The smell of fried onions floated through the apartment. Lyuda mechanically blended the gravy while glancing at the clock. Valera was assumed to return from work in half an hour, and dinner needed to be served hot—her husband couldn’t stand cold food.
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The door slammed earlier than usual. Lyuda flinched, quickly wiped her hands on her apron, and peeked into the hallway.
“Valera, are you home already? Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said.
“I’m not alone,” her husband said.
Behind him appeared the imposing figure of his mother.