the effect would have been weaker.
“YOU SOLD IT?!” all three screamed in unison.
“WHEN?! WITHOUT US?!” Igor grabbed her shoulder.
Olga jerked his hand off, disgusted.
“Hands off. I entered my inheritance rights exactly six months ago, Igor, as the law requires. The same day I got the ownership certificate, I started the sale process. The deal closed two months ago.”
“A-and… the money?” Angela stammered, tears of rage already running. “Where is the money?”
“The money?” Olga looked at the three of them—at the greedy mother-in-law, the lazy, envious sister-in-law, and her husband. A man who’d built a façade his whole life—behind which there was nothing but emptiness and loans.
“You wanted a plan,” Olga said. “I had one too.”
She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a small rolling suitcase.
“You… where are you going?” Igor couldn’t believe his eyes.
“I’m leaving you, Igor.”
“Where?! Who needs you?! At your age?!”
“You see… Aunt Katya was a very wise woman. She taught me that money loves silence. And that you should invest in what is ‘quiet and warming.’”
She looked at Alla Mikhailovna.
“You wanted the dacha? Sorry, but I decided rural libraries in the Tver region need it more. I transferred a large sum to the ‘Revival of the Book’ fund. Aunt Katya devoted her whole life to books. This is in her memory.”
Alla Mikhailovna made a choking, gurgling sound.
“You… you… wasted it!”
“I invested it,” Olga corrected. “Now you, Angela. You wanted a ‘start’? You know what the best start is? Education. I paid for several courses—accounting, 1C software, office administration.”
“WHAT?!” Angela howled. “I—”
“Yes, you. Classes start Monday. Here’s the address.” Olga tossed a brochure onto the table. “If you don’t show up, the money is forfeited. That’s your only chance to stop blaming everyone around you and start working.”
“I’ll—!”
“And finally, Igor. You.” Olga looked him straight in the eye. “You wanted a car so badly. But you know the driver’s problem? He’s always the one driving. And I’m tired of being your passenger. And your mechanic—the one patching holes in your budget and your ego.”
“You’ll regret this, Olya… you’ll come back…”
“No. Because with what was left… I bought an apartment.”
Igor froze.
“For us?”
“For me. A small studio. In a new building in Khimki. But mine. Fresh renovation. And you know—it’s very quiet there. I moved Aunt Katya’s books there last week.”
“You… you did this… a long time ago?! You lied to us?!”
“I fought, Igor!” Olga suddenly shouted, and her voice rang with the steel only guilty students ever heard. “I fought for myself! I realized you were dragging me into your swamp—your swamp of endless dissatisfaction, laziness, show, and greed! Every day I teach children to be honest, and I come home and lie! I lie that I admire your ‘Merc’! I lie that I believe in your sister’s ‘search for herself’! I lie that I respect your mother, who smuggles sausages out of the factory under her coat! I’m tired!”
She grabbed the suitcase handle.
“I thought I wouldn’t be able to. I was afraid of this day. I cried at night, thinking I was alone. But then I understood—fighting is always possible, and always necessary. Even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared. I’m fighting for my life. And I’m filing for divorce.”
Alla Mikhailovna sagged into the chair. Angela stared blankly at the course brochure.
And Igor… Igor deflated. All his “status,” all his “Nappa leather,” slid off him like husk. In front of her stood a tired forty-year-old driver in stretched-out sweatpants—exactly who he was.
“Olya…” he whispered. “How could I…”
“On your own, Igor. Grown boys do everything on their own. Goodbye.”
She turned and walked to the door.
“Rat!” Alla Mikhailovna rasped at her back. “You robbed the family!”
Olga stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“The family, Alla Mikhailovna, is exactly what I saved. From yourselves. But I’m afraid you won’t understand that.”
She opened the door and stepped into the stairwell. The lock clicked.
Behind the door, a wail began to rise—the wail of cheated hopes, collapsed schemes, and lost freebies.
