On the recording, my younger sister Anya—lying in bed with my husband Anton—throws at me with contempt: “She can’t even give you a child, but I can.” Then she adds that I’ve gone slack, let myself go, and that all she can feel for me is disgust. Anton picks up the words, not hiding his revulsion: looking at me is unbearable for him. Anya, smirking, assures him that I’ll be gone soon—not just because of anything, but in the worst kind of suffering, because I “have to pay for everything.” And then, she says, they’ll finally be together. Besides, she’s already prepared a detailed “technical assignment” for the hired hands.
The ones I considered closest struck me in the back. But instead of accepting it, I decided: it won’t go unpunished. I found people who deal with issues like that—they called themselves “fixers.” Ilya and Oleg. We used to study together, and I had a secret crush on them, but I couldn’t imagine that years later they’d look at me differently—as a woman. Both of them at once. And me? I don’t mind… but what if there are two of them?
The story is being edited.