“She is spoiled,” the son-in-law declared as he drove his young wife out. And he had no idea what a brilliant fate he had prepared for her with his betrayal.
The autumn air—dense and cool—seemed to have absorbed all the bitterness of what had happened. It hung motionless and heavy in the small room, while the flames in the stove cast anxious, flickering shadows on the walls.
The young girl, who looked especially fragile in the glow of the fire, stood with her head lowered, unconsciously twisting the end of her long, thick braid. Her fingers trembled, and she tensed all over, feeling her parents’ gazes upon her.
“You haven’t lived together even a month, and already such discord. What came between you two?” Her mother Marina’s voice sounded less reproachful than filled with a deep, aching worry. She looked at her daughter, at her sudden return under the parental roof, and her heart clenched with a bad premonition.
The girl, Varya, only shook her head silently, unable to utter a single word. Bitter, scalding tears rose to her throat, but she clenched her fists, ordering herself to stay strong. She would not allow herself to cry; she would not show how deeply this injustice wounded her.
“Why are you silent? You’re being asked.” Her father, Tikhon, joined the conversation. He sat at the table, his hardworking, time-worn hands folded before him.
His hair, once thick and dark, was now generously streaked with silver, and his eyes held the weariness of life and a mute question for his daughter. Those hands—familiar with both axe and plough—seemed strangely helpless now.
Varya took a deep breath, trying to force away the lump stuck in her throat. It felt as though the whole world had suddenly collapsed onto her fragile shoulders, and she no longer had the strength to hold it up.
“Luka didn’t want to live with me. Told me to go back home,” she finally exhaled, and the words sounded quiet, like fallen leaves.
“How can that be?” Tikhon pushed back from the table, his face full of bewilderment. “You signed the papers a month ago, gathered the family, he came to ask for your hand—everything done properly. So what went wrong between you two that you came running home? Look here, Varya, if you’re at fault somehow, I won’t stand by you. Pack your things and go to your husband—your home is with him now.”
“Wait, Tikhon, let’s sort this out,” Marina said softly but firmly, sensing the tension rising. “Can’t you see the girl is beside herself? Let her tell us what happened. Don’t drive her out the door—give her time to gather herself.”
“I want to talk to Mama first,” Varya whispered, still without lifting her eyes.
“Well, talk to your mother then, sort it out yourselves. I said from the start I had doubts, but no one listened. Too quick you two were to get married.” With irritation, Tikhon stood up, pulled on his worn quilted jacket, and, slamming the door, stepped out into the cool autumn evening.
Mother and daughter remained alone. A long whisper filled the room, broken by Marina’s sighs and Varya’s quiet, incoherent explanations. The girl cursed something, insisted on something else; her eyes, full of suffering, sought understanding. Then Marina, rising heavily to her feet, sent her daughter to the older sister who lived nearby with her family, and she herself, gathering her resolve, went out to her husband.
Tikhon was chopping firewood in the yard with force, each strike of the axe echoing sharply through the quiet.
“Listen, Tikhon, our dear son-in-law has come up with something—says Varya is ‘spoiled.’ Didn’t want to live with her.”
“What?” The axe froze in mid-air. “What do you mean, ‘spoiled’? When would she have managed that? She’s only ever known Luka—our obedient girl. Or did we miss something?”
“Oh, you call yourself a father—ready to believe him right away. But I believe our daughter. She swears she was with no one before him. And you can see it yourself—I know my own child. There is purity in her eyes, not guilt.”
“If it’s not true, why smear Varya then? And why now? After just a month? Couldn’t he have said something earlier and shown her the gate then?”
“That’s exactly it—the son-in-law kept quiet all this time, and now, just like that, he’s thrown her out. What nonsense got into his head? What fly bit him?”
“No, I won’t let this stand,” Tikhon said, driving the axe into the block so forcefully that it split with a crack. “We’ll go to his parents and ask why they’re disgracing the girl. If they didn’t want her, they shouldn’t have taken her in.”
“Tikhon, calm yourself, cool off a bit—if you barge in angry, you won’t manage a proper talk. We need measured words, not fists.”
