The blue car pulled confidently into the familiar driveway. Vladimir Nikolaevich turned off the engine and looked at his wife.
“Lyudochka, don’t forget the jam for the grandchildren,” he reminded her, pulling heavy grocery bags from the trunk.
Lyudmila Ivanovna nodded, straightening her summer dress. The July sun blazed mercilessly, but their mood was cheerful. Spending the weekend with their children was always a joy. They could help Tamara around the house, spend time with the little ones, and see how their only son’s family was doing.
“Look at these tomatoes we brought!” the mother-in-law pointed proudly to the bags. “From our own garden. Tamara will be delighted.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich grunted approvingly, dragging the bags toward the entrance. After thirty years of visiting their son, he was used to such sudden arrivals. Their children had to know that the parents were always there — ready to help and support.
At the familiar door, the mother-in-law pulled a key ring from her purse. Oleg had once given them a spare key in case of emergencies. Since then, it had become a pass for their regular visits.
“We’re here!” Lyudmila Ivanovna called loudly as she opened the door. “Olezhek, Tamaročka, are you home?”
Silence answered. In the hallway were a few summer bags, a light women’s jacket, and children’s sandals neatly lined up against the wall. But no men’s shoes in sight.
“They must have gone to the dacha,” Vladimir Nikolaevich suggested, looking around the empty corridor.
“On a Saturday morning?” his wife doubted. “Oleg works late, he should be sleeping in.”
She carried the groceries into the living room. The place looked lived-in, but strangely… feminine. Flowers in vases, magazines stacked neatly, children’s toys in the corner. But nothing masculine — no newspapers, no ashtray, no fishing gear that Oleg usually left lying around.
“That’s odd,” the father-in-law muttered, peeking into the bedroom.
The double bed was neatly made with a floral coverlet. On one nightstand lay a woman’s cream and a book on child psychology. The other was completely empty, as if unused for a long time.
Lyudmila frowned. Something was off. After twenty years of Oleg and Tamara’s marriage, she was used to the house’s usual order. Her son always left his things in plain sight — a leather briefcase by the door, a newspaper on the table, cufflinks on the dresser. Now, none of it remained.
A door creaked. Tamara came out of the bathroom with a towel in her hands, her wet hair tied in a messy bun. Seeing her in-laws, she froze.
“Vladimir Nikolaevich, Lyudmila Ivanovna,” she said nervously. “I wasn’t expecting you…”
“Tamaročka, dear!” Lyudmila rushed to hug her. “We came unexpectedly, brought you some food from the dacha. Where’s our Olezhek?”
Tamara stiffened, avoiding the embrace. Her eyes darted around the room as if searching for support.
“Oleg…” she began, then stopped.
“What’s wrong with him?” Vladimir asked anxiously. “Is he sick? At work?”
“He’s fine,” Tamara replied quickly. “He’s just… not at home right now.”
Lyudmila studied her intently. Something about Tamara’s behavior was disturbing. Usually, she welcomed them warmly, poured tea, asked about their health. Now she was reserved, speaking briefly.
“When will he be back?” the mother-in-law pressed. “We came especially for the weekend.”
Tamara dried her hands slowly, stalling. From the children’s room came voices — the kids had woken up.
“Mom, can we watch cartoons?” shouted little Katya, seven years old.
“Later, darling,” Tamara answered.
“Is Grandpa here?” asked five-year-old Dima.
The children ran out, saw their grandparents, and leapt into their arms with joy. Vladimir lifted his grandson, Lyudmila kissed her granddaughter.
“How you’ve grown!” the grandmother exclaimed. “And where’s your daddy?”
The children exchanged glances, then looked at their mother. In their eyes shone a kind of guarded caution, far too adult for their age.
“Daddy isn’t here,” Katya said softly.
“What do you mean, not here?” the grandfather frowned. “Where is he, then?”
“Kids, go have breakfast,” Tamara interrupted quickly. “I’ll make you something.”
The children obeyed, but Vladimir noticed how they cast quick, uneasy looks at the adults — as if afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“Tamara,” the father-in-law began carefully, “maybe you should explain what’s going on. We’re family, there’s no need to hide anything.”
Tamara stood still, clutching the towel tightly. Her shoulders were tense, her breathing uneven. Lyudmila stepped closer, her eyes full of concern.
“My dear, what happened?” she asked gently. “You’re pale. Did you and Oleg quarrel?”
Tamara slowly raised her eyes. They held exhaustion, pain, and something else — determination.
“We didn’t quarrel,” she said quietly. “It’s just… it’s over.”
“What’s over?” the mother-in-law asked in confusion.
Tamara leaned against the wall, gathering strength. She had delayed this moment for two months. Oleg had promised to tell his parents himself, to explain everything. But time passed, and he never found the courage.
“Oleg doesn’t live here anymore,” Tamara said calmly, though each word cost her.
The air seemed to freeze. Vladimir and Lyudmila stared at her, struggling to understand what they had just heard.
“What do you mean, he doesn’t live here?” Lyudmila asked, bewildered. “Where did he go?”
“We divorced three months ago,” Tamara added. “Oleg went to live… with another woman.”
Lyudmila clutched the back of a chair as her legs weakened. Twenty years of marriage, two children, a shared home — all destroyed? How could it be possible?
“That can’t be,” she whispered. “Oleg loves his family, his children…”
“He did love them,” Tamara admitted. “But apparently, his new feelings were stronger.”
Vladimir dropped heavily onto a chair, struggling to process the news. His son — divorced, abandoned his wife and children, and left for another woman? It didn’t seem real.
