Grandpa wouldn’t have approved of me, oh no, he really wouldn’t have.
He’d have called me a silly little goat, saying I couldn’t even tough it out for a few years before living life on my own terms.
But you, Grandpa, never put up with anything yourself.
And besides, your younger business partner got drunk somewhere last week and couldn’t keep his mouth shut. From what he let slip, it became crystal clear—I’m never getting a divorce. Ever. Something about not splitting the capital and some other nonsense. I stopped listening after that.
At least he didn’t get physical. During his last bender, I was hiding everywhere but in the electrical outlet to avoid him.
But there’s a silver lining to his drinking. He might spill something and not remember it later. You just have to know how to ask the right questions. You know, the last thing you say sticks, maybe the first too. But the stuff in the middle? Nope.
Your teachings, Grandpa. You can be proud up there in your Valhalla. I did learn a thing or two from you.
Provoke, listen, pretend I’ve got nothing to do with it, and let it all be chalked up to his male ego. For example, if I strip out his drunken ramblings and just leave my responses...
- Blah blah... keep your lip zipped...
- I was asking about something completely different. How did you twist it like that? I couldn’t care less. Maybe it’s a personal issue for you, dear business partner. Or maybe it’s a Freudian slip.
- Blah blah... don’t even dream about it, I’ll leave you penniless...
- Fine, I’m heading to my room. I can’t listen to your stream of consciousness for too long. If you won’t give me a divorce, so be it. You’re the one stuck babysitting me, not the other way around. Good night and all that.
- Blah blah... your grandpa messed up, but I’m not letting go of what’s mine...
- I actually just wanted to know if I could finally travel the world after finishing my year of training at the firm. But that’s not interesting to you. You’ve been everywhere and seen everything. I never got the chance while Grandpa was alive. And now you won’t let me go.
- Blah blah... don’t even dream of getting free, I’ve got everything locked down in court...
- Uh-huh, got it. Not the right time. Nothing’s ever the right time with you. Well, I want to go to Oktoberfest in Berlin. I’ve got so many friends there from Facebook, Instagram, and even TikTok.
- Blah blah... all women are tramps. You’ll come back from that festival with a kid in tow, but at home, you’ll give me a legitimate...
- I heard you. No need to yell so loud. I’m not deaf. But I might go deaf if you keep shouting even louder and longer.
- Blah blah... just go to bed, Oktoberfest, my foot. Study your lessons and hit the sack, kiddo, playtime’s over...
- Good night.
A year ago, when I first heard that I was facing a life sentence with no rights to my share of the business or even my personal life, I spent the whole night calculating how much money I’d need for the first few months on the run. Just until I figured out where to settle down for a while and find a job.
The numbers added up to a lot. I wasn’t exactly a spoiled granddaughter under Grandpa’s care. But when I looked at the prices and realized what salaries are like in the provinces these days, I nearly gave up.
But by morning, everything looked different. Things always seem better in the morning. I started preparing, little by little.
You can’t just skip ahead two years and jump from one end of the country to the other overnight. But you can draw yourself a roadmap, mark the stops and arrival times. Then, in your mind, cross off what’s done with a red marker. My route was from point S to point C.
And no, I’m not to blame if you thought of something else.
S stands for self-pity—poor little orphan me, handed over to a cruel, strange man.
C stands for coast and cabin, the little place where Grandpa and I stayed for a few weeks once when someone crossed him. He was deeply hurt by the ingratitude or whatever it was—something that surrounds us at every turn. We think it happens to other people, not us. No, never us, ha-ha.
Now, I’m finally at point C. I’m looking at the old cabin, just the same as it was, as if Grandpa and I left it only yesterday. Of course, that was after he dealt with that ungrateful jerk.
Now, I’ll check what these two supposedly head-over-heels, oh-so-charming men who claim to love me are saying online. Then I’ll muster up the courage and step through the slightly crooked door of the cabin.
And if I don’t find a shallowly buried, neatly packaged step-by-step guide with explanations from Grandpa in the far corner, I’ll be shocked. Really shocked.
Alright, let’s see what’s going on with Facebook since my escape. Where’s the panic, the tears, the snot, and the “come back, I’ll forgive everything”?
Well, some men aren’t nearly as mysterious as they think they are.
One of them is running around mutual groups, spamming dozens of selfies from different angles and with different crowds. I used to like every single one, leave comments, and post emojis. Of course, I wasn’t the only one. He’s not just anybody—he’s rich, handsome, and knows how to impress girls. He’s got plenty of admirers like me. Well, not exactly like me, but curvy, tall, pouty-lipped girls. All just as head-over-heels as I was. Once.
No one but him will notice I’m not among his fangirls anymore. And he’s betting I won’t be able to resist the pull of his perfect looks and sad puppy face. He thinks I’ll slip up, and his chance to win that bet—big money, by the way—and maintain his unbeatable Casanova reputation will come back. Yeah, right.
The other one is pretending nothing’s happened, like I haven’t disappeared at all. He keeps posting reminders that the Shevchuk couple invites dear guests to celebrate yet another anniversary of their happy marriage. Date and location in personal invites, please RSVP if you can’t make it.
Uh-huh. Those venues are pricey. And my—ha-ha—husband is rich for a reason. He knows how to count every penny.
On my page... oh, wow. On my page, it looks like I’m posting landscapes of our country house, the garden, the vegetable patch, the horses from our stable, and the cats. I’m supposedly asking friends to take in kittens because our cat Myshka got herself in trouble again...
Well, I knew he’d hack it. To read my private stuff, even the things not meant for everyone. Still, it’s unsettling. That account was always for show, so our tight-knit circle could see a pretty picture. There’s nothing secret there, never was.
Still, it feels gross.
Those cats. Myshka didn’t get into any trouble. I took her to get spayed last year. My legal husband might not know, might have forgotten, or might not think it’s important.
The post isn’t exactly like mine, but it fits the style if you don’t look too closely at the details.
I wonder if he’s playing mind games or if he’s just scared people will find out that someone as perfect as him had his wife run away. The wife he saved from poverty, took under his wing, is training to be a full-fledged marketer, and basically blessed with happiness—breaking dozens of girls’ hearts with our wedding.
Enough already. I’ve got a black belt in procrastination. What am I waiting for? I need to go inside the cabin and face whatever’s coming.
There are no tracks around. There was a downpour recently, my hair’s still wet, and though the sand dried quickly, it’s still untouched after the rain. Just like me, ha-ha.
I stand up, sling the backpack over one shoulder, tuck the laptop under my arm, and hold the phone with the flashlight on in my right hand.
I kick the bottom corner of the door with my foot, stretching my arm out with the phone like a cop in a movie holding a gun while taking down a terrorist.
Yo! There he is—the terrorist.
I knew my brilliant plan would fall apart somewhere. But not here! Good grief, why here of all places?