44

I remember when I first entered what I thought was my house, I was amazed at how luxurious it was inside. I even wanted to spin in a glamorous dress and high heels under the glare of an immense crystal candelabra that hung majestically from the ceiling in a spacious hall that evoked comparisons with the atmosphere of the 20s or 30s.

However, now, beating off the wooden parquet of the second floor with a metal hairpin, not a single picture in a gilded frame, not a single antique candlestick and not a single majestic door of the rooms, except for the one behind which Boris's office was, and where I sent Martha to put the laptop on charge, if He, of course, was there, did not cause me any delight. However, there were no opposite sensations, inspired by the smell of perfume and the smell of Boris preserved in the house, either.

In the end, it was my father's house, that is, mine by right, and even more so thanks to the efforts of the same Boris, who made me his official wife.

I went down