“The sea is cancelled,” said Leonard, not lifting his eyes from his phone. “Mother is coming.”
I stood in the middle of the bedroom with the suitcase open. In my hands – a swimsuit, new, with a tag. First one in seven years.
“What do you mean, cancelled?” I placed the swimsuit carefully on the bed. “The tickets are bought. Non-refundable. Two hundred and eighty thousand hryvnia, Leonard.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sank onto the edge of the sofa. He always did that when the conversation was not going his way.
“Well, what can I do? She’s already bought a train ticket. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I can’t tell her to turn around.”
We had been married for seven years. In all that time, I had never once been on holiday. Not to the sea, not to a spa, not even to a neighbouring city for a weekend. Nowhere. The first year – a honeymoon in Odesa, three days, because Agatha phoned and said her blood pressure was high. We came back. The pressure was a hundred and thirty over eighty – normal for her age. I knew it for a fact because I’m a pharmacist and I see those numbers on prescriptions every day.
After that – not a single trip. Every time we planned a break, Agatha appeared. Fourth time in seven years. Like clockwork.
“Leonard,” I sat down beside him, trying to keep my voice steady. “We saved for this holiday for four months. I took extra shifts. Twelve hours each. You saw how I came home.”
“I see,” he still stared at his phone. “But mother comes first.”
I adjusted my glasses. My fingers slipped – my hands were dry, cracked from antiseptic. Eight years in a pharmacy – skin like sandpaper.
“First before what?” I asked.
“Before the sea, Dorothy,” he finally looked at me. “Mother is alone. She’s seventy-four. Don’t you understand?”
I did understand. I understood that Agatha lived in Lviv, in her three-room flat, with a neighbour-friend who visited her every day. That she went to the market on her own, carried her own bags, made her own preserves – twenty jars at a time. And that every “visit” of hers began with the same phone call to Leonard: “Son, I miss you, I’ll come for a week.”
The “week” stretched into two. Then three. Once Agatha stayed for a month and only left because the neighbour called and said there was a burst pipe in her flat.
“I’m not cancelling,” I said. “Go yourself. Meet your mother. I’ll fly.”
Leonard lifted his head. As if I had suggested something improper.
“Fly where? Alone? Without your husband?”
“With Edith.”
“No,” he stood up. “No, Dorothy. We’re a family. Either together, or not at all.”
And I gave in. Like the four times before. I put the swimsuit back in the wardrobe, closed the suitcase, and stored it on the top shelf.
Two hundred and eighty thousand hryvnia went up in smoke. Non-refundable.
Two days later, Agatha stood in the hallway with a heavy checked bag and a bag of homemade pickles.
“Well, show me what you’ve got here,” she said, looking around the corridor. “The wallpaper – time to change it. Leonard, are you and your wife not looking after the flat at all?”
—
Agatha stayed with us for three weeks.
In the first two days she rearranged the entire kitchen. Pots in a different cupboard. Spices on a different shelf. Chopping boards under the sink, “because it’s more hygienic.” I worked twelve-hour shifts and came home to a flat where I couldn’t find anything.
“Agatha,” I said on the third day, opening a cupboard in search of a frying pan. “I’m used to a certain order. It’s easier for me when everything is in its place.”
She looked at me over her glasses. A heavy top-down stare – even though I was half a head taller.
“You, Dorothy, are used to disorder. That’s not order, it’s chaos. Who puts a frying pan next to the rice?”
“I find it convenient,” I said.
“Well, I don’t. And neither does Leonard. Right, Leonard?”
Leonard sat at the table with his phone, silent. His shoulders were hunched, as always when his mother addressed him.
“Mum,” he said. “Well, all right.”
“All right” – that was all I heard. Not “Dorothy is right” and not “Mum, this is her kitchen.” Just “all right.”
On the fifth day, Agatha went for the curtains. I had bought them last year – linen, mustard-coloured, chosen over two weeks because they matched the armchair upholstery and the cushions. Eight thousand hryvnia.
