Alla laid four restaurant brochures across the table and ran her finger over the top one. On its glossy photo, there was a hall with high ceilings and fresh flowers lining the walls. Nastya sat beside her, scrolling through wedding dress photos on her phone, turning the screen toward her mother every now and then. They were both silent in that special way people are when they feel comfortable together.
“This one,” Nastya said, tapping the screen. “Covered shoulders. Lace. What do you think?”
“I think it would suit you,” Alla smiled. “You’re beautiful, my girl. Kirill will fall over when he sees you.”
“He already does,” Nastya laughed. “Every day.”
That evening, Sergei came home. He dropped his bag by the door, glanced into the kitchen, and noticed the brochures. He picked one up, turned it in his hands, then put it back down.
“The wedding again?” he asked.
“Not ‘again,’” Alla said, turning away from the stove. “The same wedding. The only one. Irina and I agreed to split the costs in half. She agrees, Kirill agrees. It’s fair.”
“Fair is when the groom pays for everything,” Sergei said, sitting down at the table and reaching for the bread. “That’s how it’s done.”
“Done by whom?” Alla placed a plate in front of him.
“By normal people,” he shrugged. “A man gets married, a man pays.”
Alla sat opposite him and looked at him carefully. She knew that tone of voice — sticky, evasive. Sergei used it whenever he wanted to avoid a conversation but couldn’t simply walk away.
“Sergei, we discussed this. Kirill isn’t from a wealthy family, but they’re ready to contribute. That’s honest. Splitting it halfway shows respect from both sides.”
“Fine,” he nodded. “Halfway, then halfway.”
“Do you really agree?”
“I said fine,” he bit into the bread. “We’ll give her a wedding. The best one. I promise.”
Alla wanted to believe him. She chose to believe him. Because Nastya deserved this celebration. Because her daughter had graduated from university, fallen in love, and dreamed of starting a family — and Alla could not afford to doubt.
The next day, Tamara Ilyinichna, Sergei’s mother, called. Alla answered, expecting the usual conversation about nothing.
“Alla, I want to tell you something,” her mother-in-law said in a dry voice. “This wedding of yours is nonsense. Nastya could simply register the marriage quietly, without all this circus.”
“Tamara Ilyinichna,” Alla replied gently, “it isn’t a circus. It’s a wedding. Nastya has only one life.”
“Everyone has only one life,” the woman snapped. “And money is not endless either. Let the groom pay. Why should you spend anything?”
“We already agreed with his family. Everything is settled.”
“Settled,” her mother-in-law repeated in a tone that meant, for her, nothing was settled at all.
Alla ended the call and sat motionless for several minutes. Then she opened her notebook and continued writing her list: restaurant, photographer, musicians, flowers, transport. She wrote neatly, in a column. The total was significant, but manageable.
She called her daughter.
“Everything is going according to plan,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure you’re managing?” Nastya sounded anxious. “Dad isn’t against it?”
“Dad promised,” Alla replied. “The best wedding.”
Two weeks before the wedding, Alla returned from a fitting — Nastya’s dress had been left for adjustments, only the final fitting remained — and found Sergei in the kitchen. He sat with his phone turned off in front of him. He was not eating. He was not drinking.
“What happened?” Alla asked.
He looked at her and said it evenly, without hesitation, without preparation — as if he had memorized the sentence in advance.
“Our daughter’s wedding is canceled. We decided there’s no money.”
Alla did not move. She only placed her bag slowly on the chair.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“My mother and I,” he said. “We discussed it. There’s no possibility right now.”
“Two weeks, Sergei. The restaurant is half-paid. The dress is at the atelier. The invitations have been sent. What do you mean, two weeks before the wedding there’s suddenly no money?”
“That’s how it turned out,” he spread his hands. “Unexpected expenses.”
Alla stood there, looking at her husband. Twenty years together. She knew every expression on his face — and this one was not guilt. It was not shame. It was relief. He had already decided everything. He was simply informing her after the fact.
“What expenses, Sergei? Be specific. Numbers. Where did the money go?”