Olga called the elevator. The doors opened. She stepped inside and looked at her reflection in the dim mirror. A tired woman with reddened eyes stared back. But for the first time in many years, that woman smiled at herself.
“So what, sonny? Got what you deserved? I told you—can’t trust women. Especially the quiet ones. Teachers.”
Alla Mikhailovna slammed an enamel teapot onto the kitchen table. In her own apartment, smelling of dust and valocordin, she was no longer a “woman-boulder.” She was an angry, worn-out woman who had lost the main thing—control over her son, and through him, her daughter-in-law.
Igor, sitting at the table in those same stretched-out sweatpants, only shrugged. Three months had passed since Olga left. Three months of hell.
They got divorced quickly. Olga didn’t claim anything from the rented apartment; she took only her books and that suitcase. Igor… Igor lost everything. The banker he worked for didn’t tolerate “personal problems.” When the boss found out his driver was divorcing and “not in the right headspace,” as the man liked to put it, Igor was asked to leave “amicably.” No severance. No references. The S-Class was handed over to the replacement driver.
Now Igor was living on his mother’s neck.
“I don’t get it, Mom! How could she do that?” he whined, poking at a cold macaroni with his fork. “She took everything… everything for herself! And what about me?”
“And you stood there with your mouth open!” Alla Mikhailovna snapped. “I told you—a man has to be a man! You should’ve put your thumb on her from day one! But you—‘Olyenka,’ ‘Olyenka’—and here you are!”
Angela floated into the room. Over these months she had grown even more irritable. She attended the accounting courses Olga paid for exactly two days.
“Oh, Mom, come on. It’s numbers! My head hurts from them. And honestly—it’s humiliating. Me—working in accounting?”
“And where should you go, then? To be a queen?” Alla Mikhailovna spat. “Both of you sitting on my neck! My warehouse isn’t made of rubber, I can’t feed you on sausage forever!”
“There!” Igor jumped up, grabbing the thread. “Her! She’s the one виновата! She robbed us!”
“Legally she’s clean, son,” Alla sneered. “I went to a lawyer, ours from the factory. He said: ‘Inheritance is personal. There’s no way in.’”
“But if…” Angela narrowed her eyes cunningly, “…if you can’t go after the inheritance, go after her?”
Igor and Alla Mikhailovna stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a teacher,” Angela drawled. “‘Teacher,’” she mimicked Olga. “And you know what they’re like—vulnerable.”
Igor slowly raised his head. For the first time, a nasty spark lit in his dead eyes.
“Reputation,” he whispered.
“Yes!” Angela brightened. “They’re strict about that now. One whiff—and she’s out! And who needs her without a job? She’ll crawl back. To you, Igorek—she’ll crawl!”
Alla Mikhailovna leaned her heavy chest on the table.
“Go on. Details.”
“Write,” Angela snapped her fingers. “Everywhere! Their Department… the Prosecutor… child services! That she…”
“…takes bribes!” Igor jumped in, coming to life. “Exactly! How else did she get an apartment? Where’d the money for ‘charity’ come from? She stole it! Squeezes parents!”
“Right, son!” Alla Mikhailovna’s lips stretched into a predatory smile. “That’s what we’ll write. That she abused her position to extort money. That she gave grades for gifts. And that ‘charity’—it’s money laundering!”
“And the apartment!” Angela clapped. “That she bought it on illegal income—let them check!”
“We won’t just write,” Alla Mikhailovna stood to her full imposing height, becoming “warehouse boss” again. “We’ll write… a collective complaint. From ‘outraged parents.’ Anonymous. No trace. Let her dance. We’ll make sure she’s kicked out of school with a wolf ticket!”
That same morning, Olga Viktorovna was making herself coffee in her small, sunlit studio in Khimki. She still couldn’t believe it was hers. Her quiet corner, like Aunt Katya said.
It didn’t smell of smoked meats and dust here—it smelled of books and coffee. She lined Aunt Katya’s library along the walls. Old leather-bound volumes looked at her wisely and calmly.
