The Same Conversation, Again

The sound of buckwheat shifting against the bowl had become my private form of torture.
Sh-sh-sh… clink.
Each grain Anna Petrovna picked out was another drop of acid on my nerves.

She sat at the table, back perfectly straight, lips pursed in disapproval.
I didn’t have to look to know her expression — the same one she wore every time she was about to “teach” me something.

“Lena,” she began, in that falsely calm voice that made my skin prickle, “it’s been five years. Five, Lena. And still nothing.”

I stood at the sink, rinsing dishes that didn’t need rinsing, hoping maybe the running water would drown her out. It didn’t.

“My friend Galya says her daughter-in-law already has two children. Two! And they’ve only been married two years.”

I closed my eyes briefly. Here we go again.

“Anna Petrovna,” I said as gently as I could, “Dima and I are trying. It just hasn’t worked yet.”

“Trying?” She snorted. “Maybe the problem isn’t ‘trying.’ Maybe you should see a proper doctor. Find out what’s wrong with you.”

That did it. I turned, the soapy sponge still in my hand.

“I have been to the doctor. Everything’s fine. He said Dima and I should both come in.”

She froze mid-scoop, her wrinkled fingers hovering over the groats. “Both?” she echoed. “Why should he go? He’s perfectly healthy. A real man! Strong as an ox. The issue is you, dear. You need to take care of yourself.”

And right on cue, the door banged open.
Dima — my husband — stepped inside, shoulders slumped, tie askew, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket.

He barely looked at me. “Hi.”

“Son,” his mother chirped, seizing the opportunity, “we were just talking about children.”

He froze with the beer halfway out of the fridge.

“Mom, not now.”

“I will, Dima. You’re thirty! Your whole life ahead of you — and what do we have? You living with a barren wife while the years slip by.”

“Anna Petrovna!” I shouted.

“What, what?” she said, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “I’m only speaking the truth! Go to a doctor, get treatment, stop wasting my son’s youth!”

Dima twisted open the bottle, took a slow drink. He didn’t even look at me.
No defense. No outrage. Just tiredness. And behind that, agreement.

“Dima,” I whispered, voice shaking. “Say something.”

He shrugged. “What is there to say? Facts are facts.”

The words landed like blows. I dropped the sponge into the sink and fled to our tiny bedroom, closing the door before the tears came.

The Breaking Point

I sat on the bed, trembling.
Five years ago, we’d stood here laughing, drunk on champagne and hope. We’d painted these walls together, chosen the curtains. I’d imagined a crib in the corner, soft toys on the shelf. A life.

But somewhere along the way, that dream had evaporated.
Now, instead of laughter, our home echoed with my mother-in-law’s criticisms and Dima’s silence.

Sometimes he came home smelling faintly of women’s perfume — something floral, expensive. When I asked, he scoffed, “You’re imagining things.”
But I wasn’t.

One evening, I tried again to reason with him.

“Dima, maybe we should both go to the doctor.”

He didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Why?”

“To… to see what’s wrong. The doctor said infertility can be in men too.”

That got his attention. He looked up — coldly.

“Don’t talk nonsense. I’m fine.”

“How do you know?”

He dropped his phone on the couch with a sharp click. “I just know. And Mom’s right — it’s you who should be getting treated.”

After that, there was nothing left to say.
He stopped coming home for dinner. His mother’s whispers grew sharper. I became the ghost in their shared world.

“My Dima is golden,” she’d brag into the phone. “And his wife — useless. Can’t cook, can’t give him children. Poor boy.”

Every word was a blade, and Dima let them slice me open without a word.

“It’s Over”

It was late April when he finally said it.

He came home after midnight. I pretended to be asleep. He showered, crept into bed — then lay still for a long while.

“Lena,” he said softly. “You awake?”

I didn’t answer.

“I know you’re awake. We need to talk.”

I turned toward him. The streetlight from outside fell across his face, carving his features in hard lines. He looked… like a stranger.

“I think we should divorce.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “What?”

“I filed already. A month, and it’ll be done.”

“Dima, why? We can fix this—”

“Fix what?” His voice was tired, final. “We’re not right for each other. And I need kids. Heirs. With you, there won’t be any.”

I stared, numb. “But maybe it’s not me—”

“It is you,” he snapped. “Mom was right.”

He turned away. “Go to sleep.”

I didn’t. I lay there in the dark, wide awake, listening to the rhythm of his breathing — steady, peaceful — as my world collapsed.

The Call

The next morning, he left early. His mother too. I was alone when the phone rang.

“Lenochka,” my mother’s voice trembled through the line. “Sweetheart, are you sitting down?”

“Mom, not now—”

“Lena, listen. Aunt Vera passed away.”

I blinked. “Aunt Vera? From Moscow?”

“Yes. And she left everything to you.”

I almost laughed. “What?”