Luka’s family lived two streets away, in a small, almost toy-like house he had inherited from his grandmother. It was there, behind the low fence, that their short life together had begun—and so abruptly ended.
Marina and Tikhon visited their son-in-law the next day, finding him outside clearing snow. The tall, stocky young man looked away awkwardly when he saw them.
“Living well, son-in-law,” Tikhon approached him closely, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “Well, explain—what reason did you have to drive our daughter out?”
“And good day to you too,” Luka straightened up, leaning on the broom. “I didn’t drive her out—I only suggested we part ways.”
“Have you lost your mind? Why did the council marry you two then? The girl is weeping at home—what will people say? You point your finger at her, when she lived with a pure soul.”
Luka shifted from foot to foot; snowflakes settled on his eyelashes and dark hair.
“In short, I told her everything… We’re getting a divorce, that’s all.”
“Then tell us the reason,” Marina stepped in, her eyes pleading for the truth and not the bitter lie already spreading through the village. “What’s the matter? What didn’t suit you? Speak plainly.”
“I won’t live with her, end of story.” He gripped the broom handle so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Your Varya is spoiled.”
Tikhon jerked forward involuntarily, as if struck by an electric shock.
“If that’s true, why were you silent for a whole month? Didn’t you realize it right away? Then why did you lead her to the altar, why did you swear before people?”
“I realized it. Thought I’d get over it. I didn’t. I don’t love her.”
“Oh, you scoundrel, used her and now backpedaling,” Marina trembled with indignation, red spots blooming on her cheeks. “How is the girl supposed to face people now? You’re lying—I don’t believe you. I believe my daughter. You’re slandering her.”
“Think what you want, but I’m returning your daughter to you. I didn’t beat her, didn’t lay a finger on her. So take her back safe and sound.”
“Oh dear heavens, I feel faint,” Marina pressed a hand to her heart, her voice breaking into a whisper. “Where has it ever been seen that your own child is returned like an unwanted bundle? Why did she marry you? She didn’t even look at you—you came running to propose, your eyes blazing.”
“Sit down, Marina, sit down on the bench,” Tikhon caught his wife, his anger instantly replaced by sudden worry for her. “We’ll go to his parents now, ask them why their son is disgracing our girl.”
“Well… I didn’t say it exactly right,” Luka muttered, seeing things take a serious turn. “But still—I won’t live with her.”
“Be quiet. Better be quiet before I lose control,” Tikhon said, supporting his wife as he led her toward the gate. But just then, as if rising from the ground, Ksenia—Luka’s mother—appeared in their path.
“Ah, here comes the matchmaker,” Marina said with bitter irony. “Maybe you know why your Stepan is disgracing our daughter. First he marries her, and now he shows her the door. How can one do that? Is she an object to be tossed aside?”
“Oh, I don’t know myself. We questioned him with his father—he kept silent, then admitted that your Varya had known other pillows before. Clearly someone was there. And what about my son? My son honestly said he couldn’t forgive and couldn’t live with that.”
“You’d better think before you speak,” Tikhon shouted, his voice shattering the quiet of the street. “There was no such thing! She had no one before your son. We gave you a decent, honest daughter, and he dragged her through the mud. For what? If he didn’t want to live with her, he could’ve said so—but he has no right to slander her!”
Ksenia, her head tightly wrapped in a kerchief, narrowed her eyes and challenged him:
“And how do you know? I believe my son.”
“Shame on you!” Tikhon spat through his teeth in despair. “Stay here in your filth—we’ll endure all the gossip somehow. Come, Marina—there’s nothing for us here. Luka is an empty windbag—told you back then I had doubts.”
“Give us the girl’s things to pack up and take with us.”
“Take them, take everything,” Luka agreed eagerly, glad that his in-laws were leaving.
“Give me two days to pull myself together,” Tikhon promised, already turning away. “I’ll come on horseback and take it all.”
They walked down the street, sinking into the fresh snow, unaware of passersby or the white world around them.
“It would be fine if no one knew. But people will ask, and Ksenia will whisper, justifying her son. Why such punishment for us? She stayed home all this time, quiet as a mouse, and then out of nowhere Luka swoops in like a whirlwind. Stood on the porch twice, and next thing you know, dragging her to the registry office. Varya didn’t even have time to think. And I rejoiced—if they’re taking her, she should go.”
