Now
If you search online, you’ll find plenty of inspiring stories about people who’ve beaten the odds and recovered from the incurable. But you won’t find a single story about those who fought and lost.
No one will write about her mom.
It’s the same with love. For some reason, romance novels and magazines like “True Life Stories” only feature happy couples. And when someone’s miserable, they inevitably find happiness by the end, and that’s where the story stops.
The unhappy and the dead don’t interest anyone.
Marta locked the front door behind her and pressed her forehead against it. She shivered slightly from the cold. She should’ve hurried to peel off her wet clothes and dry her hair before catching a chill. But lately, she didn’t hurry to do anything. Everything was done in a sleepwalking state, somewhere between living and “not living.”
What she had now was “not living.” Of all the processes that define life, her body seemed to manage only the bare minimum, like metabolism.
“Were you at the cemetery?”
The voice came from behind her, hitting like a warm wave, jolting her back to the present with a sharp push. What’s that kitchen gadget called, the one for pitting cherries? A metal tool that pierces the flesh and forces the pit out—that’s how this voice felt. Marta felt like a cherry pit.
She turned around more sharply than she had in a long time. The last sixty-four days, to be exact.
“Boris?”
God, how long had it been since they’d seen each other? Two years, maybe… The last time was just a passing encounter, before she sold her apartment to pay for her mom’s treatment. In the two years since she’d moved in with his grandmother, they hadn’t crossed paths once.
He visited occasionally, but Marta was either at hospitals, sleeping outside wards, or scraping by with round-the-clock odd jobs.
“How are you?” Boris asked.
Standing before her was a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair that had lost some of its golden shine, not as vibrant as she remembered. A man, no longer a boy, who had once made her heart race for the first time. His strong cheekbones seemed wider now, his jaw was covered in thick stubble, and faint crow’s feet had appeared at the corners of his eyes. She wondered what had aged him so—his grueling job as a coach, two years on the front lines, or four years of marriage?
So far, they’d only spoken in questions. Marta wanted to reply, but she didn’t know which words to pick.
“Look at me. Soaked through,” was all she managed.
“Go change. I’ll make some tea,” he said.
So simple, so natural, as if they met often or were close friends. But they were barely acquaintances. The handsome grandson of kind Grandma Hanna, a regional judo champion, the guy all the girls in their building—and a few neighboring ones—waited for. That’s who he was. The one who’d flash a friendly smile, wink, and toss out a playful, “Where’d all your freckles go?” Or casually ask, “Everything okay?”
For some reason, Boris remembered her as a freckled, redheaded little girl, though she couldn’t recall him from back then. The first clear memory she had was a sweltering July eleven years ago. By then, her hair had lightened, and the freckles had mostly faded. Skinny, gangly, and still flat-chested—that’s how she was. And somehow, that awkward thirteen-year-old managed to fall head over heels for a nineteen-year-old with a black eye, visiting his grandmother.
To Marta, that bruise had seemed like a badge of masculinity or something. She’d fantasized about him fighting off thugs. Then she’d fantasized about him fighting off thugs for her. She knew it wasn’t thugs, but judo (who didn’t know? Grandma Hanna bragged about her grandson to everyone), but she fantasized anyway. All she needed was to grow up, get prettier, find a way to catch his eye with something other than freckles.
Marta changed clothes and stepped into the kitchen. The electric kettle was just boiling, humming and rattling the shaky countertop.
“Where’s Grandma Hanna? She didn’t mention going anywhere today…”
“She did, but you probably didn’t hear. She says you don’t hear anything lately… She went to check on Aunt Maria, who’s very sick.”
Boris stood with his back to her, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets for sugar, banging the doors. His tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was firm, without indulgence.
Still, Marta felt the need to justify herself.
“I found a new job… I’ll look for a room somewhere, move out. I know I can’t keep imposing here. It’s just…”
“Marta.”
He turned around with two mugs in hand, set them on the table, and looked at her.
“That’s not the issue. Grandma’s gotten used to having you around. And it’s better for an older person to have someone living with them. I can’t visit often, neither can my parents. But that’s not the point.”
Marta didn’t ask what the point was. She already knew. She sat down at the table in silence, staring at the floor.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Boris asked, quieter, softer.
When was the last time she had? She didn’t need a mirror to know—dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, hair that hadn’t been properly brushed.
Hair just like her mom’s. Just a shade lighter. Thanks to that hair, anyone who saw them together would instantly know they were mother and daughter.
“You can’t keep going like this… You have to move on.”
As if she didn’t know.
