Part 4 — My husband gifted my summer plans to his mother, but his expression changed when he saw my calm smile.

 

Part 4

Following Giorgi’s words, I felt the floor drop out beneath my feet for the very first time.

— “Who is it?” I asked.

He turned the screen toward me.

The video showed a woman wearing dark sunglasses and a hat. In her hand, she was holding a copy of my official ID. As she stepped closer to the lens, her face came into sharp focus.

Vera Aleksandrovna.

Her oversized hat was gone. But on her right wrist sat the exact gold watch Vova had bought her last year.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— “Mom,” Vova gasped.

Vera’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

— “You told me the money was yours,” he barely managed to speak. “I only believed you.”

— “Did you withdraw it from the account?”

— “You told me everything needed to vanish!”

Vova took a step toward me.

— “Marina, listen to me. It’s not what it looks like.”

— “It is exactly what it looks like.”

— “I was doing everything for you!”

— “Stealing my money was for my benefit?”

— “For the family!”

— “Did you remember the family when you bought your mother a beach ticket and left me behind at home?”

His eyes flickered nervously.

— “You were never grateful.”

I had heard that phrase so many times that I knew precisely what he would say next. It was as if I could hear his voice in advance.

Giorgi handed every file over to the police. He compiled the camera footage, bank transfers, altered documents, and the audio recording into a single binder. The notary confirmed in writing that my signature had been fraudulently applied to a different text.

Vova called his attorney.

— “Get me out of here,” he commanded.

A woman’s clear voice rang out from the phone speaker:

— “Mr. Vova, I can no longer represent you.”

— “What do you mean, you can’t?”

— “It means I can no longer keep you as a client. You sent me a file yourself this morning where everything is documented.”

Vova slowly lowered his phone.

— “That’s impossible…”

— “It is very possible,” I told him.

Soon, the officers arrived. Vova attempted to maintain a calm facade, but his hands were trembling. Vera Aleksandrovna sat on a chair staring at her watch, as if it possessed the power to turn back time.

— “Marina, please,” she said to me. “I am not a bad person.”

— “Perhaps you aren’t. But you participated in bad decisions.”

— “I was only helping my son.”

— “I was once your family too.”

She lowered her eyes.

An officer unzipped Vova’s bag. Inside, they found a copy of my passport, a bank card, and my car keys. At that moment, Vova heard his own voice.

Giorgi turned on the recording again, as the officer needed the exact quote.

“Marina is just a signature to me.”

Vova froze.

Those words echoed through the room in his own voice. It was as if someone had placed a mirror in front of him, but instead of his face, the mirror reflected his real life.

— “I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered.

— “But that is what you said,” Giorgi replied.

That same evening, formal charges were filed against Vova for fraud, forgery, and embezzlement. Vera Aleksandrovna confessed to everything in an effort to lessen her son’s sentence. I didn’t appear in court out of vengeance against him. I simply spoke the truth.

By court order, full ownership of the apartment remained with me. Vova was ousted from the company due to financial irregularities. His friends vanished into thin air—they had only stayed by his side when he could pay for everyone’s dinner.

I returned home alone.

His belongings were no longer in the bedroom. In the closet, only an empty hanger remained. In the living room, behind the bookshelf, the mark left by the hidden audio recorder was still visible. On the floor lay an old photograph of us both smiling.

I didn’t pick it up.

A few weeks later, I put the apartment up for rent and moved to a seaside town. I lived in a small flat whose windows offered a view of fishing boats every morning. I landed a job at a local travel agency. For the first time in my life, my income belonged solely to me.

Every morning, I drank coffee from a small ceramic mug with a fish-shaped handle. In the evenings, I walked along the shore and watched the sea foam splash against the rocks.

Giorgi remained in my life, but he never tried to turn my pain to his own advantage. Sometimes we walked together; sometimes we went a week without seeing each other. It unfolded slowly, peacefully, and naturally.

One morning, Salome called me.

— “Vova sent you a letter.”

— “Don’t open it.”

— “I already read just the first line. He’s begging to meet you.”

— “No.”

— “He claims he has changed.”

I stood by the window. Outside, the season’s first snow was falling, though the sea air remained mild.

— “Salome, a person can change. But I am no longer obligated to wait around for it.”

— “What should I tell him?”

— “Tell him I don’t trade my peace to return to the past.”

Months passed. The legal proceedings came to an end. Vova received a custodial sentence, while Vera was handed a suspended sentence and ordered to pay restitution. The mortgage on the apartment was voided after the underlying documents were proven fraudulent. My money was returned to me in installments.

Using those funds, I opened a small travel agency. I planned trips for people—especially for those who had spent years living for others, constantly setting their own desires aside for tomorrow.

Hanging on the wall was a drawing by my very first client. A little girl had drawn the sea, a sunny shore, and a woman holding a suitcase.

— “Where is this woman going?” I had asked the girl.

— “To a place where nobody tells her she can’t go.”

Her answer carried more power than any verdict handed down in court.

One evening, as I was preparing to close the office, I received another text message from Vova:

Marina, meet me just once. I am still the same Vova you loved.

I stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then I typed back:

That is precisely why I am never coming back.

I switched off the phone.

I pulled a small clay swallow out of my desk drawer. Its wing was still broken. Only now did I realize that it didn’t need fixing. Even with a broken wing, it served as a reminder of flight.

I tied the swallow to the handle of my new suitcase.

Tomorrow morning, I was hitting the road again.

This time, for myself.

And for the very first time, the sea truly belonged to me.