“To the dacha,” he exhaled. “Mother has been planning the renovation for a long time. The roof, the veranda, the bathhouse. She waited. She believes the time has come.”
“She believes,” Alla repeated. “She believes the time has come. And you?”
“I agree with her. The dacha is an investment. A wedding is one day. Nastya will understand.”
“My daughter will not understand,” Alla said quietly. “And neither will I.”
“Well, what can we do now?” he stood up. “The money is spent. Materials have been bought. The workers are already there.”
Alla did not scream. She did not cry. She calmly stood up, walked out of the kitchen, and dialed a number.
Nastya answered after the first ring.
“Hi! Did you go to the fitting? How’s the dress?”
“The dress is perfect,” Alla said in an even voice. “Nastya, come over. Today. We need to talk.”
Her daughter arrived an hour later. Alla explained everything. Briefly. Without embellishment. Nastya listened, and her face changed — from disbelief to understanding, from understanding to something dark and sharp.
“He promised,” Nastya said. “He promised me personally. The best wedding. Those were his words.”
“I know.”
“And instead — a veranda? A bathhouse?” Nastya’s voice hardened. “For Grandma, who thinks my wedding is ‘nonsense’?”
“Exactly.”
“Where is he?” Nastya asked.
“He left,” Alla replied. “To the dacha. To help with the renovation.”
Nastya was silent for a minute. Then she looked up at her mother.
“So what are we going to do?”
“We are going to have the wedding,” Alla said. “I’ll find the money.”
“How?”
“That’s my concern,” Alla placed her hand on the table. “You take care of the dress, the guest list, and Kirill. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Without Dad?”
“Without Dad.”
That same evening, Alla called Irina, Kirill’s mother. She explained the situation. She did not complain, did not cry — she simply stated the facts.
“Alla,” Irina was silent for a moment. “We’ll pay our part, exactly as we agreed. And if needed, we’ll add more. Kirill works, I work. Nastya is going to be our daughter-in-law. We won’t abandon her.”
“Thank you,” Alla said. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Stop that. Pay it back when you can. Or don’t pay it back at all. This is our children’s wedding.”
Alla took two rings from a small jewelry box — her grandmother’s rings. Earrings with stones. A bracelet. The next morning, she took them to a pawnshop. She received the money, added her own savings — the money she had put aside for a winter coat and a vacation — and counted everything.
It was enough. Barely, with no cushion, but enough.
She called the restaurant and confirmed the date. Then the photographer. Then the musicians.
In the evening, she called Sergei. He answered on the fourth ring.
“Yes,” he said, his voice cheerful. In the background, she could hear hammers.
“Sergei, I want to understand one thing,” Alla said calmly. “Are you going to talk to Nastya?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that you promised her a wedding. And took the money for a bathhouse.”
“Alla, enough,” he exhaled in irritation. “It’s not just a bathhouse. It’s a full renovation. The roof, insulation, windows. Mother has been waiting for years.”
“And Nastya was waiting for her father,” Alla said. “The father who would keep his word.”
“I can’t do this right now. The crew is here. We’ll talk later.”
He hung up. Alla looked at the phone and placed it on the table. Slowly. Precisely. She would not call again.
Three days later, her mother-in-law called. Alla didn’t want to answer, but she did.
“Alla, why are you making a scandal?” Tamara’s voice was patronizing. “Sergei told me everything. You’re an adult woman. What is a wedding? One evening. Outfits, dancing, money thrown into the air. But the dacha is for generations. Nastya will thank us later when she comes there in summer with her children.”
“To your dacha,” Alla clarified.
“To our dacha,” her mother-in-law corrected. “The family dacha.”
“Tamara Ilyinichna,” Alla chose her words the way one chooses a tool for delicate work, “Nastya is your granddaughter. She loved you. She came to visit you every summer. She made jam for you. Painted the fence. Do you remember that?”
“So what?”
“So you chose boards and roof tiles over her. And that was your choice. Not mine. Not hers. Yours.”
“You’re twisting everything,” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Sergei is my son. He knows what’s right.”
“Goodbye, Tamara Ilyinichna.”
