The suitcase wouldn’t close. I tried for the third time to force in the gifts for my grandmother, nervously checking the clock. My flight to Moscow was in three hours.
“Gen, help me already!” I called to my husband, who was calmly drinking coffee and scrolling his phone.
“Later,” he replied without looking up.
I pulled the zipper hard. The suitcase finally closed. I called a taxi.
“Send your grandma our New Year wishes,” my mother shouted from the kitchen.
“You know Gen hasn’t visited her in two years,” I muttered.
Gen appeared and shrugged.
“She hates me anyway. I’ll stay home and work.”
I went alone.
At the airport I suddenly remembered the brooch I bought for Grandma — a violin-key design. I made the taxi turn back.
When I ran into the apartment, I heard voices.
“You can go to Svetlana tonight,” my mother said.
“She’s tired of hiding,” Gen answered.
They were talking about his affair.
About waiting for my grandmother to die.
About splitting her inheritance.
My legs went weak.
They knew everything.
They were using me.
I quietly took the brooch and left.
On the plane I finally understood: my marriage had been fake for years.
In St. Petersburg my grandmother hugged me like she always did.
That evening I told her everything.
The next morning she took me to the conservatory.
“You’ll play in my Christmas concert,” she said.
“You’re coming back to music. Back to your real life.”
A week later I resigned from my job in Moscow.
I never went back.