I come home from work – the curtains are lying on the armchair, folded. On the windows – white net curtains that Agatha had brought with her.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“These are proper curtains,” she said, tapping her finger on the table. “Not those rags. Mustard is a colour for a hospital, not a home.”
I was silent for three seconds. Then I took down her net curtains, folded them, and placed them on a stool. I got out my own curtains and started hanging them.
My hands did not tremble. This time – no.
“What are you doing?” Agatha’s voice dropped.
“Hanging my curtains,” I said without turning around. “I like my curtains. This is my home. And I choose the colour of the curtains.”
Silence lasted about five seconds. Then Agatha got up from the table and left the room. I heard her dialling a number in the corridor. Her voice was muffled, but I could make out the words: “Leonard, your wife is being rude to me. I’m not used to such treatment.”
Leonard came home from work earlier than usual. The door slammed so hard that Edith flinched in her room.
“What have you done?” he asked from the doorway.
“I hung my curtains.”
“Mother is upset! She brought them for us, she tried, and you didn’t even say thank you!”
I looked at him. At his broad shoulders, which right now were squared because his mother was not in the room but behind the wall. When she was present, he hunched. When she wasn’t, he straightened his back.
“Leonard,” I said. “I said thank you for the pickles. For the jam. For the pies. But I will choose the curtains in my own home.”
“It’s OUR home!”
“Then why does your mother make all the decisions?”
He did not answer. Rubbed his nose, turned, and went to his mother.
That evening Edith came to me in the kitchen. Quiet, with a textbook in her hands, as if she had come for water.
“Mum,” she said. “He calls her every time. Before every holiday. I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“He says: ‘Mum, we’re planning to go on such-and-such a date.’ And she comes. Every time.”
I set the kettle on the stove and stood, listening to the water boil. So it wasn’t chance. Not coincidence. Four times in a row – that’s a system.
Edith stood beside me, shifting from foot to foot.
“Mum, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Go do your homework.”
But I was not all right. I took out my phone, opened my notes, and calculated. First time – the honeymoon, a package for three, one hundred and twenty thousand. Second time – Turkey, two years ago, one hundred and ninety thousand. Third time – Uzhhorod, last spring, tickets and hotel for fifty thousand. Fourth time – these two hundred and eighty.
Six hundred and forty thousand hryvnia. Over seven years. All gone up in smoke.
And in that time, Leonard had twice taken his mother to Truskavets. On spa packages. Both times using our joint money.
I closed my notes, put away my phone, and poured myself tea. My hands were calm. The decision had not yet formed, but something inside had already shifted.
A month after Agatha left, I invited a friend over for dinner. Winifred worked with me at the pharmacy; we had known each other for nine years.
Leonard had gone to a friend’s to watch football. Edith was in her room. Winifred and I opened wine, cut cheese, settled in the kitchen. The first normal evening in a long time.
“So how are you?” Winifred asked. “Any plans for this summer?”
“None,” I said, and smiled. I was used to the question.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Winifred shook her head. She knew. Everyone knew.
Then the doorbell rang. I opened it – Agatha stood on the doorstep. With a bag and a carrier.
“Leonard said to drop by, you’re home alone,” she said. “Thought I’d come see you. Been a while since we last met.”
A month. A month had passed. And that was “a while.”
She came in, saw Winifred, sat at the table. I poured her tea, because Agatha did not drink wine and did not approve of it.
For about ten minutes the conversation was normal. Then Winifred asked:
“Agatha, do you travel much?”
And it began.
“Of course!” Agatha straightened on her chair. “Leonard took me to Truskavets. Twice. Mineral baths, massage, the mountains. Beautiful!”
She turned to me.
“And you, Dorothy, where have you been lately? I haven’t seen a single photo from you. Anywhere at all?”
I adjusted my glasses.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Not anywhere.”
“See,” Agatha addressed Winifred, as if explaining something obvious. “Young, healthy, but she never goes anywhere. Leonard offers – she refuses. Her own fault. At her age I had already travelled all over Crimea.”
Winifred looked at me. I noticed her lips tighten.
