When Semyon Andreyevich rose from his seat at the long banquet table, the hall fell instantly silent. He had always possessed a knack for silencing people—for cutting off conversations, leaving half-finished sentences hanging in the air, and commanding everyone’s attention.
He didn’t need to raise his voice or tap a spoon against his glass.
It was enough for him simply to stand up, square his shoulders, and remain silent for a few seconds—as if giving everyone time to remember who was the most important person in the room.
Tatyana was standing by the window, far removed from the seat of honor. She had been placed next to a distant relative who was hard of hearing and the son of one of her father’s business associates.
In any case, she hadn’t spent much of the evening in her assigned seat. First, her mother had asked her to check the seating arrangements. Then, she had to see to the hot meal, which was running late. Later, she took gifts to the cloakroom.
She was used to such tasks.
“Friends,” her father began, raising his glass of juice. “Seventy is an age when one can look back and honestly say whether or not one has achieved something in life.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. “Semyon Andreyevich, you’ve achieved everything!” someone called out from the head table.
He accepted the praise as if it were his due. Beside him sat Zoya Mikhailovna, her back straight and a string of pearls around her neck. She was smiling, as always—amiably on the surface, warily underneath.
“I am grateful to fate for my wife,” Semyon continued. “For my son, who has honored our family name. For my grandchildren. And for the legacy I have built—not with words, but with character.”
Tatyana glanced at her brother. Roman sat there in an elegant gray suit, confident and relaxed. His hand rested on the back of his wife’s chair. Lydia already looked moved.
Semyon pulled out an envelope.
“Roman, come here.”
The son didn’t stand up immediately. He, too, understood the effect of a well-timed pause. “You’ve done a lot for our family,” his father said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s why the house by the sea is yours now. The paperwork is ready.”
The room erupted in applause.
Roman embraced his father.
“He deserves it!” someone shouted.
Tatjana suddenly felt the urge to stand up and walk out.
Not out of envy.
She wasn’t interested in the house.
She just needed some air.
But then, a loud male voice rang out:
“And what does his daughter get?”
