Mariyana found the empty spot in the garage before she noticed anything else. Overnight, the cobalt-blue Granta was gone. The place where she’d carefully parked it was now just bare concrete and a sense of betrayal.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, spotting Vyacheslav hunched over a cluttered workbench. Parts clinked and clattered all around him.
He glanced up without stopping his work. “Lyudka needed it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Her car’s in the shop. I said to lend it.”
Mariyana’s voice shot out like a tarantula’s sting. “Without asking me?”
“So? It was just one day.”
“That car is my car!” she retorted, stepping forward, anger flaring. “I paid for it with years of teaching extra English classes and tutoring kids after hours!”
Vyacheslav finally looked up. His eyes were cold, unfazed. “But we’re married,” he said. “It’s part of the family assets.”
“Said who?” Mariyana snapped. “You?”
He sighed, then shrugged. “Just take the bus tomorrow. You’ll manage.”
“The bus?! That’s ridiculous!”
“Lyudka promised to bring it back tonight,” he said, returning to his work.
Mariyana felt like she had been box-kicked in the ribs. She turned and fled toward the living room. Her fingers trembled as she dialed Lyudmila.
“Lyuda, it’s me,” she said into the phone, trying for calm. “That’s my car. I didn’t agree to you borrowing it.”
“Oh, Mariyana,” Lyuda replied, a singsong tone that made Mariyana’s skin crawl. “Your husband said it was okay. I needed it. You’re not usually this uptight.”
“Miserly,” Mariyana bit out. “Last month I lent you money for groceries. Remember?”
Lyuda sighed theatrically. “Actually, I paid you back.”
“My cat sit—” Mariyana began, but stopped. Yes, she had paid Lyuda to feed her cat… but there had been no money exchange. At least that’s how she remembered it.
“Just return the car,” Mariyana ended the call, voice hollow.
“She’s crying!” Vyacheslav announced, stomping in a moment later. “You called her a miser.”
“Yes,” Mariyana said quietly, meeting his gaze. “Because she borrowed my car as though it wasn’t special. Like I didn’t work for it.”
He looked away. “You used to be more… understanding.”
Now that stung. Eight years of raising two kids, managing their cramped apartment, being polite to his mother when she barged in uninvited—she’d been understanding. But this car was hers. The one she’d bought by selling her grandmother’s heirloom ring.
“If Lyuda asked for your moped,” Mariyana challenged, “would you say yes?”
“Of course it’s different,” he said. “That’s a man’s ride.”
Mariyana felt like she’d walked into a wall. “So… a car’s not a universal item?”
He turned his face toward the wall before answering.
Tired, she decided to let the confrontation rest—for now— and went to bed empty-handed, dreading tomorrow’s bus ride.
The Quiet Morning
Before dawn, she heard the Granta pull up outside, Lyudmila behind the wheel, guilt written all over her face. She peeled open her eyes in time to see Lyuda exit the car, close the door, and leave quickly. Mariyana stayed still, staring at the empty seat.
When Vyacheslav appeared behind her, he hesitated.
“She returned it,” he said softly.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He nodded, avoiding her gaze, and walked away.
They avoided each other all morning. She took the long bus ride in silence, replaying everything. Her anger had warmed the edges of her chest—but it was cold tomorrow, that winter day. The second she stepped into her classroom at the high school, though, warmth found her in the faces of students eager to listen.
A Turn in the Day
Leaving school, she found a letter tucked under her windshield wiper. Heart trembling, she opened it. Inside, Lyudmila had written:
“Mariash, I’m sorry. The car—it’s yours, not mine. I was thoughtless. I’ll repay the non-existent money. This afternoon, I’ll drop by.”
That afternoon, Lyudmila arrived. No gold necklace, no pleading tone—just regret. Mariyana watched as her friend hovered, eyes watery.
“I was wrong,” Lyudmila whispered. “You’ve always been there for me. This time, I crossed a line. I’m sorry.”
Mariyana’s tension unraveled. “Thank you,” she said, quietly. “The car was more than transport to me.”
Lyuda nodded, silently passing a small envelope across: “To make things right.”
Within it were two bills—enough to help cover next month’s electric bill.
One Week Later
Mariyana’s car was back at her feet, Gleaming in the garage’s late afternoon light. She’d come to appreciate more than its utility—it had come to symbolize agency and respect.
That evening, Vyacheslav put down his tools and found Mariyana by the window.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I should’ve asked.”
She looked at him carefully. “We’re partners,” she replied. “Which means we talk.”
He nodded. “I know.”
The car sat beyond them, an unspoken reminder. She closed her eyes, adjusting to the silence between them. Then she opened them and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“We start again,” she said, quiet but resolute.
He put an arm around her, and together they stood.