Alla pressed “end call” and opened her contacts. She found Irina and wrote: “Everything is confirmed. The wedding will take place. Restaurant — the twentieth. No changes.”
A reply came a minute later: “We’re ready. Kirill is happy. Nastya is too.”
Alla closed her phone and sat at the table. The guest list lay in front of her. She picked up a pen. She found the line “Father of the bride — Sergei” and carefully crossed it out. Below it was “Tamara Ilyinichna.” She crossed that out too.
She did not hesitate for a second.
The twentieth. Saturday. The restaurant hall was small but bright, with fresh flowers around the perimeter and a long table arranged in the shape of a U. Nastya wore a white dress with covered shoulders, lace — the very one. Kirill stood beside her, tall and pale with nerves, in a dark suit. Irina hurried around near the entrance, greeting guests.
Alla stood by the wall and watched. Her daughter was happy. Truly happy — not strained, not laughing nervously, but calm, deep, warm.
Her phone rang. Sergei.
Alla stepped into the corridor and answered.
“Hi!” her husband’s voice sounded pleased. “Listen, Mother asked me to tell you the renovation is almost finished. Come and see it. The bathhouse is beautiful. The veranda looks like a new house. Mother is inviting you.”
“I’m glad,” Alla said. “I’m glad you finished.”
“See?” Sergei was obviously smiling. “And you were worried. Everything is fine. Will you come?”
“Not today,” Alla replied. “Sergei, expect a vehicle tomorrow.”
“What vehicle?”
“I’ll send one. Around noon. Be at the dacha.”
“All right,” he said, not suspicious. “I’ll tell Mother. She’ll be happy.”
Alla returned to the hall. Nastya was dancing with Kirill. A slow dance, simple, unrehearsed — just two young people holding on to each other and swaying gently.
Irina came up to Alla.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “You did well.”
“We did well,” Alla corrected her.
“Was that him?” Irina asked, nodding toward the phone.
“Yes. He called. Told me about the bathhouse.”
Irina looked at her and said nothing. She only touched Alla’s shoulder — briefly, silently.
That evening, when the guests had left and Nastya and Kirill had gone, Alla remained alone in the hall. She collected several photos from the table, ones the photographer had already printed. Nastya smiling. Kirill kissing her forehead. The bouquet in the air. Irina hugging them both.
Alla placed the photos in her bag. Then she took out her phone and called a moving service.
“Tomorrow. Pickup address is this one. Delivery address: the dacha, Beryozovy settlement, house fourteen. Cargo: personal belongings. Fifteen to twenty bags. Nothing fragile.”
The operator wrote it down. Alla confirmed.
Then she went home. She opened Sergei’s wardrobe. Methodically, without anger, without tears — shelf by shelf, drawer by drawer. Shirts, trousers, sweaters, jackets, shoes, documents, razor, books, fishing rods, his old backpack. Everything went into large construction bags. Blue, thick, with ties.
She left nothing behind. Not a single thing. Not a single thread for him to hold on to.
By two in the morning, the hallway was filled with bags. Alla closed the empty wardrobe, sat on the edge of the bed, and stayed there until dawn. She did not cry. She did not regret it. She thought about the way Nastya had smiled when Kirill placed the ring on her finger.
The morning at the dacha was warm. Sergei drank tea on the new veranda. Tamara Ilyinichna sat nearby in gardening gloves, holding pruning shears, satisfied.
“Alla said she’d send a vehicle,” Sergei said, taking a sip of tea. “Looks like she decided to come. To see it.”
“There you go,” Tamara nodded. “I told you. She’ll calm down and come.”
Around noon, a small gray moving van with the logo of a transport company pulled up to the house. The driver got out and opened the back door. A mover began unloading bags.
Sergei rose from the veranda and walked toward the van.
“Hey,” he called out. “What is this? Are you at the right address?”
“Beryozovy settlement, fourteen?” the mover asked without stopping.
“Yes, but…”
The mover placed a bag on the ground. Carelessly. A sleeve slipped out of the opening. A checkered sleeve. Familiar.
Sergei stepped closer. He untied the bag. His shirts. His sweater. His trousers.
