Valya was no longer going to put up with it. She didn’t understand why Dima had started treating her this way—had he stopped loving her? Today again he came home late at night and went to sleep in the living room.
In the morning, when he came out to breakfast, Valya sat down across from him.
“Dim, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s your problem?”
He was drinking his coffee and trying not to look at her.
“Ever since the boys were born, you’ve changed a lot.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Dima, for two years we’ve been living like neighbors. Did you notice that?”
“Listen, what did you expect? The house is always littered with toys, it smells like some kind of milk porridge, the kids are screaming… You think anyone would like that?”
“Dima, but they’re your children!”
He jumped up and began pacing the kitchen nervously.
“All normal wives have one normal child. So he plays quietly in the corner and doesn’t get in the way. But you had two at once! My mom told me and I didn’t listen—women like you only know how to breed!”
“Women like me? What kind, Dima?”
“The kind with no purpose in life.”
“But you’re the one who made me quit university because you wanted me to devote myself entirely to the family!”
Valya sat down. After a pause, she added:
“I think we need to get a divorce.”
He thought for a moment and said:
“I’m all for it. Just don’t you dare file for child support. I’ll give you money myself.”
Her husband turned on his heel and left the kitchen. She would’ve cried, but then a noise came from the nursery. The twins had woken up and needed her.
A week later she packed her things, took the twins, and left. She had a large room in a communal apartment that she’d inherited from her grandmother.
The tenants were new, so Valya decided to get to know everyone.
On one side lived a sullen man, not that old yet, and on the other a flashy lady of about sixty. First she knocked on the man’s door:
“Hello! I’m your new neighbor, I’d like to introduce myself. I bought a cake—come to the kitchen for tea.”
Valya smiled politely. The man looked her over, then grunted:
“I don’t eat sweets,” and shut the door in her face.
Valya shrugged and headed to Zinaida Yegorovna’s. That one agreed to join her only so she could deliver a speech.
“So, here’s how it is: I like to rest during the day because in the evenings I watch my shows, and I hope your offspring won’t disturb me with their yelling. And be so kind as not to let them run in the corridor, and make sure they don’t touch, dirty, or break anything!”
She went on and on, and Valya thought gloomily that life here was going to be anything but sweet.
She got the boys into kindergarten and took a job there herself as a nursery aide. It was very convenient—she worked right up until it was time to pick up Andrei and Yura. The pay was peanuts, but Dima had promised to help.
For the first three months, while the divorce was in process, Dima really did toss them some money. But it had been just as long since the divorce, and there’d been no more money from him. Valya hadn’t been able to pay the utilities for two months.
Relations with Zinaida Yegorovna were getting worse by the day. One evening, while Valya was feeding the boys in the kitchen, the neighbor swept in, wrapped in a satin robe.
“Dearie, I do hope you’ve resolved your financial issue? I’d hate to lose electricity or gas because of you.”
Valya sighed.
“No, not yet. Tomorrow I’m going to my ex-husband’s—he seems to have forgotten about the children entirely.”
Zinaida Yegorovna came up to the table.
“You keep feeding them pasta… You know you’re a bad mother, don’t you?”
“I’m a good mother! And I’d advise you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, or you might get it smacked!”
Then all hell broke loose! Zinaida Yegorovna shrieked so loud you wanted to plug your ears. The other neighbor, Ivan—the one on Valya’s other side—came out of his room at the noise. He listened for a while to Zinaida cursing Valya, the boys, and everything else in sight, then turned around and went back to his room. He returned a minute later. He threw some money on the table in front of Zinaida and said:
“Quiet. Here’s for the utilities.”
The woman fell silent, but when Ivan disappeared she hissed to Valya:
“You’ll regret this!”
Valya let it go in one ear and out the other. Turned out she shouldn’t have. The next day she went to see Dima. He listened and said:
“I’m going through a tough time right now, I can’t pay you anything.”
“Dima, are you kidding me? I have to feed the children with something.”