The whole family helped move Varya’s belongings. The cart, pulled by a sturdy gelding, creaked sorrowfully. Luka wasn’t home—he had prudently disappeared. Ksenia watched the whole process with cold curiosity from her porch. They were ready to set off when Luka’s father appeared from around the corner. He nodded a greeting, but Tikhon only shot him a destroying glare and snapped the reins.
The road home was silent. Just as silently, they carried Varya’s chests and bundles into the house. Marina unfolded the featherbed she had prepared herself for her youngest, arranged the pillows she had embroidered. She remembered how she’d gathered her daughter’s dowry, not even knowing whom she would marry—and quietly wept at the injustice that had descended on them.
Soon Kira, the elder daughter, rushed in. Without even removing her coat, she approached her sister and hugged her tightly, like only a sister could. And then the nineteen-year-old girl, who hadn’t shed a single tear—not even into her pillow at night—buried her face in her sister’s shoulder and broke into tears: quiet, soundless, desperate.
“Come on, you’ll tell me everything. Everything, everything—you’ll feel better,” Kira said gently, leading her sister into the small room, away from their parents’ eyes.
Only in speaking with her sister did the younger one begin to realize that her blindness had been voluntary. She hadn’t noticed Luka’s growing coldness, blaming herself for his sullen moods. Taught by her mother, she kept the house spotless, cooked his favorite dishes, looked into his eyes as if saying: “See? I’m trying for you.”
Marina entered and sat on the edge of the bench.
“I’ve been thinking… Did Varya return alone? What if she’s expecting a child? What will we do then?”
“What will we do?” Kira’s dark sable brows furrowed. “We’ll drag Luka back with a rope—he won’t turn away from his own child. The law is on our side.”
Varya’s eyes brightened; her mother’s suggestion beckoned with a tiny, trembling hope. Clearly, her feelings had not cooled—she still cherished her husband’s image in her heart.
“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. “It would be good if a little one appeared.”
“Oh, you silly girl, silly girl,” Marina said with bitter tenderness. “All right, we’ll live and wait—and then we’ll see.”
“You should come to us more often, watch the little ones sometimes. You need to get that ungrateful man out of your heart,” Kira said.
“Maybe she should move somewhere,” Marina suggested carefully. “Our relatives live in Sosnovka—maybe she could move there.”
“Oh, Mama, listen to yourself—hiding with relatives? What would she do in that remote Sosnovka? Run from her own shadow?”
All three fell silent again, each lost in thoughts about the future.
From the entryway came the creak of the door, heavy footsteps, and then the low rumble of male voices—Tikhon had brought someone. Judging by the booming timbre, they realized it was Aunt Polina, the father’s cousin, a woman with a formidable character. She entered the room without being invited, her stately, full figure filling the space.
“Who are we mourning?” she asked when she saw the women’s gloomy faces. “What have you lost? Sitting there like puffed-up sparrows.” Her loud, bell-like voice surely carried down the whole street.
“Don’t you know what trouble we’ve got, Polina?” Tikhon began.
“I heard. And what now—sit down and cry with you?” she retorted. “Come on, girls, greet your guest properly at least, invite me to the table.”
She was older not only than Varya and Kira but also older than Marina, and she often called them “girls” in a blunt but affectionate way, with unquestionable authority.
Everyone finally left the room, set out a simple meal, and sat for a long time discussing what had happened.
“Oh, girls, my ears are tired of listening—enough. I came here on business. Do you want to work at the village council under me?”
“Me?” Varya looked at their loud relative in confusion.
“Well, who else? I’m talking to you. I need an accountant. Old Misha the bookkeeper doesn’t even want to climb down from his stove anymore. Every day he begs: ‘Let me go, Polina, the numbers are dancing in my eyes.’”
“But I don’t know how.”
“She really doesn’t, Polina,” Marina reminded her. “She only finished school. She wanted to study in the city, but we talked her out of it—we were afraid of that city. And now we’re ashamed to step outside—the neighbors keep trying to find out why she ran away from her husband so fast. Would’ve been better if she had gone to the city then. Maybe it’s not too late now—we could send her to work at a factory; they take school graduates.”
