“Inna, let’s agree on this upfront so there are no hard feelings later,” Artyom said, his tone measured, practical. He sat across from me at the kitchen table, hands clasped, eyes steady. “I’ll provide for you, and in return, you won’t lay claim to my property. Everything I own will go to my children. Deal?”

He looked at me expectantly. There was no malice in his voice, no coldness either—just a kind of weary honesty, the kind that comes from someone who’s seen life, loss, and knows better than to leave anything uncertain.

“Deal,” I sighed.

We shook hands, half joking, half serious. That conversation—simple, pragmatic—happened five years ago.

I never imagined I’d get married again. I wasn’t the kind of woman who dreamed about weddings, flowers, or white dresses. I had my own rhythm in life, and I was content with it. Maybe I was selfish, or maybe just too used to my independence. I had a job I liked, my own cozy apartment, a close friend, and my fat gray cat, Barsik. That was enough.

But time doesn’t stand still. Friends around me started pairing off, getting married, having kids, buying bigger apartments. My best friend Katya, my partner in crime since university, packed up and moved to the Czech Republic with her husband.

And me? I became “the one who’s still single.”

Whenever acquaintances met me, they’d ask the same question with that sly half-smile:
“Well, already or still?”

Already married, or still waiting for my prince? It was supposed to be a joke, but it stung every time.

Then one day, I met a man. Sergey. He was kind, gentle, calm—everything a husband “should” be. He fixed things around the house, cooked like a chef, and adored me. But I couldn’t love him. I tried—I really did. But love doesn’t come on command.

We lived together for three years. Then, suddenly, he was gone. A heart attack. He wasn’t even forty. Death doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

For months, I carried a crushing guilt. I blamed myself for not loving him enough, for being cold, for failing him in some invisible way. I promised myself that was it—never again. I’d stay single forever.

Then Katya called. She laughed through the phone, talking about her life in Prague, her husband, their friends. “Come visit,” she said. “You’ll love it here.”

So I did.

When I landed in Prague, everything felt unfamiliar—the language, the streets, the rhythm of life. Katya met me at the airport, chattering non-stop, dragging me from cafes to museums.

That afternoon, she suddenly said, “Inna, we’ve been invited to my husband’s boss’s birthday party tonight. Will you come? I already told him about you. Viktor is dying to meet you—I showed him your photo!”

I groaned. “Katya, have you lost your mind? What do I need him for? He’s Czech! I’m not going.”

“You’re such a fool,” she scolded, laughing. “He’s a catch! Divorced, has two grown sons, and he’s handsome. Don’t miss your chance.”

I sighed. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

She grinned. “There’s nothing to think about! We’ll marry you off!”

It felt like my fate was already sealed.

That evening, dressed up and trying not to look too nervous, I followed Katya and her husband to Viktor’s house.

He opened the door himself—a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with kind blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice. When he took my hand and kissed it, I felt something inside me shift.

During dinner, we kept catching each other’s eyes. His Russian was surprisingly good—his grandmother had been from Voronezh—and conversation flowed easily. We laughed, teased each other. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

We exchanged numbers. “Just in case,” he said with a wink.

When I flew home, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Viktor called often, and we’d talk for hours. It was as if we’d known each other our whole lives.

Then one day, he proposed. Over the phone. I didn’t hesitate—I packed my bags and flew back to Prague.

At the airport, I spotted him immediately—standing at the bottom of the stairs with a huge bouquet of red roses. When I walked down, he dropped to one knee, right there on the tarmac. People stopped to watch. I blushed, flustered, but he just smiled, handed me the flowers, kissed me deeply, and swept me off my feet—literally. The crowd clapped.

The next few days were a blur of happiness and passion. We barely left the apartment. It felt like a dream.

Then came the “official” introductions—his two sons and his elderly mother.

The sons were polite but cold, their smiles thin. They exchanged glances that said, “So this is the woman trying to replace our mother.” His mother, regal and ancient, sat in a wheelchair, silent, watching me with unreadable eyes.

I thought: what have I gotten myself into?

Still, Viktor made me feel safe. The family lived apart—the sons in another city, the mother in a nursing home. “She’s ninety-three,” Viktor said softly.

Life settled into a rhythm. I wasn’t working, but I didn’t mind. I loved him. We traveled, spent weekends by the river, took photos, laughed.

Then one day, he sat me down. “Inna, after I die, everything goes to my sons. For you—I’ll make sure you have a proper funeral when the time comes.”

I smiled sadly. “Of course. I understand.”

We had the agreement notarized. I didn’t marry him for his money.

