“Well, well, well… looks like you don’t just have a weird effect on women,” I blurted out without thinking.
I’ve always said I can’t keep my mouth shut in stressful situations!
Sokol snapped his head up and shot me a look so piercing I could’ve found a way to off myself right then and there. For a moment, it even seemed like those spring-sky-blue eyes of his—ones I’d foolishly admired not long ago—were turning bloodshot. Looks like rabies isn’t just contagious; it kicks in instantly!
“I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day!” the boss barked, sounding no less ferocious than a mastiff. “Get out of here!”
So, I got out. More like bolted. Didn’t even try to argue. It wasn’t until I reached the lobby and caught my breath that I came to my senses. The line of people waiting had gone quiet, huddling together and throwing odd glances my way.
And I still couldn’t figure out who I should be more afraid of: the boss or the mastiff. I’m not sure the latter was the bigger threat. Seems like Sokol is quite the predator himself.
How am I supposed to work with him after all this?
Three Days Earlier
— “Varya, where’s my tie? The green one with the tiny polka dots!” my husband yells from the bedroom.
“Mom, where’d you put my iPad?” That’s Polina, picky as ever.
“I’m not eating peanut butter sandwiches!” Alina storms into the kitchen. “They make me itch all over.”
“Yar, hold on a sec! Polya, check the bedroom! Of course, sweetie, no peanut butter, no problem,” I try to keep up with everyone at once.
This is how most of my mornings start. Chaos and confusion, noise and running around the house, cooking and getting everyone ready. My husband for work, and my daughters for school.
Lifting the lid off the skillet, I check the omelet: a delicate crust has formed, so it’s time to turn off the heat. In the pot, oatmeal with dried fruit is simmering, and in the coffee pot, the brew is coming to a boil. My husband likes his coffee strong, so I bring it to a boil three times before taking it off the stove.
I scan the table with a critical eye: almost everything’s ready. Just need to make the girls’ sandwiches for lunch and chop up a salad for breakfast—I’ll manage. After turning off the stove (I’ve learned the hard way that things boil over or burn the second you look away), I hurry upstairs.
The girls’ bedroom looks like a tornado hit it: everything’s upside down, as if I didn’t clean it just yesterday. Kids are the enemy of order, especially mine.
Alina is already dressed and ready, while Polina is still darting around the room in her pajamas, half-asleep and not even washed up. Even though they’re twins, they’re so different—I’d never mix them up.
“Mom, it’s nowhere to be found,” Polina declares, her eyes full of reproach and her voice dripping with near-fatal offense.
Polya is always cranky in the mornings. You can’t get her to bed on time at night, and you can’t wake her up in the morning. I have to sweet-talk her and hide the iPad so she doesn’t spend half the night playing games. Sometimes even I forget where I’ve stashed it to keep it away from this little whirlwind.
“You’ve gotta look harder! Use logic and deduction,” Alina sums up seriously, as always. For the past month, she’s been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes—or more likely, Benedict Cumberbatch, the star of the British version of the genius detective.
Unlike her sister, she’s already packed her backpack the night before and now hands me a comb to do her hair.
Polya sticks her tongue out at her sister, waving off the argument. That’s not like her. Usually, my girl jumps into any squabble without hesitation, arguing until she’s blue in the face to prove her point, but not today. Either she’s really sleep-deprived, or they’ve already had a good fight before I got here.
“Check the laundry basket,” I send her to the bathroom while I quickly start braiding Alina’s French braid.
Red, silky, thick hair—our family pride. It’s a trait passed down through the women on my mother’s side of the Sokol family. My grandmother, my mom, me, and now my daughters. Sure, it’s a lot of work to maintain such a treasure, but it’s worth it—a true feminine adornment.
“Mom, you’re such a dreamer,” Polina says as she returns quickly, grinning like a Cheshire cat, clutching her iPad tightly. “I never would’ve thought to look there myself.”
And that was the whole plan. I’m pretty sneaky, after all.
Being a mom means honing your best qualities, preparing for battle with the unexpected every day, and being braver in emergencies than a general before war.
“Now, I hope you’ve calmed down and can get ready in five minutes. Right, sweetie?”
“Oh no!” Polina slaps her hands to her face, probably realizing the full scale of the disaster: her backpack isn’t packed, she’s not washed, not dressed, and not braided.
And it’s already time for breakfast, plus we need to leave in twenty minutes to get to school and get my husband to work on time without being late.
But my daughter doesn’t know how to mope. She instantly regains her fighting spirit and, promising, “I’ll be quick!” she dashes back to the bathroom.
“Help your sister,” I ask Alina as I finish her braid.