“Agatha,” Winifred said. “Dorothy doesn’t go not because she doesn’t want to.”
“Then why?”
Winifred fell silent. Looked at me – asking permission with her eyes.
And I answered myself.
“Because every time we buy tickets, you show up,” I said. My voice was steady. I was not shouting. Just listing. “Four times in seven years. Honeymoon – you called, and we came back. Turkey – you arrived the day before the flight. Uzhhorod – the same. This year – the sea. Two hundred and eighty thousand non-refundable. Total – six hundred and forty thousand hryvnia. I counted.”
Agatha stopped tapping her finger on the table. Her hand froze halfway to her cup.
“What nonsense are you talking?”
“I’m giving you numbers,” I replied. “Not complaints. Numbers. I can give you the dates if you need.”
Silence.
Winifred stood up, said she had to go. I walked her to the door. When I returned to the kitchen, Agatha was already dialling Leonard.
Twenty minutes later he burst into the flat.
“Why did you embarrass Mother in front of strangers?” he stood in the hallway, not taking off his shoes.
“I didn’t embarrass her. I gave the amounts.”
“What amounts? What are you talking about?”
“About six hundred and forty thousand hryvnia that we lost on cancelled trips. Over all the years of our marriage.”
Leonard looked at his mother. Agatha stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“Son,” she said. “Either me or her.”
“Mum,” Leonard rubbed his nose.
“She must apologise,” Agatha cut in.
Leonard turned to me.
“Dorothy. Apologise to Mother.”
I took off my glasses, wiped them on the hem of my sweater. Without them everything blurred a little – Leonard, his mother, the hallway with their shoes.
“No,” I said. “I won’t.”
“Then I’m leaving for Mother’s,” he said. “Until you come to your senses.”
“Fine,” I replied.
He had expected a different answer. I could see it from the way his jaw twitched. But I said nothing, and he said nothing. Then he grabbed his jacket and left. Agatha followed him. She left the bag of pickles in the hallway.
I sat on a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs ached after the shift. Twelve hours behind the counter, and then this. But inside I felt clear – as clear as the sky after a storm.
He came back three days later. No apology. No conversation. Just walked in, hung up his jacket, and sat down to dinner. Agatha had returned to Lviv.
But a week later, Leonard started speaking to me in short phrases. “Dinner ready?” “Where’s my shirt?” “Pick up Edith.” And I understood that he was punishing me with silence. For not apologising.
A week after that, I started saving money. Into a separate account. One he did not know about.
A year passed quickly. Edith turned sixteen, and I got her a foreign passport myself. Leonard signed the consent without even asking why. He didn’t care, as long as his mother didn’t call.
In May I bought tickets. Two – me and Edith. Antalya, three-star hotel, nine nights. Paid from my account – the one Leonard didn’t know about. Forty-seven thousand hryvnia from my salary every month. Over a year it added up.
I bought refundable tickets. This time I had learned.
And I said to Leonard:
“Let’s all go together. In June. I found a good deal.”
He looked at me as if I were speaking a different language. Then he nodded.
“Alright. Let’s try.”
For two weeks I waited. Packed suitcases. Bought Edith new sandals and a sun hat. For myself – sunscreen that cost twenty percent less at our pharmacy because of the employee discount.
Four days before the flight, Leonard came home later than usual. He sat at the table, placed his phone face down. I already knew that gesture. Phone face down – meant he had called his mother. Or she had called him.
“Dorothy,” he began.
And I felt my fingers clench. Nails dug into my palms. Not from anger – from anticipation. Because I knew what he would say. Knew it four days in advance.
“Mother is coming. I have to meet her.”
“When?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“The day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow. Two days before the flight.
“Leonard,” I said. “Did you call her?”
“What?”
“Did you call her and tell her we were flying?”
He averted his eyes. Rubbed his nose. And I understood – yes. He had called. Like the four times before. Told her the date, told her the route, and Agatha immediately bought a train ticket. Like clockwork.
“She misses me,” Leonard said. “She’s seventy-five this year.”
“Seventy-four,” I corrected. “She’ll be seventy-five in November.”