Life was settling. She was valued at school. The kids loved her. After classes she ran a literature club—for free, for the soul. They read Chekhov, and Olga tried to explain a simple idea to teenagers:
“You see, ‘The Man in a Case’ isn’t funny. It’s scary. It’s a person who voluntarily gave up life out of fear. He’s afraid ‘something might happen.’ He hides from life itself. And the worst part—he tries to shove everyone around him into that same case.”
The kids listened, holding their breath.
After the lessons, the principal, Irina Petrovna, called her in—a strict, gray-haired woman with very tired but intelligent eyes.
“Olga Viktorovna, sit down.” Her tone was unusually cold.
Olga perched on the edge of a chair.
“I have… an unpleasant conversation.” Irina Petrovna placed several sheets of paper in front of her. “A complaint came in. From the Department of Education. And a copy—to Rosobrnadzor.”
Olga took the pages. Her hands trembled slightly. “From a group of parents of the 10-A class…”
She read. And the color slowly drained from her face, leaving a deathly pallor.
They accused her of everything: taking bribes for grades; running exam prep as a “cash-only pipeline”; “laundering” this money through shady charity funds. As “evidence” they cited her recent apartment purchase—“where did a simple teacher get the money, then?..”
And the last line—bold, vile: “…and also leads an immoral lifestyle unworthy of the title of Russian educator.”
“This… this is a lie,” Olga whispered, lifting terrified eyes to the principal. “Irina Petrovna, you know me…”
“I know you, Olga Viktorovna,” the principal sighed heavily. “But the complaint went ‘upstairs.’ You understand what that means.”
“What?”
“It means an inspection. A commission. I’ve already been notified. Tomorrow they’ll be sitting in your lessons. From the Department.”
Olga left the office on cotton legs. The world she had so carefully rebuilt over these months was collapsing. Her “quiet corner” was turning into a boxing ring. It felt like everyone in the halls was watching her. Whispering. Pointing.
She reached her empty classroom, sat at her desk, and dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t cry. She had no strength. She remembered Alla Mikhailovna’s words: “Who needs you?”
Had they won? Had the “case” they tried to lock her into finally snapped shut?
She sat like that for—maybe an hour. Then she lifted her head. Wiped her dry eyes. Walked to the board, took a rag, and erased yesterday’s topic. Picked up the chalk. And in a firm, steady hand wrote:
“Topic: Moral Choice in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.”
“No,” she said to the empty room. “I won’t be afraid. I’m not Belikov. Fight. Fight always.”
The next day the class was quiet as never before. On the back row sat the inspector from the Department—Svetlana Borisovna. A woman with an unreadable face and a notebook, where she wrote constantly.
Olga was nervous. Her voice shook. But she looked at her tenth-graders and saw support in their eyes. The rumor about “the commission” had already spread through the school.
“…and so,” Olga said, trying not to look at the inspector, “we come to the main thing. Raskolnikov’s theory—about ‘trembling creatures’ and ‘those who have the right.’ Why did he do it? Not for the money. Money was an excuse.”
She looked at her best student, Vitya.
“Vitya, what do you think was his biggest mistake?”
“That he decided he was someone ‘who has the right’?”
“Right. But not only that. He decided one person could judge another. That he could decide who lives and who doesn’t. That you can step over a human being for a ‘great’ goal. But Dostoevsky shows us: the moment you step over—you lose yourself. You become the ‘creature’.”
Svetlana Borisovna lifted her head from the notebook.
“And what about slander?” she asked quietly.
The class froze.
“Pardon?”
“I mean Raskolnikov’s theory. What if you don’t kill—what if you slander? Write a denunciation. Destroy a person’s reputation. Is that… equivalent?”
Olga was silent for a second, gathering her thoughts.