My little smarty-pants makes a face but nods and trudges off to pack her twin’s backpack. I pull out their school uniforms from the closet, ironed the night before, and lay them on the bed. Polina can handle the rest herself.
Even though they’re only in first grade, my girls are pretty independent. Sometimes even too much so.
In our bedroom, my husband is making a scene. Buried up to his ears in the closet, he’s hunting for that darn tie.
“Where could it have gone? What a disaster.”
The sight is more picturesque than ever.
Sticking out of the closet is my husband’s muscular backside in red boxers. No socks, but wearing a dress shirt, Yaroslav is fully focused on his search. And judging by his grumbling, he’s already reached his boiling point.
He loves order in everything, meticulous and demanding. Though more often than not, he’s the one disrupting that order without even noticing.
Right now, he’s scattered and turned over nearly every piece of clothing in the closet. Looks like I’m in for an unplanned wardrobe overhaul today.
Holding back a laugh, I lean against Yaroslav from behind in a morning hug.
“Varya,” he grumbles irritably, straightening up and stepping away. “Can’t you see? I’m running late!”
Not offended in the slightest, I peek into the closet and pull out the source of his morning frustration.
“Here.”
Yaroslav rubs his chin, clearly embarrassed. Not wasting a second, I button up his shirt and neatly tie the tie. Smiling, I smooth out nonexistent wrinkles on his shoulders, adjust his collar, ruffle his curly, raven-black hair a bit, and plant a kiss on his cheek.
“How do you always do that? I just looked there,” he says, genuinely amazed. “It’s like magic.”
Shrugging with a smile, I hurry to the kitchen. The salad isn’t going to chop itself, and the lunch containers won’t pack themselves.
“Breakfast is ready,” I call out to Yarik.
“Coming.”
Sure enough, I hear quick footsteps behind me. I slow down, giving my husband a pointed look.
“Yaroslav Petrovich, are you sure you haven’t forgotten anything?” I ask.
“Why would I?”
He frowns, crossing his arms and taking a defensive stance. A handsome brunette, athletic, a serious and demanding businessman, an excellent professional, a husband, and a loving father—the total dream package! And all mine, can you believe it? Isn’t that pure happiness?
“Pants.”
“Oh, come on!” Yaroslav shoots me a look. Those deep blue eyes of his always make my chest tighten. “You could’ve just said so right away.”
And rob myself of a little fun? No way.
Finishing up the salad, I call out to the family to hurry:
“Girls, Yar, breakfast!”
The twins quickly come downstairs and take their seats at the table.
Soon, Yaroslav joins us. He’s dressed impeccably, as always. Waiting for him are the omelet, salad, and a hot, strong cup of coffee. Everything just the way my husband likes it, and I love making him happy.
While the family eats, I manage to pack their lunches, braid Polina’s hair, and bring the girls’ backpacks downstairs to the hallway chest.
Then the rest of the family catches up, finishing their meal and ready to head out for the day. Polina picks comfy moccasins, while Alina opts for little boots. Even in clothing, the girls have different tastes. Though for school, they both have to wear the uniform: a navy three-piece suit and a white blouse.
I hand the girls their jackets. It might be late September outside, but fall weather is fickle and unpredictable. Better to be prepared for anything than to catch a cold later.
“Girls, hurry up! Dad’s got an important client today, we can’t be late,” reminds my fully dressed husband.
He keeps glancing at his watch, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He’s really in a rush and hates being late. So, of course, he’s on edge.
“We’re ready,” the twins declare in unison and hurry after their father.
“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten anything?” I ask quietly, smiling as I watch my loved ones.
The girls freeze for a moment, puzzled, as if trying to remember what they might’ve missed, then happily run over to me. Bending down, I get kisses on both cheeks.
“Have a great day,” I say wholeheartedly to my family. “And may luck be on your side today.”
“We’ll miss you,” Polina promises.
Alina nods in agreement with her sister.
“Yeah. But only during breaks. They won’t let us during class.”
I swallow a laugh: so serious! First graders!
“Girls! Time to go.”
After Yaroslav’s reminder, the girls bounce off toward the car. I head to my husband for my morning kiss. But I don’t make it in time.
“Alright, see ya,” he waves at me and, without waiting for a reply, heads outside.
“See ya…”
“Dad, are you coming to our event?” Alina jumps up to her father.
The school is hosting a fall harvest dance, and the girls are participating.
“I’d love to, sweetheart, but you know Dad’s super busy.”
Polina draws her conclusion first:
“So, you’re not coming.”