“So feed them, I’m not stopping you.”
“I’ll file for child support.”
“Of course, go ahead. My official salary is such that you’ll get peanuts. And try not to bother me again!”
Valya trudged home in tears. Payday was a week away, and she was nearly out of money. But another surprise was waiting at home—a district police officer. Zinaida Yegorovna had filed a complaint. It said Valya had threatened her life, and her children were hungry and unattended.
The officer talked with her for an hour, and at the end said:
“I’m obligated to report this to Child Protective Services.”
“Listen, report what? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Those are the rules. There’s a signal, it has to be processed.”
In the evening, Zinaida showed up in her kitchen again.
“So, dearie, if your children disturb me during the day one more time, I’ll have to go straight to Social Services!”
“What are you doing? They’re children! They can’t sit still all day!”
“Dearie, if you fed them properly, they’d feel like sleeping, not running around!”
She left the kitchen, and the boys stared at their mother in fright.
“Eat up, my darlings. Auntie is joking—she’s actually kind.”
She turned to the stove to wipe her tears and didn’t even notice Ivan coming into the kitchen. He had a huge bag in his hands. He walked over to her fridge, opened it without a word, and started loading it with groceries.
“Vanya, excuse me—you’ve mixed up the fridge.”
He didn’t even turn around. He packed the fridge full and left the kitchen just as silently. Valya didn’t know what to say.
After payday she knocked on his door. He opened immediately, as gloomy and taciturn as ever.
“Vanya, I owe you for the groceries. Here’s two thousand, I’ll bring the rest later—just tell me how much.”
“Go on, you don’t owe me anything.”
And he shut the door in her face again. Valya didn’t have time to react because shrieks from the kitchen—Zinaida again. She rushed in—the boys were standing there and Zinaida was yelling, pointing at a puddle of tea by the table:
“Bums! Street urchins! What will you turn into with such upbringing?!”
Valya sent the children to their room, wiped the floor, and went back to her own. She didn’t know how to go on living. The boys were sitting quietly on the bed. Valya sat next to them.
“Why the long faces? We’ll have to hang on a little. I’ll definitely figure something out, and we’ll move out of here.”
The boys snuggled up to her from both sides, wrapping their little arms around her.
And the next evening the doorbell rang. Ivan must have been in his, Valya opened the door—to find two unfamiliar women, the district officer, and another man standing there.
“Hello, are you here to see me?”
One of the women gave her a stern look:
“Valentina Sergeyevna Zhestkova?”
“Yes.”
“We’re from Child Protective Services.”
“From CPS? Excuse me, why?”
“May we come in.”
The women walked around the room, looked in the fridge, flipped back the blanket on the bed.
“Get the children ready.”
“What? Are you insane! I won’t give my children to anyone!”
Andrei and Yura clung to her from both sides and were already crying. They didn’t understand what was happening. One of the women signaled the officer—he came over and started pulling the boys from her arms.
“Mom! Mommy! Don’t give us away!”
Valya fought with all her might. She held on to the children, but the other man twisted her arms.
“Mommy!!!”
Through a haze she saw the boys kicking and screaming in hysteria, their eyes full of terror. She lunged again, managed to break free of the man, but the officer stepped in front of her. He had already handed Yura to the women, and the two of them quickly carried the boys down the stairs. The children screamed so hard it chilled the blood. The officer held her until the cries faded and a car pulled away from the building. He released her, and Valya collapsed to the floor. She howled like a wounded animal. Five minutes later, no one was left in the room but her.
Valya got up and looked around. Her eyes fell on a big axe. It had been her grandmother’s when there was still a stove here; for some reason no one ever threw it out. Valya stood, took the axe, weighed it in her hand, and smiled slightly—though the smile looked more like a grimace. She left the room and headed for Zinaida Yegorovna’s door.
When the door had been smashed in and a shrieking Zinaida had nearly crawled under the bed, someone grabbed Valya and wrenched the axe from her hands.