“You want to hide the girl?” Polina gave Marina a stern look. “So you think Varya’s guilty since you want to send her away.”
“What are you saying?” Marina waved her hand. “She’s not guilty—don’t even think that.”
“That’s just what you think—sending her away to get her out of sight. Leaving is easier; but staying here, enduring it, surviving this cursed marriage—that takes strength,” she said, clenching her hand into a powerful fist. “If she’s innocent, let her look people in the eye and smile. And if someone asks, she’ll answer that Luka is a fool and she didn’t want to live with him. And let the rest of the gossip go in one ear and out the other.”
“She’s right, Aunt Polya, I think the same,” Kira agreed.
“But how will she work here if she’s not trained in bookkeeping?” Marina latched onto Polina’s idea.
“If she agrees, we’ll send her to training courses. No need to go to the city—our district center offers them now. Fast-track courses. If she wants, she can ride with the milk truck driver—I’ll arrange it. Or she can stay in temporary dorms there.”
“And what if I can’t manage?” Varya asked quietly.
“Listen, you coward—studying at a course isn’t scarier than getting married. Think quickly, or I’ll find someone else.”
Varya rose from the table, straightened her shoulders, and her voice—recently trembling from tears—rang out firm and clear:
“I agree! When do I leave?”
“That’s more like it! You’re leaving in a week.”
The days, filled with new concerns, passed much faster. Life returned to the house—some sense of hope and relief: their daughter was studying. She came home from the courses exhausted but inspired, stayed up late with her textbooks, and in the mornings hurried back to the district center. At night, as she lay down, she still thought about Luka, and in her heart flickered a naïve hope that he might come, find her somewhere, and say: “It was all untrue—come back.” And they would live together for a long, long time… With these thoughts she fell asleep.
By spring, Varya was already working in the village council, sitting in a small office, immersed in papers, sometimes not lifting her head for hours. Luka never came, never crossed her path—he walked along other routes, avoiding her.
One evening, Kira came to their parents’ house. Dragging Varya into the room, she whispered urgently:
“Don’t cry now—you’re divorced already, nothing to grieve over.”
“What happened?”
“They say Luka’s getting married.”
“What? To whom?”
“To Liza Semyonova. Remember her? Quiet, always walking like a peacock.”
Varya remembered Liza well—had always thought her the most beautiful, graceful girl in the whole village.
“So he chose her?” Varya’s lips trembled. She had only just managed to calm down when the news struck her like a blow to the head.
“Don’t cry. That water has already flowed—you won’t bring it back. He wasn’t worth your tears.”
“What are you whispering about? Speak so we can hear,” Tikhon called the sisters to the table. Soon he and Marina learned about the former son-in-law’s new marriage.
“Never thought they’d treat us like this,” Marina moaned. “I could spit in Ksenia’s face now, and then walk in the opposite direction. I don’t want to know them anymore. Threw our daughter out, and now brings another one in.”
“I’ll go tell them what I think of their precious son,” Tikhon said, hurriedly pulling on his boots, his face flushing red.
The women rushed to him.
“Stop it! Don’t go—you’ll just start trouble, and then the police won’t be far behind. They’ll file a complaint and shame us even more.”
Tikhon finally managed to pull on his boot.
“Varya, why are you silent? Come with me—you can at least spit in his face.”
“Papa, calm down,” Kira clung to her father’s arm. “I would go myself, but it’s pointless now. The girl finally found her peace—she’s working, Aunt Polya praises her. If we go now, we’ll tear open her wounds again, and people will have more to gossip about.”
“She’s right, Tikhon, sit down, cool off,” Marina held her husband by the shoulders. “People already see who’s right and who’s wrong. I’ve been told many times they don’t believe Luka—they support us. Let him marry; maybe they’ll move away so they don’t get in our sight.”
But Luka and his new wife did not move away; they stayed living in the same village. Varya soon calmed down, accepted things, and tried not to think of him, though a dull ache remained deep inside.
Summer in the office was pleasant. Through the open windows drifted the honeyed scent of grass and blooming linden, and in the birch branches birds sang tirelessly. She grew used to their chirping—monotonous, soothing. And she began going to the village club again: every week they showed a new film.
