In her hands, she held a small package.
“May I come in?” she asked, for the first time ever, waiting to be invited.
Irina nodded.
“I baked a pie,” she said softly. “Your mom’s recipe. The one you always loved.”
They sat together in the kitchen.
The silence, for once, felt gentle.
“I’ve thought a lot,” Tamara finally said. “You were right. I forgot what it’s like to be a young wife under constant scrutiny.
I overstepped.”
She looked up. “Can we start over? With more kindness?”
From then on, Sundays changed.
Visits became warmer, quieter. Calls were made in advance. Advice came softly, if at all.
And Irina — at last — felt like the true mistress not only of her home, but of her life.