“She had no children, remember? The will names you as her only heir. Lena, it’s… it’s a fortune. An apartment in Moscow. Bank accounts. Over five million rubles.”

The receiver slipped from my fingers. I just sat there, staring into space.

The Turn

The following months blurred together. Paperwork, lawyers, signatures.
Meanwhile, Dima stayed out longer and longer, and his mother barely spoke to me.

“Probably just old junk,” she sneered one morning. “Now you think you don’t need a man.”

I said nothing. What could I say? That I’d give it all up to have love back? That I still cried at night into the pillow he no longer used?

But when the divorce was finalized, I felt something unexpected — not pain.
Relief.

I packed my things and moved to Moscow.

Aunt Vera’s apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. She’d left her life exactly as it was — cups on the table, curtains half-drawn, photos of her travels on the shelf. A life lived quietly, wisely.

I cleaned every room, put fresh flowers in the vase, and sat down on the sofa.
For the first time in years, there was silence. Not the heavy silence of resentment — but peace.

And in that peace, a thought came: Maybe I can finally live for myself.

“Lavender”

I’d always loved flowers.
When I was little, I dreamed of having a shop filled with roses and lilies and laughter. Dima used to joke, “You and your silly hobbies.”
Now, there was no one to laugh at me.

Within a month, I’d rented a small basement near a metro station. Cleaned it, painted the walls light cream, and hung a sign: Lavender.

The first bouquet I sold was three yellow tulips to a young boy. He blushed, said they were for his teacher. I nearly cried from joy.

By autumn, I had regular customers, corporate orders, weddings. I hired Masha, a bright girl who talked fast and worked faster. We laughed, learned, created beauty together. I was happy — truly happy.

The Return of the Past

Then, one gray November night, the phone rang.

“Lena, it’s me. Dima.”

I froze. The voice was the same, but it carried a note of defeat.

“Hi,” I said flatly.

“How are you?”

“Fine. What do you need?”

“I’m in Moscow. Can we meet? I… have a proposal.”

I almost smiled. Of course he did.

We met at a café. He looked older, worn out. His expensive suit hung loose; the sparkle in his eyes was gone.

“You look incredible,” he said.

“Thank you. You wanted to talk?”

He took a deep breath. “I realize I was wrong. About everything. Let’s start over.”

“Why?” I asked simply.

He blinked. “Because we loved each other once.”

“And now?”

“Now I know the truth. I got tested. The problem was with me. It’s treatable. We can try again.”

I stirred my tea, watching the ripples. “Dima, I don’t want to try again.”

He frowned. “Come on, Lena. What kind of life is this? Selling flowers? Be realistic.”

“And what concern is that of yours?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I know about the inheritance. I just think—”

“There it is,” I interrupted softly. “You came because of the money.”

His face went red. “Don’t twist things! I love you!”

“No, Dima. You love comfort. And you lost it.”

I stood up. “Tell your mother congratulations. She got exactly what she wanted.”

“Lena—”

But I was already gone, the café door swinging shut behind me.

A New Beginning

The air outside was cold and clean.
I drew in a deep breath and smiled.

The shop was still lit when I got back. Bouquets waited — white roses for a wedding. I turned on the music and began to work.

“Excuse me,” a voice said softly. “Are you still open?”

A tall man stood at the door, rain on his coat. I recognized him — he rented the office space upstairs.

“Sure,” I smiled. “What do you need?”

“Roses. Red ones. For a girl.”

“How many?”

He hesitated. “How many do people usually buy when… when they’re apologizing?”

“Three.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Then three.”

While I wrapped them, he studied the shop. “It’s beautiful here. Peaceful.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Andrey, by the way. We’re neighbors, but we’ve never met.”

“Lena.”

He hesitated. “Mind if I stop by sometimes for coffee? My machine upstairs died.”

I laughed. “Sure. My coffee’s not bad.”

And he did come — for coffee, then for conversation, then just to see me.
Andrey was kind, attentive, easy to be around. We talked about everything — books, travels, dreams. He never asked about Dima. I never had to explain.

By February, he told me he loved me.
And I realized — so did I.

In March, I found out I was pregnant.
And when I told him, he lifted me off my feet and spun me around the room, laughing like a child.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” he grinned.

We married quietly that May. No crowds, no drama — just happiness.

What They Never Knew

Now, as I stand before the mirror, my belly round under my dress, I think of how strange life can be.

A year ago, I was a humiliated wife — branded barren.
Now I’m a wife again. A mother-to-be. A businesswoman. A woman who rebuilt her own life from the ruins.

Dima never learned about my pregnancy. But sometimes I think of what I’d tell him if I ever saw him again:

“On your mother’s advice, you left me. You thought I was worthless. But you didn’t know — I had a whole fortune. And now you’ve lost it.”

Not just the money.
You lost me.

And I — finally — found myself.