— Alina, darling, could you please not embarrass us in front of my friends? That blouse looks like you bought it at a flea market.
— It’s new, Igor. Just not designer.
I twirl in front of the mirror, trying to understand what’s wrong with the cream-colored blouse. I bought it just a week ago — to me, it’s an elegant piece. But Igor stares at it like I’m wearing a sackcloth.
Strange to remember how two years ago he got down on one knee with a ring. His eyes sparkled, his voice trembled with emotion.
And now? Contempt in every gesture, as if he woke up from a love-induced haze and saw who he really married.
— I think I made a strategic mistake, — Igor twirls a crystal glass filled with amber liquid between his fingers. — I married someone from the wrong circle and now wonder why you don’t fit in.
Everything inside me tightens, but I keep a straight face. Silently, I change the blouse and pull out a black dress — his gift for my last birthday.
A dress that costs as much as my mother’s monthly teacher’s salary in our tiny hometown.
On the way to Igor’s parents, we stay silent. Their estate is a real nouveau riche palace: turrets, stained glass, gates with monograms.
The driveway is lined with century-old oaks. On the steps — Viktor, Igor’s father, the embodiment of success in a cashmere sweater.
— Ah, here come the newlyweds! — Viktor pats his son on the shoulder. — How’s business going?
— Great, Dad. We’re expanding.
Igor works in the family business — a major publishing house his parents founded twenty years ago. Now it’s the most influential in the region. I work there too, as an editor. That’s how we met.
At dinner, the conversation once again shifts to money. Elena proudly talks about the new art collection they’ve acquired. Viktor boasts that they’ll soon be opening a branch in the neighboring region.
— And how are your parents, Alinochka? — Elena asks with a barely noticeable smirk. — Still living… modestly?
— Yes, they’re happy with what they have, — I reply calmly, though I’m clenching inside.
— That’s because they don’t know what real life is, — Igor cuts in. — Trust me, if they did, they wouldn’t be stuck in that shack.
Everyone laughs. Even the maid clearing the plates allows herself a smirk.
After dinner, we sit in the living room. Viktor shows photos from their Maldives vacation. Igor’s eyes devour the yachts and palm trees in the pictures, while I feel like I’m being struck by lightning.
Sitting among these smug faces, in the midst of all this gaudy luxury, I suddenly feel the falseness of every square inch of their life.
Where did all this come from? Business from thin air? A fortune materializing out of nowhere during the hungriest years? According to Grandma, everyone barely scraped by in the ’90s.
— How did you start your business? — I ask, surprising even myself.
Viktor and Elena exchange glances. Something flickers in their eyes — worry? fear?
— The usual way, — Viktor replies curtly. — Hard work. Not like some people who are used to holding out their hand.
The jab at my family is obvious. But right now, I’m interested in something else. Why do they never talk about their past?
Why are there no photos of their first printing press? Why do they avoid talking about the ’90s?
In the car on the way home, Igor starts again:
— See how normal people live? And yours… God, your mother still knits mittens to sell.
— Because teachers in our town earn peanuts. And those mittens helped pay for my education.
— Oh, come on! — he waves it off. — Poverty is forever. It’s in the blood. If your folks were smarter, they’d have left that dump long ago. But sorry, just speaking the truth. You’re doing great, though — you’re growing, I love you.
I look out the window at the city lights flashing by, and unexpectedly make a decision. Enough.
It’s time to find out where my husband’s family fortune really came from. And why Grandma’s business — profitable and well-established — suddenly collapsed in the mid-’90s, when I was only five.
I remember how we moved from a spacious apartment to a leaky Khrushchyovka.
Grandma never liked digging into the past.
Only sometimes, braiding my hair before bed, she would let bitter words slip: “Remember, Alinochka, an expensive jacket doesn’t mean a noble soul. And behind almost every villa with a pool lies the story of someone’s broken dreams.”
The library greeted me with the smell of old newspapers and dust. The archive section was in a semi-basement room — a small space with metal shelves and one computer, where a librarian in her sixties was playing solitaire.
— I need city newspapers from 1995 to 1997, — I said. — And any information on a company called ‘Pechatny Dom’ (Printing House).
The woman looked up, giving me a long once-over.
— Why do you need that, dear? That’s ancient history.
— Coursework on the economic history of the region.
The lie slipped out easily. I didn’t even fully understand what I was looking for. I just knew that Grandma had owned a print shop and small packaging production. And then suddenly lost everything.
And my husband’s family business began right around that time. I didn’t know that before, but now, something was starting to make sense.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at a table, flipping through yellowed pages of local newspapers. 1995 — ads, news, interviews with “new Russians.”
And then — a small article about “Pechatny Dom” owned by Maria Serova, my grandmother. “Despite difficult times, the enterprise maintains its reputation. High-quality printing and packaging production even allow for staff expansion…”
I flip further. A few more mentions, even a photo — Grandma in a sharp suit next to a new printing machine.
Young, beautiful, confident. Nothing like the worn-out woman I remembered.
I move on to 1996. February — the last advertisement for “Pechatny Dom.” April — a short news item: “Local enterprise changes ownership due to financial difficulties.”
June — a job posting: “Printing company ‘Bumazhny List’ (formerly ‘Pechatny Dom’) is hiring…”
“Bumazhny List”? I pull out my phone and google it. Nothing. A company with that name no longer exists. But something clicks in my memory.
In Igor’s office, in his cabinet, there’s an old certificate in a frame. “For contributions to the development of printing” — awarded to the company “Bumazhny List” by the city administration.
With trembling fingers, I open the 1997 newspapers. And there it is — a small article with a photo. “A new publishing house has opened in our city.”
In the photo — a young Viktor and Elena cutting a ribbon. The name of the publishing house — “Orioton.” The very same one where Igor and I work today.
— Didn’t find what you were looking for? — the librarian asked, noticing my stunned expression.
— On the contrary, — I whisper. — Even more than I expected.
I walk out onto the street with shaky legs. Fragments of phrases swirl in my head. “You’re from poverty,” “Some people are just used to handouts.” And Grandma’s: “Behind every fortune lies someone’s tear.”