“Fool! What are you doing? Who are you making it worse for?”
It was Vanya. Valya breathed out:
“I don’t care anymore… I don’t care about anything…”
Vanya dragged her to his place, laid her on the sofa, and gave her some kind of pill. Valya obediently swallowed it. She knew that as soon as Vanya looked away, she’d run. She knew exactly where—to the bridge. But her head suddenly became heavy, her eyes refused to open. Valya fell asleep—Ivan hadn’t skimped on the sleeping pills. He left the room and went to Zinaida Yegorovna. She sat disheveled at the table, drinking valerian.
“Happy now?”
“Oh, Vanya… I didn’t think it would go this far… I thought they’d scare her and she’d move out…”
“Move out? Here’s what: tomorrow you go and withdraw all your complaints. And pray to God it all works out, or I might fail to keep an eye on Valya. Then you’re done.”
Zinaida nodded frantically.
For a whole month Valya gathered certificates and references, took some kind of alcohol tests. She hadn’t even thought she’d do all that—she’d given up, decided it was all pointless and nothing would help. But Ivan, still the same grim and gloomy Ivan, wouldn’t leave her alone for a minute and kept pushing her forward. When it became clear the children might be returned, Valya seemed to wake up.
“Vanya… It’s all thanks to you…”
And then he smiled for the first time. Sadly, though.
“I had kids too… But I couldn’t help them. They’ve been gone five years now. But yours can be helped…”
The night before the commission was to make its decision, Valya was sleeping on Ivan’s sofa, as she usually did lately, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Ivan, it seemed, couldn’t either.
“Vanya… you awake? Tell me what happened to your… children.”
Ivan was silent for a while, then began speaking in a flat, expressionless voice.
“I had a family… A wife and two boys. And I didn’t appreciate them—thought, well, they’re there, fine. After payday I’d drink with the guys, and at home I’d shout sometimes. Then one day, just like that, my wife left with the kids. To a private house she’d inherited from her folks. I waited a month, playing the proud man, then suddenly realized I couldn’t live without them. I went to them, wanted to say everything, but… I didn’t make it. I arrived, and the house had burned down that night. With the people inside. Faulty wiring.”
He fell silent. Then went on:
“I started drinking, kept getting into fights. I injured some guys—nothing too serious—and got three years. When I got out, I sold my apartment to pay damages to those men and moved back into this room. The plant took me back.”
Valya got up, sat down next to Ivan, and took his hand, but he sighed and pulled his hand away.
“Go to sleep. Tomorrow at the commission you better be as fresh as a daisy!”
“Zhestkova!”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Here are your documents. Keep your life in order so this never happens again.”
Valya stared blankly at the papers. The woman who handed them over suddenly smiled:
“What are you standing for? Go pick up your—”
Valya’s knees buckled. Ivan held her by the arm as they stood in some waiting room.
“Mom! Mommy!”
Yura and Andryushka clung to her. They were all crying—even Ivan turned away and wiped some speck from his eye.
“All right, enough tears—let’s go home.”
Life gradually began to improve. Zinaida Yegorovna didn’t leave her room. With Ivan’s help, Valya got a job as a technician at the same plant, and now she didn’t have to count whether the bread would be enough… Of course she wasn’t making millions, but with sensible spending, there was enough for everything. One thing worried her—Vanya had become even more withdrawn. And one day she accidentally knocked his jacket off the hook; a phone fell out of the pocket and lit up. And on the lock screen—it was her, Valya. She smiled, picked up the phone, thought for a moment, and went to his room. Vanya was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He seemed startled when he saw her. Valya sat down beside him:
“You know, Ivan, I was always afraid to say too much. And there’s so much I didn’t manage to say to the people who were close. Some left, some no longer need those words. The worst thing is to regret the words you should have said and didn’t…”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s just… if you can’t, maybe I should try. I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me, but I’ll try. Vanya… will you marry me?”
