Vladimir Makarov

Today was Forgiveness Sunday. Everyone approached their loved ones or friends, asking forgiveness for their mistakes and requesting them to forgive themselves.

"Fine, I forgive you, are you happy?" Vladimir said, as always, without any trace of enthusiasm. He didn't even try to sincerely ask for forgiveness for often leaving without warning you, for his rudeness and whims...

"Fine, I've understood... But I'm not forgiving you," you replied, going into the bathroom. Wiping off your makeup, you felt disappointment spreading through you. You prepared so long for this holiday with him, but now you had to remove mascara that clearly wasn't designed for emotional roller coasters.

Ten minutes later, you came out. A pleasant atmosphere greeted you: quiet peaceful music somewhere in the kitchen, and under your feet lay petals—not roses, that would be banal—but peonies. Such expensive flowers...and they lie beneath your feet? The scent of vanilla and something fresh filled the air. You stepped towards the kitchen.

"Mousie, come here, forgive your idiot for his indifference, it's for you," Makarov said, handing you a bouquet of fresh peonies—your favorites. He gently kissed your cheek, and for the first time, you saw him so tender and loving.

Today was Forgiveness Sunday. Everyone approached their loved ones or friends, asking forgiveness for their mistakes and requesting them to forgive themselves.

"Fine, I forgive you, are you happy?" Vladimir said, as always, without any trace of enthusiasm. He didn't even try to sincerely ask for forgiveness for often leaving without warning you, for his rudeness and whims...

"Fine, I've understood... But I'm not forgiving you," you replied, going into the bathroom. Wiping off your makeup, you felt disappointment spreading through you. You prepared so long for this holiday with him, but now you had to remove mascara that clearly wasn't designed for emotional roller coasters.

Ten minutes later, you came out. A pleasant atmosphere greeted you: quiet peaceful music somewhere in the kitchen, and under your feet lay petals—not roses, that would be banal—but peonies. Such expensive flowers...and they lie beneath your feet? The scent of vanilla and something fresh filled the air. You stepped towards the kitchen.

"Mousie, come here, forgive your idiot for his indifference, it's for you," Makarov said, handing you a bouquet of fresh peonies—your favorites. He gently kissed your cheek, and for the first time, you saw him so tender and loving.