One day, right before the screening, the local prankster Petka approached her, playfully taking her by the elbow.
“Well? Shall I walk you home afterward?”
Varya carefully but firmly pulled away.
“Why? I know the way.”
“What do you mean why? Maybe I’ll get married,” he said with a smirk.
“I’ve already been married once, so don’t.”
“Well then, if you’ve been, you know everything already. Come on, Varyok, let’s take a walk—what a night.”
The girl gave him such a cold, repelling look that he quickly backed off, muttering something under his breath. Varya later recalled this incident and mentally praised herself for immediately seeing through his frivolous intentions.
One day during lunch break, the office emptied, and only Varya lingered, finishing a report. She heard hesitant footsteps on the porch; the wooden floorboards in the corridor creaked plaintively.
The steps were cautious, as if someone were entering the building for the first time. Varya went out to look: in the dim corridor stood a young man with a travel suitcase, his boots dusty from the road. He adjusted his glasses awkwardly when he saw her.
“Hello! Where is everyone?”
“Hello! Whom do you need? It’s lunchtime now. You’ll have to wait about an hour.”
“I need the chairman,” he said, stepping closer. Through the glasses Varya noticed intelligent, slightly tired eyes. “I have my assignment here. He should know already—they must have informed him.”
“So you’re our new agronomist?” she guessed.
“That’s right. Agronomist.”
He set down his suitcase, and an open, kind smile appeared on his face.
“Viktorov, Sergei Nikolaevich,” he introduced himself cheerfully.
“Varya Tikhonovna—accountant. Well… assistant accountant so far,” she added shyly, feeling her heartbeat pick up for some reason.
“And which office is the chairman’s? And where do I put this suitcase?”
“Leave it in our office. It stays open here till evening.”
He left the suitcase, still holding his dusty travel coat in his hands.
“Oh, I didn’t think—I should shake it out,” he said, heading to the porch.
Varya took a clean towel and pointed to the outdoor washstand.
“You can wash up there.”
“Thank you, that’s just what I need.”
He paused, looked at her.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Varya Tikhonovna—I’m keeping you from your lunch.”
“It’s fine. I was staying late anyway.”
Imagine that… so young, and wearing glasses, she thought as she returned to the office. In the village, few people wore glasses—usually older folks—so seeing a young man with dark-framed glasses felt unusual.
“Did you come from the city?”
“Of course. Assigned here.”
Varya thought he must be hungry.
“Maybe you should have lunch too? They feed everyone at the field camp now, but it’s far from here.”
“No, it’s fine—I’ll manage.”
“No, don’t. Come on, I’ll give you tea. I have pies with me—we baked them yesterday with my mother. And I have some salo too. Do you eat salo?”
“Why not? My grandfather lived in a village—I visited often. And I respect salo very much.”
Varya spread a clean towel on the table and set out her simple village lunch. Sergei looked at the food.
“No, this isn’t right—you brought that for yourself. You don’t have to feed me.”
“Eat,” Varya pushed the sliced salo and the fluffy pies toward him. “The chairman will praise me for this,” she added, thinking quickly.
“Well, all right… My mother packed me food for the road anyway,” he said, pulling out a bundle he hadn’t touched during the trip. He took the mug of fragrant tea, embarrassed.
The chairman did indeed praise Varya for welcoming the young specialist. They arranged housing for Sergei Nikolaevich with an elderly, lonely woman, Agrippina. The new agronomist turned out to be capable and quickly settled into the job. The chairman was proud to have a degreed specialist. And if he lacked experience—there was always the retired agronomist willing to help.
Every morning Sergei Nikolaevich made a point of greeting Varya first.
“And that salo was excellent, Varya—never tasted anything like it.”
“I’d bring more, but you’ll have to wait until late autumn. That was the last of what we managed to preserve.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant—I was just saying how tasty it was.”
He approached, took a chocolate bar from his inner pocket, and placed it on her desk.
“Oh—why?”
“Take it, Varya. It’s for you!”
He blushed and hurried out of the office.