Vanya looked at her for a long time. Then he took her face in his hands and said:
“I’m no good with pretty words. Just know I’ll do everything for you and the boys.”
Crybaby
“Here, kitty, kitty, come here, eat. Oh, shove off, you little pest, let her eat. And you—scram, where do you think you’re going! I hate you all, you devils! Where are you running off to, kitty—eat!” Neighbor Katerina Stepanovna had been carrying on under the window for a full hour. “Kitty, kitty! You b****!”
Stepanovna was close to tears. Well, of course—an entire shift on her feet at the hospital; she was dog-tired. She works there as a cleaner. What kind of job that is—no need to explain. Why she needs it is clear too. You can’t get far on today’s pension. Hard enough to keep yourself going. And she has twenty cats on her hands. Half of them already meet Stepanovna by the store across the street from our building.
The fluffy hustlers fan out their tails and meow pitifully:
“We’re dyyyying, Stepanovna! We’ll just keel over right now!”
Eyes wild, she bolts into the supermarket, painted up in cheerful reds and greens. Buys half a cart of Whiskas and rushes back out, forgetting to grab herself a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread for dinner. The pushy feline herd scurries after their patroness.
And now she’s spotted a lonely cat, an outcast, whom the well-fed feline clan always pushes away from the bowl. And it starts:
“Here, kitty, kitty, come here!”
The others hiss and scare off the loner. Stepanovna gets mad. At home, another dozen are yowling. I can hear them: they’ve clambered up onto the kitchen windowsill, rubbing their noses on the glass and, in turn, snorting at the street cats.
My neighbor is freaking out, that’s obvious—she hasn’t had a crumb in her mouth herself. Probably from the cold she needs the bathroom and a drink—her sugar is through the roof. But until she feeds that stupid cat—she’s not going anywhere!
Then I hear her swearing through the wall again. Feed everyone, water them, pet them, and wash the litter boxes that already stink—the smell wafts into my apartment through the ventilation. After that, Stepanovna once more dashes outside in slippers on bare feet (there’s snow already, good Lord) and “here-kitty-kitties” at the pets who unwisely jumped out the window to go for a stroll. Must be short a couple of heads.
I sigh. I’m sick to death of these cats. They meow, they screech, they fight over territory. Another whiskered one has settled in the entryway: bowls are set out, food poured, a little mat laid down. In the mornings I trip over the cat, and in revenge he poops by my door.
I ought to call the neighbor—or better, go see her—put on a serious face and say:
“I won’t tolerate this anymore, dear Katerina Stepanovna! I will put my foot down!”
But… How can you say that to her? Her husband died, her daughter doesn’t visit. All alone. She used to be normal. Then someone left kittens at her door. And not baby kittens either—already big ones. Seems some kids played with their fluffy toys and tossed them out. Who needs the responsibility?
So Stepanovna took them in. Had all the females spayed. Treats them, feeds them. Couldn’t give them away. Not noble breeds. Strays—white with black spots, ugh! Deal with it yourself, Ekaterina Batkovna. No fools lining up to help.
As soon as she caught her breath—more “gifts.” Is this being done on purpose or what? And then they just started dropping kittens under her window. So that’s what she struggles with. She cries, swears, but can’t do anything. I took one—already have two dogs on my hands, can’t do more. A ginger tom, supposed to bring money, they say. But I haven’t seen the money in seven years. Ah well, to hell with the money.
“Here, kitty, kitty, come here, eat. Oh, shove off, you little pest, let her eat. And you—scram, where do you think you’re going! I hate you all, you devils! Where are you running off to, kitty—eat!” Neighbor Katerina Stepanovna had been carrying on under the window for a full hour. “Kitty, kitty! You b****!”
Stepanovna was close to tears. Well, of course—an entire shift on her feet at the hospital; she was dog-tired. She works there as a cleaner. What kind of job that is—no need to explain. Why she needs it is clear too. You can’t get far on today’s pension. Hard enough to keep yourself going. And she has twenty cats on her hands. Half of them already meet Stepanovna by the store across the street from our building.
