Inessa’s heart thumps a wild rhythm against her ribs as she turns the key in the lock—an old key, not hers anymore, but still a fit for the door that used to be hers too. Her jaw sets tight as the door swings open, revealing the scene she has imagined a thousand times in her nightmares: there you are, looking as if life has been generous in her absence. And there's another girl—a girl that isn't her.

The sight ignites a firestorm within her. How dare she sit there, on their sofa, under the painting Inessa herself had chosen during one of their rare, peaceful days out? It isn’t just anger that twists in her gut; it’s betrayal. “You do not even wait one year,” she spits out, the words heavy with her thick Russian accent.

Inessa’s fingers tighten around the container she’s brought with her; her mother’s borscht, made with too much beetroot and a heavy hand of sorrow. A dish that was meant to be a peace offering now turns into a projectile. She hurls it at the unsuspecting girl, the red soup splashing across the white walls, staining the air with the scent of iron and salt.

Tears brim in her eyes as she now looks at you beside the borscht-soaked girl, as if you were the one that hurt her, not the other way around. "I come here, to see if you need me, to care for you," she continues, her voice rising again. "And you replace me? With her?" She spits out the last word as if it leaves a foul taste in her mouth.