When Valentina married Artyom

usband took his wife, exhausted by illness, to a remote wilderness… And a year later he returned for her property.
When Valentina married Artyom, she was only twenty-two. Young, bright, with wide eyes and a dream of a home smelling of fresh pies, children’s laughter, and comfort. She believed this was her destiny. He was older, more reserved, less talkative—but in his silence she felt a sense of support. Or so she thought then.

From the very first day, her mother-in-law greeted her with caution. Her gaze said it all: “You’re no match for my son.” Valya tried her best—cleaning, cooking, trying to accommodate. But it still wasn’t real. Either the borscht was too runny, or the laundry wasn’t hung correctly, or she looked at her husband with love too often. It was irritating.

Artyom remained silent. He grew up in a family where his mother’s word was law. He never spoke against her, and Valya tolerated it. Even when she began to feel weak, when her appetite disappeared, and simply getting out of bed became a struggle, she chalked it all up to fatigue. She would never have guessed that an incurable evil was growing within her.

The diagnosis came suddenly. Late stage. Inoperable. The doctors shook their heads. That night, Valya cried into her pillow, hiding the pain from her husband. In the morning, she smiled again, ironed shirts, cooked soup, and listened to her mother-in-law’s nagging. But Artyom became increasingly distant. His gaze no longer sought hers, and his voice sounded cold.

One day his mother-in-law came to him and quietly said:

“You’re young, you have a long life ahead of you. And with this one… she’s just a burden. Why do you need her? Take her to the village, to Aunt Dunya. It’s quiet there, no one will judge you. You’ll rest. And then you’ll start a new life.”

He didn’t answer. But the very next day, he silently gathered her things, helped her into the car, and drove her into the interior of the country—to where the roads ended and time passed slowly.