“Sometimes,” she said firmly, “it’s worse than murder. Killing a body leaves a person their good name. Slandering kills the soul. It takes away everything a person lived by. And the worst part of a denunciation is that it’s almost always anonymous. A stab in the back. The act not of someone ‘who has the right,’ but of the last coward.”
Svetlana Borisovna looked at her for a long time. Then… nodded, and returned to her notes.
After the lesson she went to the teachers’ lounge, and began interviewing parents.
And then… something began that neither Alla Mikhailovna nor Igor could have predicted. They missed one thing: twenty years of honest work.
The first to burst in was Maria Skvortsova, Vitya’s mother, the terror of the parents’ committee.
“Svetlana Borisovna? Hello. I’m here about Olga Viktorovna.”
“I’m listening,” the inspector replied coolly.
“Listen!” Maria pulled a stack of written pages from her bag. “Here. This is from our class. From each child! The kids wrote what they think about Olga Viktorovna. And now I’ll tell you from myself. Bribes? Do you know what my son Vitya was like? A failing student! I came to Olga Viktorovna three years ago with an envelope. And do you know what she did?”
“What?” the inspector asked, interested.
“She shoved that envelope back into my hands so hard I was ashamed. She said, ‘You’re humiliating your son. And me.’ And then she started tutoring him. For free. On Saturdays. Because she saw a person in him! He’s on track for a gold medal now! He’s applying to Moscow State! I…” Maria suddenly sniffled, “…I’m afraid to bring her a jar of jam on March 8 because she won’t take it. She’ll say, ‘Not allowed.’ And you… ‘apartment’… We would’ve chipped in for her apartment ourselves!”
A father of another student poked his head in—a gloomy man in work overalls.
“I… heard… about Olga Viktorovna… My goof is in her club. He used to hold nothing but a phone. Now he reads Chekhov. At home. By himself. What ‘immorality’?! What are you talking about?! She’s a saint!”
The inspector listened. She listened for half a day. She read children’s letters full of love and admiration. She saw tears in mothers’ eyes.
In the evening she called Olga in.
“Olga Viktorovna,” her face was no longer cold, but sympathetic, “the commission found no confirmation. Not a single one. Your reputation is spotless. I will write the report.”
Olga sat down; her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“Thank you…”
“But I have a question for you. Personal.” Svetlana Borisovna looked her straight in the eyes. “Who? Who wrote this? They knew about your apartment. About the charity. This isn’t ‘parents.’”
Olga was silent.
“You don’t have to answer. But I’ve been dealing with complaints for almost thirty years. These… personal, venom-filled denunciations are written only by the closest people. Former ones.”
Olga nodded slowly.
“My ex-husband. And my mother-in-law.”
“They punished you for an inheritance you didn’t give them?”
“Yes.”
Svetlana Borisovna frowned.
“Slander. Criminal Code Article 128.1. False denunciation. You can file a counter-complaint.”
“I don’t want to,” Olga said wearily. “I just want them to leave me alone.”
“I understand.” The inspector closed the folder. “They won’t. People of that… ‘case-bound’ type, as you put it so well today, don’t stop. They’ll hit again. But…” she smiled slyly, “do you know the beauty of a system? It works both ways.”
“In what sense?”
“Anonymous, of course. But the style… bureaucratic phrases—‘unearned income,’ ‘put on a conveyor belt’… that’s how people write who deal with reporting. With nomenclature. Your mother-in-law—what did you say she does?”
“Warehouse supervisor. At a sausage factory.”
“Ah,” Svetlana Borisovna drawled. “That explains a lot. People who aren’t exactly clean-handed themselves scream the loudest about others’ ‘illegal income.’ You know, Olga Viktorovna… I think I’ll make one phone call. Off the record. To colleagues. In another department.”
“Why?”
“For prevention. I don’t like it when good teachers get bullied. Go. Teach. We need you.”
Alla Mikhailovna was on cloud nine. Sitting in her little warehouse cubby, hung with loops of salami, she waited—sure that any day Olga would be fired and come crawling.