He waved a hand.
“What difference does it make? Mother is alone. We’re all she has. The sea isn’t going anywhere.”
And right then I remembered. All seven years. Every “the sea isn’t going anywhere.” Every swimsuit with a tag. Every suitcase I took out and put back. Six hundred and forty thousand hryvnia. Four ruined trips. Twelve-hour shifts that cracked the skin on my hands.
“Fine,” I said.
Leonard exhaled. Relaxed. Thought I had given in again.
“There’s a good girl,” he said. “I’ll call Mother back, tell her to bring her own sheets – we don’t have spare ones.”
I nodded. Left the kitchen. Went into Edith’s room.
“Pack,” I said. “We’re flying the day after tomorrow.”
Edith looked up from her phone.
“Mum, he said–”
“I know what he said. Pack your suitcase. Swimsuit, books, charger. I have your passport.”
Edith stared at me for three seconds. Then she smiled – for the first time in a month – and reached for her backpack.
I went back to the kitchen. Leonard sat at the table with his phone, already discussing with Agatha which sheets she should bring.
“Leonard,” I said. “I’m not cancelling the tickets.”
He looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Edith and I are flying. You’re staying. Meet your mother.”
The phone went silent. Agatha on the other end, I imagine, had also gone quiet.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“Seven years, Leonard. Seven years I haven’t been on holiday. Four times we lost money. I work six days a week, twelve hours a day, and my hands crack from antiseptic. I’m forty-eight years old. And I want to see the sea.”
“And Mother? What do I tell her?”
“Tell her your wife has gone on holiday. For the first time in seven years.”
He stood up. The chair scraped the floor.
“Dorothy, if you leave – this,” he faltered. “This is disrespect. To my mother. To me.”
“And four cancelled holidays – is that respect for me?”
He did not answer. Stood there, clutching his phone. From the speaker came Agatha’s voice: “Leonard! What’s going on? What is she saying?”
I turned and walked out of the kitchen.
I did not sleep that night. Sat in Edith’s room, checking documents. Two passports – mine and my daughter’s. Hotel booking. Insurance. Transfer. Everything was paid.
In the morning I wrote a note. Short, on a piece of notepad paper:
“Leonard, Edith and I have flown. We’ll be back in ten days. Meet your mother. We need this holiday. Dorothy.”
I left the note on the kitchen table, next to his mug. Picked up two suitcases, woke Edith, called a taxi.
At the door I turned around. The flat was quiet. Leonard was asleep.
“Let’s go,” I said to Edith.
In the taxi, Edith was silent for five minutes. Then she asked:
“Mum, will he be angry?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And what then?”
I looked out the window. The morning city drifted past – grey, familiar. In four hours I would see the sea. For the first time in seven years.
“And nothing,” I answered.
At the airport I turned off my phone. Turned it back on on the plane, when we had reached altitude. Twelve missed calls from Leonard. Three messages from Agatha: “Dorothy, what are you doing?”, “Bring the child back!”, “I won’t let this go!”
I put the phone in my bag. Beside me, Edith was reading a book. Outside the window were clouds.
The sea turned out to be warm.
Three weeks passed. Edith and I came back tanned. In the fridge stood jars of pickles – Agatha had brought them. On the table – my note, the same one. Leonard had not removed it.
He was sitting in the living room when we walked in. He looked at us and said nothing. Then he got up and went into the bedroom. The door closed.
Since then he sleeps on the sofa in the living room. Talks to me through Edith: “Tell Mum I’m at work,” “Ask Mum where the receipt is.” Agatha calls every evening. Edith says she can hear through the wall: “Son, she doesn’t respect you. She’s not a wife, she’s a punishment.”
And I sleep peacefully. For the first time in seven years. On the nightstand is a seashell that Edith found on the beach.
My husband says I betrayed the family. My mother-in-law says I abandoned my husband for a resort. And I think that after seven years without a single day off, you can decide for yourself once.
Did I go too far with that note and that escape? Or, after seven years without a holiday, did I have the right to fly without his permission?