On December 28, Nadia opened the bedside drawer. The envelope was gone. One hundred fifty thousand hryvnias. Their savings for the kitchen renovation—her pay from the children’s art classes, the rare painting sales, months of putting anything aside.
Oleg was sitting on the couch. “Where’s the money? ”
“I gave it to Pavel. He’ll pay it back.
”
“Without asking me? ”
“Nadia. He’s my brother. ”
“And I’m what?
”
He looked at her as if the question didn’t even make sense. “That’s our money,” she said. “Half of it is mine. From paintings.
From the studio. ”
“You said your income isn’t stable. I bring home the main salary. ”
Their son Artem opened his door, looked at both of them, and closed it again.
Nadia went to the kitchen. The floor tile was cracked. They had laid it together nine years ago, laughing. Nothing was funny now.
Before the full-scale invasion, she painted landscapes and portraits. Oleg called it a nice hobby. When the war came, she painted Mariupol—buildings without walls, a woman carrying a pot through a ruined street, a boy sleeping in a basement with a backpack. Seventeen paintings in two months.
She sent them to galleries, journalists. Most ignored her. One German journalist, Klaus Weber, put a paragraph and two photos in an article. Oleg said, “Well done,” then suggested she find something more stable.
She kept painting. The next days, they lived side by side. She decorated for the holiday. Lights, pine branches, candles.
On New Year’s Eve, guests arrived. The table was set: plates, candles. No food. Pavel stopped in the doorway.
“Nadia, where’s the festive table? Are you fasting? ”
“Pizza is coming. ”
“Pizza?
” He turned to Oleg. Oleg shrugged. “She’s in her own world. Paintings.
”
Pavel grinned. “At least it doesn’t smell of paint. ”
Sergey laughed. Then Dmitry.
Natalia smiled and looked away. Little Vera asked, “Mama, will there be Olivier? ” Olga hushed her and gave Nadia a look worse than words. Pavel went to the hallway and called a restaurant.
The walls were thin. “Send it to this address. Olivier, chicken, whatever you have. I’ll pay.
”
He came back satisfied. “Don’t worry, Nadia. I’ll pay. ”
Nadia pulled Oleg into the kitchen.
“He just ordered food in our house and said he’d pay. With the card you put our money on? ”
“He’ll pay it back. ”
“Tell him that money is also mine.
Tell him I earned it with paintings. ”
She went back out. Pavel was in the hallway. He had heard.
“Nadia, I didn’t know. I thought it was his. ”
“He thinks that too,” she said. “How much did he give you?
”
“One fifty. ”
“For how long? ”
“No deadline. When I can.
”
The pizza came, then the restaurant order. Cardboard boxes and plastic containers with tinsel between them. Everyone ate and drank. Pavel tried to be loud, but kept glancing at Nadia.
Sergey lifted his glass. “Nadia, next year will you make the Olivier? Or will you be in your artistic world again? ”
Oleg didn’t stop him.
Nadia stood up. “This year taught me something. There are people who see me, and there are people who look through me. I thought that was normal.
It isn’t. ”
She raised her glass. “Happy New Year. ”
No one clinked.
Artem was standing in the doorway. “Mom. It’s not the first time. ”
“Artem, go to your room,” Oleg said.
But Artem went on. “Last summer, thirty-five thousand disappeared from your card. Dad said he lent it to Uncle Pavel for a week. For his car.
He never paid it back. ”
The room went silent. Nadia looked at her son. He stood straight, voice steady.
He looked like her. “Did it come back? ” she asked Oleg. Oleg said nothing.
“No,” Artem said. “I would know. ”
Nadia looked out the window. Vinnytsia was lighting up for New Year.
“I’m sorry,” she told the guests. “Happy New Year. ”
She went to the bedroom and closed the door softly. Not with anger.
With tiredness. The guests left. Pavel said at the door, “I’ll return everything. ” Artem cleared the table.
Oleg washed the dishes. Nadia lay in the dark. She was forty-one. She didn’t know what her own life would look like without this apartment, without this man.
Oleg came to bed. “Why are you making such a big deal about the money? ”
“Tonight you said I live in my own world. You smiled when they joked.
You let Pavel buy food in our house. That’s how you see me. ”
“They were jokes. ”
“For you.
For me, that’s how you really see me. You never thought my painting was work. That’s why you took the money without asking. ”
He said nothing.
She whispered into the dark: “God, help me. I can’t live like this. ”
On New Year’s morning, Oleg was in a bad mood. He banged the refrigerator door, said he had overtime, and left.
The apartment went quiet. The bathroom faucet dripped. Her phone buzzed. +49.
Germany. “Good day. I’m looking for Nadia Kovalenko, the artist. ”
“Speaking.
”
“My name is Klaus Weber. We corresponded in 2022. Your paintings have received serious attention. A Munich gallery—Stadtraum—wants to invite you to exhibit this spring.
They cover everything. ”
Nadia looked out the window. “I need to think. ”
“Of course.
You have until the end of the week. ”
She ended the call. Then she called back. “Klaus.
I accept. ”
That evening she told Oleg. “I’ve been invited to an exhibition in Munich. Do you want to come?
”
“Munich? Who’s waiting for you there? It’s probably a scam. ”
“It’s a real gallery.
They pay for my paintings. ”
“Go. Just don’t ask me to cry from happiness. ”
“Will you come?
”
“No. I have work. Not everyone paints and calls it a career. ”
She went to Artem’s room.
“Will you come with me? ”
He looked up from his book. “Yes, Mom. Of course.
”
The gallery in Munich was an old building with high ceilings, white walls, creaking floors. Nadia hung her paintings herself and stood in the middle of the room. Mariupol. Bucha.
The girl with the backpack on the ruined street. The director came up to her. “It’s very strong. People will stand and say nothing.
”
More people came than expected. A woman stood a long time in front of the girl with the backpack, then wiped her eyes and moved on. Artem stood next to Nadia. “Mom.
This is incredible. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry. ”
She took his hand.
Klaus wrote a long article with photographs and an interview. Orders started coming by email. First one. Then another.
Steady. Nadia understood: this was her work. Not a hobby. Not “her own world.
” Telling the world what was happening in Ukraine. They returned in May. Oleg was cold. “You’re back.
Good. ” Then he went to the TV. Nadia made coffee and sat at the table with the cracked tile under her feet. She called a lawyer.
The next morning, she filed for divorce. Oleg didn’t object. They stayed in the same apartment, like neighbors. One evening, Oleg was flipping channels.
A report on contemporary art. Artists documenting the war in Ukraine. And then Nadia was on the screen. Munich.
Her paintings. She was speaking calmly, with a slight smile. Looking happy. Oleg threw his phone at the television.
The screen cracked. Artem came out. “Dad? ”
“Nothing.
Go to your room. ”
The boy closed the door. On the cracked screen, Nadia’s face held for a few seconds.
Then the image went dark.