There are still a couple of weeks until the event, so I’m holding out hope that Yaroslav can clear his schedule. It’s important to the girls, after all. He could make a concession with a client or reschedule an appointment. He runs a private dental clinic, business is booming, and he’s an excellent specialist, so there’s no shortage of clients.
I plan to talk to him about it later if it doesn’t sort itself out.
“This time, I just can’t make it.”
The girls, looking dejected, settle into the back seat of the car.
Within a minute, the car pulls out of the driveway. I watch as the automatic gate closes behind it and head back into the house. The day promises to be packed.
First, I clear the dining table, wash the dishes, and start preparing lunch. Then I tidy up the first floor, putting everything back in its place. I do the same on the second floor. In the girls’ bedroom alone, I spend at least an hour. Their talent for creating chaos out of nothing clearly comes from their father.
I organize our closet with Yaroslav, taking the chance to sort through things for anything unnecessary. I set aside a sizable bag of items to donate to those in need later.
I load the laundry, clean the two bathrooms on the first and second floors, and the toilets. I dust everywhere, mop the floors, water the potted plants… Of course, I keep an eye on lunch too. Everything has to turn out tasty and hearty. How else will I spoil my loved ones?
By one in the afternoon, I’m so exhausted that my vision starts to blur. That’s when I realize I skipped breakfast in all the hustle. It’s not uncommon for me. Sometimes I don’t even think about food until evening or until I’m completely wiped out.
Household chores take up all my attention and time. You try to cover everything, be everywhere at once, and most importantly, make every little thing perfect. Because my family deserves nothing but the best!
I grab a quick bite of leftover vegetable salad. Then I polish the kitchen to a shine and finish preparing lunch.
There’s still plenty of work to do, but I decide to take a short break. Might as well paint my nails. There’s no time for a full manicure, but I want to freshen up a bit.
I’ve just finished painting the nails on my left hand and started on the right when my phone blares with an obnoxious ringtone.
Without looking at the screen, I answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Varvara Dmitrivna?” a pleasant female voice responds.
My heart sinks at the sound of it.
“Yes, this is me. Who’s calling?”
“This is Natalya, Angelina Petrovna’s secretary, calling from Humanities School No. 2.”
I immediately guess who it is, but I keep hoping I’m wrong.
“Is something wrong?”
“You’ve been summoned to the principal’s office. The girls…”
I let out a heavy sigh:
“What have they done now?”
We haven’t had issues with their studies yet, but discipline… Polina even manages to drag serious Alina into her latest antics. What can I say about their classmates?
“They broke a window in the physics classroom, put cockroaches in the geography teacher’s bag, and scared their classmates with a dead lizard. And that’s just today.”
They sure had their fun, didn’t they?
“When do I need to come by?”
“As soon as possible, preferably. Angelina Petrovna has three meetings at the Ministry of Education today.”
“Understood, I’m on my way.”
“And, Varvara Dmitrivna…”
“Yes?”
“Angelina Petrovna requested that you come with your husband. I couldn’t reach him, so…”
Summoning both parents to the principal’s office is a bad sign. My heart grows heavy with worry.
“Alright, we’ll be there.”
“Goodbye, Varvara Dmitrivna,” Natalya says politely.
So polite! But that doesn’t make the bitter pill any sweeter.
“Take care.”
She hasn’t even ended the call before I leap off the couch and race to the bedroom like a frantic chicken. Manicure? Completely forgotten!
I throw on clothes in a hurry—straight-cut jeans and a mustard-colored sweater, pull my hair into a messy bun, and don’t bother looking for my contacts: too much time. I stick with my wide, round-framed glasses. In the hallway, I slip on sneakers, grab my bag, lock up the house, and within a minute, I’m pulling out of the driveway in my red Mini Cooper.
We live outside the city, so it takes me about half an hour to get to the school. No matter how much I rush, I don’t speed. I’m not one for reckless driving, and I only got behind the wheel after a lot of coaxing from my husband.
When I’m nervous, I get super clumsy, so I try to calm down and pull myself together. The last thing I need is a car accident.
While driving, I set my phone to auto-dial Yaroslav. At first, it just rings endlessly, but he doesn’t pick up. I figure he’s busy with another client. By the sixth attempt, the robotic voice of the operator informs me that the subscriber is unavailable.
“What the heck!” I growl in frustration and smack the steering wheel.
Only now do I notice that the nails on my left hand are painted pink, while the right hand is bare. Didn’t have time to finish. Oh well, what now? I’m not gonna paint them on the go.
I dial the number for my husband’s clinic.
“EstetCenter Dental Clinic, good afternoon. This is Anita. How can I help you?” Yaroslav’s sweet assistant answers after the second ring.