The fluffy hustlers fan out their tails and meow pitifully:
“We’re dyyyying, Stepanovna! We’ll just keel over right now!”
Eyes wild, she bolts into the supermarket, painted up in cheerful reds and greens. Buys half a cart of Whiskas and rushes back out, forgetting to grab herself a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread for dinner. The pushy feline herd scurries after their patroness.
And now she’s spotted a lonely cat, an outcast, whom the well-fed feline clan always pushes away from the bowl. And it starts:
“Here, kitty, kitty, come here!”
The others hiss and scare off the loner. Stepanovna gets mad. At home, another dozen are yowling. I can hear them: they’ve clambered up onto the kitchen windowsill, rubbing their noses on the glass and, in turn, snorting at the street cats.
My neighbor is freaking out, that’s obvious—she hasn’t had a crumb in her mouth herself. Probably from the cold she needs the bathroom and a drink—her sugar is through the roof. But until she feeds that stupid cat—she’s not going anywhere!
Then I hear her swearing through the wall again. Feed everyone, water them, pet them, and wash the litter boxes that already stink—the smell wafts into my apartment through the ventilation. After that, Stepanovna once more dashes outside in slippers on bare feet (there’s snow already, good Lord) and “here-kitty-kitties” at the pets who unwisely jumped out the window to go for a stroll. Must be short a couple of heads.
I sigh. I’m sick to death of these cats. They meow, they screech, they fight over territory. Another whiskered one has settled in the entryway: bowls are set out, food poured, a little mat laid down. In the mornings I trip over the cat, and in revenge he poops by my door.
I ought to call the neighbor—or better, go see her—put on a serious face and say:
“I won’t tolerate this anymore, dear Katerina Stepanovna! I will put my foot down!”
But… How can you say that to her? Her husband died, her daughter doesn’t visit. All alone. She used to be normal. Then someone left kittens at her door. And not baby kittens either—already big ones. Seems some kids played with their fluffy toys and tossed them out. Who needs the responsibility?
So Stepanovna took them in. Had all the females spayed. Treats them, feeds them. Couldn’t give them away. Not noble breeds. Strays—white with black spots, ugh! Deal with it yourself, Ekaterina Batkovna. No fools lining up to help.
As soon as she caught her breath—more “gifts.” Is this being done on purpose or what? And then they just started dropping kittens under her window. So that’s what she struggles with. She cries, swears, but can’t do anything. I took one—already have two dogs on my hands, can’t do more. A ginger tom, supposed to bring money, they say. But I haven’t seen the money in seven years. Ah well, to hell with the money.
I won’t pick on the woman. She’s good. Last year I galloped off to the dacha and, like a fool, forgot to pull the door shut. Come on in, kind people, it’s not locked! Stepanovna noticed—and didn’t step away from my apartment. Kept watch. Along with the cats. Musya, her eldest, knocked over my dracaena. Little monster. But everything else stayed intact.
My neighbor finally calmed down. I bent over my laptop. Two hours had passed and not a line on the screen. Okay, Vitalyevna, get to it, work. And then through the wall I hear—at the other neighbor’s, Vera’s place—such a racket, it’s awful. The music is blasting, some kind of nonsense:
“Gul-gul-gul, aykyul, lyulyul.”
All clear. Vera’s suitor, Aybek, is back from his Homeland. He’s stuck to her—you can’t peel him off. And why not? Vera feeds him, waters him, and loves him. The woman’s over fifty, but she could give any young thing a run for her money. Aybek lives with her two months on, two months off. Two months he’s got a flaming love with Vera, and two—with his wife back home in Samarkand. So here he is, a two-wife man! Dancing, prancing, wine!
