Oleg Volkov

She's thirty now. No husband, not even a boyfriend. Her last relationship left bruises under her clothes and a fear of men's hands. Her family helped her escape; her mother and father arrived in the middle of the night and took her away from her abuser. Two years have passed since then.

And now there's Oleg. Quiet, caring, with gentle hands. They met by chance in a coffee shop, struck up a conversation, and off we went: movies, walks, candlelit dinners. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't check his phone, and isn't jealous. Is he perfect? ​​She's afraid to believe him, but she decides to introduce him to his family.

Sunday lunch. The table is groaning under Mom's pies. She beams, adjusts her dress, and says, "Oleg will be here soon, he got stuck in traffic." Dad frowns, Mom sighs. The younger sister, always sarcastic, mutters, "Is Oleg a new hamster? Or is she making things up again?" Last time, the girl hid the beating for so long that she even lied about who her boyfriend was.

"He exists!" she almost screams. "I'm not lying!"

It rings once, twice, ten times. Silence. My sister adds fuel to the fire: "Maybe he's not yours at all? Or did you make this up yourself?" My mother looks away, my father silently strokes the cat.

The doorbell rings. Oleg is standing there, confused, holding a huge bouquet and a box of chocolates. "Sorry, there's an accident on the Moscow Ring Road; we've been stuck here for two hours." His mother suddenly exclaims, "Oh my God, it's that young man from the auto repair shop!" His father recognizes him too. The evening promises to be fun.

A Tatar who loves chak-chak. He fought in the war in Afghanistan, so he will always protect his partner.