Instead, her door flew open. And it wasn’t Igor and Angela who came in. Two grim men in plain clothes entered, followed by the factory director—pale as paper.
“Alla Mikhailovna?” one of them said. “Economic Crimes Unit. We have a warrant to inspect your warehouse. We received a tip about systematic theft on a large scale.”
Alla Mikhailovna’s world tilted. The “sausage” she’d been “taking” for years… the “extra” invoices… the ghost employees she used to write off product… everything she’d considered a small, harmless privilege…
The inspection lasted three days. They weighed everything. Uncovered her “black” bookkeeping. Found it all. The system she’d built for decades collapsed.
She was fired the same day, for cause. A criminal case was opened—“theft and embezzlement.” Article 160 of the Criminal Code.
She sat at the same kitchen table where she’d planned revenge—only now she didn’t shout. She stared at one point.
“Mom… what is this?” Igor babbled. “How… did they find out?”
“She…” Alla rasped. “It’s all her. That snake. She turned us in.”
“But how?!”
“I don’t know… But it’s her.”
He waited for Olga at the school gate. Thin, in a gray jacket, with all his “Mercedes” shine gone.
“Olya!”
Olga flinched but didn’t stop.
“Olya, wait!” He ran up and grabbed her sleeve.
“Hands off, Igor.”
“Olya, forgive me! It wasn’t me! It was all my mother! I… I didn’t want to! I’m an idiot!”
Olga stopped and looked at him. There was no anger in her eyes, no hatred. Only cold, endless fatigue.
“You did want to, Igor. You stood there and listened while she planned it. You were happy when you wrote that anonymous complaint. You hoped I’d crawl back.”
“No! Olya, I… I’m at rock bottom!” He suddenly dropped to his knees, right into the muddy slush of the first snow. “Mom’s under investigation! Nobody will hire me! Angela… she…” he waved.
“What about Angela?” Olga asked.
“She… she went back to her courses. Said, ‘You’re idiots, and I want to live.’ She’s the only one…”
“Then she still has a chance,” Olga said quietly.
“And me? Olya, do I have one? You’re… you’re kind! You help everyone! Help me!”
Olga looked at him—the man she’d once loved, now kneeling at her feet, humiliated and broken.
“I am kind, Igor. But I’m not stupid.” She repeated the words she’d once told him. “Do you know the difference between falling and rock bottom?”
He stared up at her, silently.
“From the bottom,” Olga said, “you can push off. If you have strength. But you… you’re just lying there waiting for someone to lift you. You aren’t even fighting.”
“What am I supposed to fight for?!” he howled. “I have nothing!”
“FOR YOURSELF!” Olga suddenly shouted, her voice ringing with steel again. “For being honest! For getting up off your knees—not in front of me, but in front of yourself! I fought when I left you! I fought when that filthy denunciation was written about me! I fought for my name, for my students! And you?! All your life you only took. From me, from your mother, from your boss… You gave up, Igor. And you can’t do that. Never!”
She stepped past him and walked toward the bus stop.
“WHAT DO I DO?!” he cried after her.
Olga stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“To start—stand up. Find a job. Any job. Car washer. Loader. And stop lying. At least to yourself. Goodbye, Igor.”
And she left without looking back.
That evening, in her quiet studio, Olga was checking notebooks when her phone rang. It was Maria Skvortsova.
“Olga Viktorovna, hello! How are you?”
“Thank you, Maria, I’m well.”
“We… talked. The parents. And we decided… well, we bought you tickets.”
“Tickets?” Olga didn’t understand.
“To the Bolshoi Theatre. The Nutcracker. Before New Year. You… you are our very best teacher. You are our…” Maria hesitated, “…you are our quiet corner.”
Olga hung up and went to the window. Outside, big, clean snowflakes fell. She watched them, tears running down her cheeks. But these were different tears now—not tears of hurt, but of happiness.
She wasn’t alone.
She had won.