“Anita, it’s Varvara. I can’t get through to Yaroslav.”
“Varvara Dmitrivna?”
I already introduced myself, why ask again?
“Yes, Anita,” I reply as calmly as I can. “Please get Yaroslav for me. It’s urgent.”
A brief silence, and then…
“Yaroslav Petrovich is busy. He’s in an important meeting with equipment suppliers.”
“So important that he can’t spare a few minutes for his wife?” My voice hardens, though I try not to let on how much this attitude infuriates me.
“I’m sorry, Varvara Dmitrivna.”
“Breathe, Varvara, just breathe,” I tell myself. “It’s not the first time. Yaroslav’s the provider—he’d take down a mammoth and drag it back to the cave if he had to, but he’s got less and less time for family…”
“It’s not your fault,” I wave it off, already entering the city. The school isn’t far now. “Just tell Yaroslav to call me back. It’s urgent.”
“Alright, Var…”
“Wait, no,” I interrupted her. “Just tell him we’ve been called to the girls’ school. The principal. He needs to head there right away. The meeting’s at two-thirty, and even if he’s a bit late, that’s fine. The important thing is that he shows up.”
“I’ll pass along the message, Varvara Dmitrivna.”
“Thanks, Anita.”
After that, I focused on the road. Even though I couldn’t talk to my husband, I was completely confident he wouldn’t let me down—he’d be there.
That confidence didn’t waver even as I sat alone in the principal’s waiting area or when I walked into her office by myself.
“He’ll make it. He can’t not make it!” I told myself.
“Varvara Dmitrivna Kuropatkina?” a stern brunette in her fifties confirmed. Her piercing gaze from behind her glasses made me uneasy right away. “And where is your husband? I requested both of you to come.”
Since the start of the school year, this wasn’t the first time the girls had gotten into trouble like this. I’d already been called in by teachers over their antics, and by the academic advisor, but this was my first time in the principal’s office…
“Good afternoon, Principal. He’ll be here, just a little later.”
“Alright, make yourself comfortable.”
Sitting down on the chair offered across from the principal’s desk, I felt like a schoolgirl again. And not just any schoolgirl, but one who’d done something really bad.
“Do you already know why I’ve called you in?”
“Yes. Angelina Petrovna, the girls…”
She cut me off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“One hundred percent of our school’s graduates go on to prestigious universities. We place a heavy workload on our students, investing in their successful futures. And we care deeply about the reputation of our school. Do you understand that, Varvara Dmitrivna?”
“Yes, of course…”
“Many educational institutions have high expectations for their students. But here, those expectations aren’t just about academic performance—they extend to discipline as well. Varvara Dmitrivna, please understand, every year we have a highly competitive admissions process, and the academic demands only increase. If your girls can’t handle this, I’ll be forced to raise the issue of transferring them to a regular public school.”
My heart turned to ice.
“No, Angelina Petrovna, we understand, really. The girls are trying hard, they’re learning.”
“Their academic performance isn’t the issue for now,” the principal said, her tone cutting. “It’s their discipline that concerns me. Complaints from teachers and other parents about your twins come in constantly. What do you suggest I do about this?”
Her gaze dissected me. It was the most uncomfortable feeling! But what could I do? For my girls, I’d get down on my knees and beg if I had to.
“Could you meet us halfway and give them one more chance? Please?”
A brief silence followed, during which I nearly had a heart attack from nerves. But… I survived.
“I suppose I will,” the woman finally nodded, as if doing me a huge favor.
“Thank you, Angelina Petrovna.”
“I sincerely hope I won’t regret this. Please explain to the girls that this is very serious.”
I nodded and agreed to everything.
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“Until we meet again,” the principal said in farewell. “Though I hope that won’t be anytime soon.”
Oh, how I hoped for the same!
After such a “pleasant” conversation, my knees were shaking, and my palms were sweaty…
“Have a good day, Angelina Petrovna.”
“Varvara Dmitrivna?” She called after me as I reached the door.
“Yes?”
“I don’t appreciate being ignored.”
I stared at her, wide-eyed, and this iron lady deigned to explain:
“By being irresponsible, your husband is setting a very poor example for the children.”
“He’s just a very busy person. Business, you know,” I rushed to defend him. “I’m sure you understand.”
The principal remained silent. But judging by her heavy gaze, she didn’t understand and had no intention of trying to.
It was at that moment that my confidence finally wavered.
Even the sympathetic smile from Natalya, the principal’s assistant, as she escorted me out of the waiting area, didn’t help lift my spirits.
Yaroslav had let me down.
Not for the first time, but the bitterness in my heart this time was tenfold worse.