But his sons didn’t trust me. They called constantly, dropped by unannounced, demanded to know everything. Viktor brushed it off, but I could feel their hostility growing.

Then came the illness. It hit hard. Suddenly, my strong, confident husband couldn’t get out of bed. I became his nurse—feeding him, bathing him, sitting by his bedside every night. I stopped counting the days.

One morning, after a full year of decline, Viktor quietly changed his will. I didn’t know.

But his sons did. The very next day, they stormed into the house.

They cornered him, voices rising, faces red. “Father, come to your senses! Wives come and go. Blood is blood!”

I sat silently in the corner, watching, feeling both anger and pity.

Finally, I said in my broken Czech, “Please, calm down. I don’t want anything but your father’s health. I never had any illusions.”

The room went quiet. The sons exchanged uneasy looks. Their wives, waiting outside, peeked in. Viktor waved everyone away except me.

When we were alone, he whispered, “Inna, are you really refusing everything? Why? If something happens to me, you’ll be left with nothing.”

I took his hand, trembling. “The only thing I ever wanted, Viktor, was you. That’s all.”

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes glistening.

That was the last conversation we ever had about money—or about death.

The Aftermath

Viktor passed away on a gray morning in early March.
Snow still clung to the corners of the streets outside, refusing to melt, as if even winter couldn’t bear to let go.

I was sitting beside him when it happened. His breathing had grown shallow, almost imperceptible. I held his hand and whispered something—I can’t even remember what now. Maybe I told him I loved him. Maybe I told him it was okay to rest.

And then he simply… stopped.

The room went quiet. Not the kind of quiet you notice—but the kind that swallows you whole.

For a long time, I didn’t cry. I just sat there, numb, staring at the man who had somehow managed to bring love back into my life.

The sons arrived within an hour. They didn’t look at me. They went straight to their father’s room, spoke in hushed tones, then made phone calls—hospital, funeral home, lawyer. Efficient, brisk, emotionless.

When one of them finally turned to me, his face was unreadable.
“We’ll handle everything,” he said. “You can rest.”

As if I had been an employee they were now dismissing.

The funeral was beautiful, though. Quiet, dignified. Friends, colleagues, old army men. I stood apart from the sons and their wives. No one came to comfort me; I think most people didn’t even know who I was. The “young Russian wife” sounded like a gossip headline, not a human being.

After the ceremony, I went home—to our house—and sat in the dark, listening to the echoes of his voice in every corner. His slippers were still by the door, his cologne still on the dresser. I couldn’t bring myself to touch anything.

The next morning, the sons came again. No greetings. Just tension.

They stood in the hallway, two silhouettes in the winter light.
“There’s something you should know,” the older one began, his tone cautious but firm. “Our father… made changes to his will. Recently.”

I froze. “Changes?”

He nodded. “Yes. He left you the house.”

I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “That’s impossible. He said—he promised everything would go to you.”

“He did,” the younger son snapped. “Until you came along and manipulated him at his weakest.”

That word—manipulated—hit me like a slap.

I wanted to scream, to tell them about the nights I spent nursing their father, about how he wept in his sleep, about how I held him when he couldn’t even lift a glass of water. But I said nothing.

They kept talking—lawyers, inheritance laws, contesting the will. Their voices blurred together into one long accusation.

In the end, they left with a warning:
“This isn’t over.”

And it wasn’t.

For weeks, letters arrived—official papers, demands, threats. The sons hired lawyers; they wanted everything annulled. They claimed I had pressured him, that he wasn’t of sound mind. I had to sit in court, facing them across a polished table, while strangers dissected the last months of Viktor’s life.

Every word felt like a wound reopened.

When the judge finally read the verdict, I almost didn’t care anymore.
The will stood. The house was mine.

But victory felt hollow.

I walked through the empty rooms afterward, touching the walls, the furniture, the life we had built together. I could almost hear Viktor’s voice saying, “See? I told you to take care of yourself.”

Sometimes I laughed. Sometimes I cried until dawn.

In the end, I didn’t sell the house. I couldn’t. I planted roses in the garden—the same red ones he’d brought to the airport that first day. Every morning, I talk to him as I water them.

Katya calls from Prague often. “You should come back here,” she says. “Start fresh. You’re still young.”

Maybe one day I will. But not yet. This house holds too many memories—some painful, some sweet, all mine.

And sometimes, on quiet evenings, when the light falls just right across the table, I imagine him sitting opposite me again, smiling that gentle, knowing smile.

“Inna,” I can almost hear him say, “you never wanted my property, did you?”

And I smile back through my tears.
“No, my love. I only ever wanted you.”