He opened the second bag. Shoes, belts, a winter coat. The third — books, papers, fishing rods. The fourth. The fifth.
The mover unloaded the last bag and handed him the delivery note.
“Sign here.”
“Wait,” Sergei took the paper. “It says ‘personal belongings’… Who sent this?”
“It’s written in the order. That’s all, I have to go.”
The van drove away. Sergei stood in the middle of the yard, surrounded by seventeen blue bags. Tamara Ilyinichna came out onto the porch and took off her gloves.
“Seryozha, what is this?”
“My things,” he said. “All my things.”
He took out his phone and called Alla. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Voicemail.
He called again. Voicemail.
Then a message arrived. From his daughter’s phone. A photograph. Nastya in her white dress, Kirill beside her, both of them laughing. The hall, the flowers, the guests. And the caption: “Thank you, Dad, for the wedding.”
Sergei read it and could not understand. The wedding. The twentieth. Yesterday. It had been yesterday. While he had been drinking tea on the new veranda and admiring the bathhouse, his daughter had been getting married.
Without him.
He called again. Alla did not answer. He wrote: “Alla, what is going on?” Read. No reply.
He wrote to Nastya: “Daughter, why didn’t you tell me?” Delivered. Not read.
Tamara Ilyinichna came closer, took his phone, and looked at the photo.
“She got married?” her voice became thin. “Without us?”
“Without us,” Sergei repeated.
“But how… Where did the money come from?”
Sergei said nothing. He did not know. He had not asked. He had not been interested. For two months, he had been laying tiles on the veranda and choosing boards for the bathhouse benches while his wife sold her grandmother’s rings and made arrangements with strangers who turned out to be closer than the bride’s own father.
That evening, Gennady, Sergei’s friend, called. He was furious.
“Sergei, are you all right?” Gennady’s voice rang with outrage. “My wife told me your daughter got married. You weren’t invited?”
“I wasn’t,” Sergei answered dully.
“That’s outrageous!” Gennady spoke as if it were his own daughter who had excluded him. “You’re her father! Her real father! How could she? How could Alla allow this?”
“Gena,” Sergei said. “I canceled the wedding myself. I took the money. For the dacha.”
Silence.
“So what?” Gennady did not lower his voice. “That’s no reason! You’re the head of the family. They should have taken you into account!”
Sergei said nothing. He hung up.
Half an hour later, Oleg, his second friend, called. Oleg was quieter.
“I heard,” he said. “What a situation.”
“A situation,” Sergei confirmed.
“Listen…” Oleg paused. “She found the money, held the wedding, and sent your things to the dacha. That isn’t hysteria. That’s a decision. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Well,” Oleg sighed. “At least now you have a bathhouse. At the dacha. And a veranda. Enjoy it.”
Sergei sat on the new veranda. The bags stood in the yard. Tamara Ilyinichna had gone into the house and had not come back out. Something small tapped against the new roof tiles — maybe insects, maybe branches.
He wrote Alla one last message: “I’ll come. We’ll talk. Everything can still be fixed.”
The answer came an hour later. Short. Without his name.
“The lock has been changed. The papers are with the lawyer. There is nothing to talk about. You made your choice — live with it. Nastya asked me to tell you: she no longer has a father. She has a man who chose a bathhouse over her wedding.”
Sergei read it again and again. He stood up. Sat down. He called the lawyer’s number listed below — unfamiliar, distant. Someone answered politely, dryly, professionally. He was informed that divorce proceedings had been initiated. That the apartment belonged to Alla. That there were no claims against him except one: he was not to appear there again.
Tamara Ilyinichna came out in the evening. She silently stood beside her son. She looked at the bags, at the new veranda, at the fresh roof.
“Seryozha,” she began.
“Don’t,” he said.
The bathhouse stood finished. It smelled of fresh wood. The veranda shone. The roof no longer leaked. Everything was new, solid, expensive.
And completely empty.
No daughter. No future grandchildren. No wife. No family. Only the dacha, renovated at the cost of someone else’s happiness, and a mother who had finally received her veranda and lost everyone for whom it had supposedly been built.