Truth is, Vera is terribly jealous. If Aybek so much as casts his eyes somewhere else, she can raise such a ruckus! And she doesn’t care what side of his head the tubeteika is on. Screaming, yelling, things flying into the wall—and Aybek himself. And the jealous lady, like a stuck record, without a pause:
“Get the hell out of here, you b***! I said get the hell out, you b***, what, you didn’t hear me? Get—out—of—here!”
And so—about a hundred and sixty times! Until they make up. Around two in the morning!
I bang on the radiator with a screwdriver. Paint chips off the radiator. Damn! Why me! I put on my determined face and…
Don’t go anywhere. First: I’m shy. Vera might suddenly get jealous of her ladies’ man with me. Second: I don’t want to. Vera’s good too. Who’s going to walk my dog when I’m at work? Who’s going to treat me to a real, fragrant, sweet Samarkand melon? And now, I bet, Aybek brought persimmons! Oh, pure honey, not persimmons! Vera, by the way, works as a street sweeper. Thanks to her, our entryway is the cleanest. And even if one of Stepanovna’s strays poops by my door—Vera personally scrubs it with bleach.
Still no lines on the laptop. Let’s begin!
Thump-thump-thump. Thud, thud, thud. Neighbor Kolya came home from work. Stomps like an elephant. Or a horse. Rat-a-tat-a-tat. He’s moving something again. Late at night! And tomorrow’s Saturday. Which means his drill will be screeching and the screwdriver buzzing again. He never gets enough. The apartment is only thirty-three square meters—you could have built a castle there in three years and hung two suspended ceilings from the stretch ceiling. But no! Kolya will always find something to do! I’ve got a headache!
I’ll definitely call the police. Let them fine this “handy stomper.” And the most annoying thing is that Kolya weighs at most fifty kilos soaking wet! How is that even possible! Step on your toes, not bang your heels like a hoof!
And on the other hand, how many times has Kolya bailed me out… Remember how I, after getting my license, flailed around the yard in my jalopy? I couldn’t park or drive backwards at all. I’d get myself wedged in our little lot—couldn’t go forward or back. Who saved me? My husband? Yeah right. Dear Kolya. Calm as an elephant (or a horse).
“Vitalyevna,” he’d say, “do you look in the mirror?”
“Uh-huh,” I’d say.
“What do you see?”
“The wall of the building.”
“And to the right?”
“The curb.”
“Steer gently so that, visually, between the curb and the wheel there’s a distance that in your mind is about twenty centimeters,” and he even showed me that distance with his hands.
And we practiced like that about ten times. Then Kolya taught me how to get out of a rut. And how to change a flat if needed! Kolya! Not my husband, who goes feral the moment I sit behind the wheel. As if I begged for this driving!
I thought. Maybe I’m the wimp? An idiot? A crybaby? Fine. Am I such a perfect neighbor myself? How many times have I bothered people with my hysterical dog? My pooch has a weird habit: he likes to howl. Not from boredom, not from longing—no! He has the window instead of a TV. Sits on the windowsill and watches the news. All good, flight normal. But as soon as any strange dog runs past—the concert with howling begins. It sounds like he’s been locked up alone, beaten like a mule, and not fed! I’m serious!
And then one day a neighbor from the top floor, an elderly teacher who had recently moved into our building, couldn’t stand this “abuse” of the unfortunate animal and went door to door collecting signatures. And all my restless neighbors stood shoulder to shoulder, patiently explaining to the old lady that no one is torturing the dog. The dog is just… like that. A little unhinged.
I apologized to the newcomer a hundred times. And now I try to be in the city as little as possible—once a week—so as not to traumatize the woman with my pet’s quirks. She, in turn, shows tolerance. Just like I did today. In the end, we’re all human, and in society we have to somehow adapt to one another, so we don’t turn into beasts over a parking space, a crying baby, a barking dog, or a drill on weekends…
The story was written after all. It’s in front of you.
My husband came back from the village. Brought six kilos of pike. I packed it into bags—and went to treat the neighbors
