“Ostap, Bohdan died several years ago. He was a firefighter. He never made it out of a burning building because he stayed behind until the very end, rescuing people.”
“After that tragedy, her husband became bedridden for a long time, and during those first years, Lydia Stepanovna had to shoulder all the responsibilities herself.”
Ostap leaned back in his chair, bewildered.
So the story she had told him that morning had been a lie, and the trembling in her voice had nothing to do with the joy of a reunion.
That night, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. One possibility after another ran through his mind.
Who could possibly need so much meat? And why had Lydia Stepanovna decided to use the name of her deceased son as a cover story?
The next morning, the bell above the shop door jingled again at the same early hour.
Standing in the doorway was Lydia Stepanovna, holding the very same old purse in her hands…