But what did “move on” even mean? Move on to what? Where to? What a stupid, empty word.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone so close,” Boris continued. “But I believe your mom would want you to live happily. I get how hard this is for you, but…”
“The only close person,” Marta interrupted. “The only one. I have no one else. I never did, except for her. I don’t remember my grandparents, I don’t know my fa… that man who fathered me. I have nothing and no one left. Not even a home. All I have are her things, her photos. I look at them, and it feels like she’s about to walk into the room. Sometimes, it feels like this is all a dream, that I’ll wake up and everything will be okay. A stupid dream that’s dragged on for years.”
It felt like the first time she’d said so many words at once since her mom passed. Boris didn’t interrupt. He settled across from her at the table, resting his hands on the surface, cupping his mug with both palms. His whole body, every gesture, showed he was ready to listen.
“Just six months ago, it seemed like she’d beaten it, like we’d made it, like everything would be okay… Then the relapse. And today marks the sixty-fourth day… I don’t know what to do, where to go, how to be.”
Marta lifted her tear-filled eyes to him. It seemed like she was asking for advice, understanding, or a hint about what to do next. Boris reached across the table. With rough, calloused fingertips, he touched her pale skin, wiping a trail of tears from one cheek, then the other.
“There’s only one death you can’t survive—your own. That’s what our commander always said… And he didn’t survive his. I know it’s lousy comfort. It didn’t comfort us either. But I don’t know what else to say… Marta, you just have to pull yourself together. If your mom is watching from above, she should see you smile.”
He wasn’t good at saying things like this. Marta could tell—every word came with effort. He fidgeted, cleared his throat, paused.
She remembered that Boris had seen death too—and not just once. God, how much death had surrounded him on the front lines!
Oddly enough, his words had an effect. They didn’t heal, weren’t an anesthetic, just a bandage. They didn’t take the pain away, but they stopped the bleeding. Or rather, the tears.
Marta wiped her eyes and quietly asked:
“How do you live after everything you saw out there?”
“I can’t come to terms with it.”
He didn’t elaborate. Either he didn’t want to revisit those memories, or he didn’t want to weigh Marta down further, as she struggled to recover from her own grief.
She sipped her tea and felt a pleasant warmth spread from her throat to her stomach. She felt a need to talk. About anything else, something meaningful. About him.
“Are you still coaching kids?”
She thought Grandma Hanna had mentioned that after returning from the East, Boris worked as a judo coach.
“That’s just a hobby. I make money elsewhere.”
“Doing what?”
“Security.” He paused for a moment, then added more: “Head of security at a hotel complex.”
Marta nodded, not sure what to say to that.
“Coaching doesn’t pay much. And we… I…” He stumbled, as if unsure whether to say “we” or “I,” or still hadn’t learned to switch between the two. “Had to take out a loan for a place. My son, Roman, was born… Some buddies from the front recommended me to their friends, and friends of friends, and that’s how I got into security. Got promoted a year ago.”
He fell silent and bit his lip, weighing whether to say more. Marta glanced at those lips she’d once dreamed of kissing and felt warmth spread inside her again. This time, it wasn’t from the tea. She inhaled slowly, pushing away the inappropriate thought about a married man.
“Grandma says you go to the cemetery almost every day,” he started again.
“I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.”
She lowered her head again, feeling like a schoolgirl caught smoking in the bathroom or doing something worse. There’s nothing wrong with visiting a cemetery, unless it’s an obsession. And this, it seemed, was exactly that.
Boris suddenly cleared his throat and straightened up.
“Listen, Marta, you need to get out of here… Come with me to Lviv.”
She jerked her chin up. He looked serious, resolute, no hint of a joke.
“And what would I do there?”
“I’ll help you. You can stay with me for a while; my roommate’s moving out, so there’s a free room. I might even be able to help with a job. We often have openings at the hotel; I’ll ask around. You could start helping in the kitchen or as a housekeeper, and things will gradually fall into place. Maybe you can finish your studies. You dropped out of university, right?”
“Hold on…”
Marta shook her head, not fully grasping it.
“What roommate?.. An apartment… What about your wife?”
Boris sighed. He shifted the mug on the table.
“We’ve been divorced for a year. I left the apartment to my son. I’m renting now.”
Her eyes instinctively flicked to his ring finger. Sure enough—no wedding band. Had Grandma Hanna kept this from her, or had Marta just missed it?
“Come with me, Marta. You need to escape this place.”
That was the truth. She didn’t want to, but she knew she had to get away from this gray little town. Different streets, different buildings, different people—that’s what she needed to keep living.
She said she’d think about it, but deep down, she already knew she’d agree.
If only she’d known beforehand what whirlwind of events this decision would thrust her into. If only she’d known how soon her heart would race on a rollercoaster of emotions.
And if she’d known how everything would turn upside down, who knows if she’d have dared to make the change.