Varya and Sergei exchanged glances all summer, traded insignificant phrases, and never met anywhere except the office. At home they already knew about the young agronomist—they noticed changes in Varya: she left the house cheerfully and returned with a thoughtful smile. But at the end of August, a shadow of worry appeared on her face: Sergei was expecting his mother to visit.
“Varya, my mother is coming to visit — to see how I’ve settled in. So…” He rubbed his hands, perhaps from nervousness. “Don’t think it too bold, but since we’re friends, come sit with us.”
“Me? But will your mother like that? And what will I say?”
“She will. I already wrote to her how you welcomed me, how we became friends, how good the people here are… Come, Varya, she’ll be glad. And… so will I,” he added quietly, almost in a whisper.
That evening, Varya shared the news with her mother.
Tikhon, holding a fresh newspaper, pretended to read it but listened carefully to every word.
“Well then, what’s there to think about? He’s not alone — his mother is coming. Let Varya go. But I have one condition: invite him to visit us. After you go to their place, invite him here. And we’ll see what he says.”
Varya’s fears were unfounded. Vera Petrovna turned out to be a warm, sociable woman, and Varya’s arrival truly pleased her. She left a week later, and soon after, as promised, Sergei came to visit Varya’s family.
They continued seeing each other all the way until winter, though when he proposed, Varya hesitated, afraid of making another mistake. In the office, people looked at them approvingly, guessing a wedding was near.
That day, the snow fell in large, fluffy flakes, covering the earth with a white, sparkling blanket. The house was warm and cozy, the fired-up stove crackled cheerfully, and bowls of fragrant pies stood on the tables. Outside, near the gate, guests were already gathering to greet the newlyweds.
“The groom is in glasses — means he’s smart,” an older woman said with respect.
Kira, the elder sister, quietly laughed.
“Sergei Nikolaevich is smart even without glasses.”
She adjusted her festive kerchief and gazed proudly at her sister, so happy and radiant.
A year later, the young family received a new house — freshly built, meant for young specialists. And five years after that, the Viktorovs already had two lively, mischievous children.
Sergei Nikolaevich, admired throughout the district for his knowledge and incredible diligence, was soon offered a promotion in the district center. After talking it over, he and Varya agreed to move. The chairman regretted it most of all, puzzled over how he might find another agronomist as capable.
Luka and Liza lived quietly at first. But later, they argued and quarreled more often. Word spread that Liza had even left him for a time — he was jealous of her with everyone. And if not for their two children, she might have left him for good. They both walked around gloomy and uncommunicative, as if burdened with some unbearable load.
Varya’s parents long ago forgave their former in-laws, and greeted them when they met, though the old warmth, of course, never returned. Ksenia, when meeting Marina, lowered her eyes guiltily and sometimes timidly asked how Varya was, how she lived. Then she would sigh and slowly trudge home.
By the time Varya Tikhonovna and Sergei Nikolaevich’s children grew up, no one in the village remembered that day when Luka had said, “I’m returning your daughter to you.”
Only two old women, sitting on a bench in the sun, might recall it while talking about the past.
Sergei Nikolaevich remained in the district center with his family, though he had been invited to the city many times. But their grown children — their son and daughter — after entering university, were unlikely ever to return to their native village. They would build their lives in the big city.
“What can you do?” Sergei would say with gentle sadness, acknowledging their right to choose their own paths. “They’ve flown from the nest; from here on they’ll walk on their own. That’s what children are meant to do — to go farther than us.”
“Seriozha, eat something and rest — you were sitting with papers past midnight again, and today is Sunday,” Varya said tenderly, straightening the tablecloth.
“Yes, my Varya, I hear you. I will,” he replied with a smile and lay down on the sofa, folding his arms behind his head. He dozed off almost immediately, while she sat beside him, gazing out the window where the same soft, unhurried snow was falling as on their wedding day.
It settled on the earth, covering everything in a white, pure blanket — washing away old hurts and pain, giving the sense of a new beginning. She walked quietly to her husband, saw him asleep with a light smile on his face.
Taking a soft woolen blanket, she gently covered him.
Content, filled with deep and peaceful calm, she went to the kitchen to clear the dishes — and each of her steps carried the quiet, luminous music of her new, true happiness.
