The story of how her husband’s return changed the life of the entire family.

For two long years, every day, every hour in the trenches, I lived with nothing but the thought of this moment. The thought of returning home was the only thing that warmed my soul as bullets whistled and the earth shook with explosions. I imagined, down to the last detail, opening the creaking gate, inhaling the familiar scent of my mother’s pies, permeating the walls, seeing tears of joy on her face, and drowning in Marina’s arms. Home was my home base, my fortress, my greatest salvation.

When the taxi finally pulled up outside my family’s house, the first thing I saw wasn’t the old wooden picket fence I’d once painted with my father, but a new, tall fence made of expensive decorative stone. My heart skipped a beat, as if warning me of something, but I quickly pushed the negative thoughts aside. “Marina must have done some renovations,” I thought. “Used the money I’d been sending her.” I felt like a stranger as I pressed the button on the shiny intercom outside my own gate.

With a click, the heavy wrought-iron gate slid silently back. I stepped into the yard and froze. Gone were my mother’s roses and dahlias, the ones she had so cherished. In their place lay a perfect, emerald lawn, and around the perimeter stood a few lifeless, plastic-looking arborvitaes. Even the house was unrecognizable—the old logs had disappeared beneath smooth siding, and the beloved wooden windows had been replaced with cold, double-glazed plastic. Anxiety, cold and sticky, rose in my throat with every step.

I pushed the front door, and it opened without the usual creak. And then the smell hit me. Not of pies and home comfort, but the sharp, cloying aroma of expensive perfume, mixed with a chemical freshness, like the lobby of a luxury hotel. Inside, everything was alien. In the living room, where our old, sagging sofa had once stood, now sat a huge white leather sofa. My feet sank into the thick carpet, and a giant plasma TV hung on the wall. Every object screamed money, a wealth that our simple family had never possessed.

Marina emerged from the room. I wouldn’t have recognized her if I’d bumped into her on the street. Instead of a simple girl in a cotton dress, I saw a socialite standing before me. Perfect hair, an expensive silk dress that hugged her figure, bright makeup. And a cold, appraising gaze. Seeing me standing there in my faded uniform, carrying a battered army backpack, she froze for a moment.

“Oh, Lesha, you’re back!” she said, and I heard more surprise than joy in her voice. “But you didn’t warn me!”
“Surprise,” I replied hoarsely, unable to tear my eyes away from this new, unfamiliar woman. I stepped toward her to hug her, but she made a barely perceptible movement back, as if afraid I’d stain her dress.

“Come on in, what are you standing there for?” she said fussily. “Come on, I’ll feed you.”
She led me into the kitchen, which now resembled the set of a cooking show—all shiny metal and glossy glass. She pulled some exotic delicacies out of the huge, humming refrigerator and began heating something up in the microwave. I sat down at the glass table, feeling like an uninvited guest, an exhibit in a museum of someone else’s life. I glanced around the room, trying to find even one familiar detail, but everything had been swept clean.

“Where’s Mom?” I finally asked, and the question hung in the sterile air.
Marina, without turning around, answered too quickly and smoothly: “Mom’s at Aunt Vera’s, in the village. Her blood pressure fluctuates, so I sent her out into the fresh air, away from the bustle of the city. There’s a river and a forest there; she’s better off there.”
Aunt Vera, my mother’s cousin, did indeed live in a remote village. It sounded plausible. But something in her tone, in the way she avoided my gaze, made me tense.

“Why didn’t she tell me? I called last week.”
“Oh, well, you know what she’s like,” she babbled, setting the plates on the table. “I didn’t want to worry you before she got back. And the connection there is terrible; she can’t always get through.”
I looked at her perfectly manicured hands and didn’t recognize them. These hands couldn’t belong to my Marina, who once dug in the garden with me and wasn’t afraid to get her fingers dirty.

After dinner, when I couldn’t get enough food down my throat, I said I was tired and wanted to take a walk around the house. I went up to the second floor, Marina following me closely. Our bedroom had been transformed into a hotel suite, with a huge bed and a mirrored ceiling. I walked past and opened the door to my mother’s room.

My heart skipped a beat. The room was empty. Not just empty—it had been converted into a walk-in closet. Along the walls stood shelves filled with shoe boxes and hangers holding countless dresses, blouses, and fur coats. The air was thick with the scent of new leather and mothballs.