A thick, heavy silence enveloped the apartment, permeated with the scent of incense and wilting lilies. Mary sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over as if under the weight of an invisible burden. Her black dress clung to her body, scratching—reminding her of the main reason for this dead silence: today she had buried her grandmother, Eleanor Thompson—the last family member she had in the world.
Across from her, in the armchair, sprawled her husband Andrew. His presence seemed like a mockery—after all, tomorrow they were supposed to file for divorce. He hadn’t said a word of sympathy, just silently watched her, barely hiding his irritation, as if waiting for this tedious performance to end.
Mary stared at one spot—on the faded pattern of the carpet—and felt the last sparks of hope for reconciliation slowly fade, leaving behind an icy emptiness.
«Well, I sympathize with your loss,» Andrew finally broke the silence, and his voice rang with sarcastic mockery. «Now you’re a wealthy lady. Heiress! Your grandma probably left untold riches? Oh, right, I forgot—the greatest inheritance: that old, smelly Frigidaire. Congratulations, luxurious acquisition.»
His words pierced her heart sharper than a blade. Memories of endless arguments, shouts, tears flooded back. Her grandmother, a woman with the rare name Eleanor, had hated her son-in-law from the start. «He’s a crook, Mary,» she would say, looking sternly. «Empty as a barrel. Be careful—he’ll strip you bare and leave you.» And Andrew would just curl his lips in a smirk, calling her «old witch.» How many times Mary found herself between two fires, trying to smooth over conflicts, how many tears she shed, believing everything could be fixed. Now she understood: her grandmother had seen the truth from the beginning.
«By the way, about your ‘brilliant’ future,» Andrew continued, savoring his cruelty. He stood up, adjusted his expensive jacket. «You don’t have to come to work tomorrow. I’ve already fired you. The order was signed this morning. So, dear, soon even your Frigidaire will seem like luxury. You’ll go scavenging in dumpsters, and you’ll remember me with gratitude.»
This was the end. Not just a divorce—the end of the entire life she had built around this man. The last hope that he would show even a drop of humanity died. Instead, a pure, icy hatred slowly but inexorably arose in her soul.
Mary raised her empty eyes to him but didn’t utter a word. Why? Everything had been said. Silently standing up, she went to the bedroom, took the pre-packed bag. She didn’t react to his taunts and laughter. Clutching the key to the old apartment, long forgotten, she left without looking back.
The street greeted her with a cold evening wind. Mary stopped under a dim streetlamp, setting down two heavy bags on the asphalt. Before her loomed a gray apartment building—the home of her childhood and youth, where her parents once lived…
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