At first, it seemed everything was as before: the old stove, the creaking floor. But as soon as I went up to the attic, a horrifying scene opened before my eyes. In the corner stood a wardrobe.
When I opened it, chills ran down my spine: my grandmother’s clothes — her neat dresses, warm sweaters, her favorite embroidered blouse — were torn, dirty, some even slashed with a knife. In a sack lay her broken glasses and a shattered cup she had always used for tea. I was trembling, unable to believe my eyes.
Only one thought kept pounding in my head: who could have done this? And then the neighbor, who had followed me into the house, said:
— He came here drunk. He screamed, punched the walls with his fists, and took out his anger on your grandmother.
She never complained, but I heard everything… You’re wrong to think he’s so caring. Terror gripped me. All this time, I had been living with a man who humiliated and tormented the person dearest to me in the whole world.
I felt the ground slipping away beneath my feet.
