Come, Olga! Let’s leave her here alone in her little cave! See how she manages without us!”
In minutes, the apartment was silent again.
Only the ticking clock and the distant hum of traffic remained.
Viktor stepped toward her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was blind.”
“I’m tired, Vitya,” she whispered back.
“So tired of feeling like a stranger in my own home.”
He squeezed her hand. “It won’t happen again. I swear.”
The following week passed in peace.
No phone calls. No sudden visits. Irina rearranged the furniture, bought a new vase — simpler than the one her mother gave her, but still blue.
That Sunday morning, the phone rang.
Irina froze.
But Viktor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”
At the door stood Tamara Pavlovna. She looked uncertain.
In her hands, she held a small package.
“May I come in?” she asked, for the first time ever, waiting to be invited.
Irina nodded.
“I baked a pie,” she said softly. “Your mom’s recipe. The one you always loved.”
They sat together in the kitchen.
The silence, for once, felt gentle.
“I’ve thought a lot,” Tamara finally said. “You were right. I forgot what it’s like to be a young wife under constant scrutiny.
I overstepped.”
She looked up. “Can we start over? With more kindness?”
From then on, Sundays changed.
Visits became warmer, quieter. Calls were made in advance. Advice came softly, if at all.
And Irina — at last — felt like the true mistress not only of her home, but of her life.
