My wife used to call me a "savage" because I refused to have any "refined" feelings for art—specifically, for the avant-garde plays at her theater.
In my view, their theater was a bit too avant-garde. Some of the things they staged were hard to even categorize as art. They called it a "liberated perspective" or "contemporary vision." That kind of vision made my skin crawl, while my wife, Laura, was appalled by my supposed thick-skinned insensitivity.
"How can someone have such an amputated perception of creativity?" she’d exclaim. "Especially when it comes to the stage! This is theater, for heaven’s sake! It’s not some mass-market movie. You have to feel it!"
"Laura, I don’t just fail to feel this surrealism—I don’t understand it at all. I’m sorry, but I can’t call this... activity... art. It’s beyond my comprehension."
"Typical. Like I said—a savage. You’re untamable. A total bear!" Laura would huff.
At the time, I was a department head at a major pharmaceutical plant, running the quality control lab for biological products.
Our lab was massive; it wasn't just a few floors, it spanned four entire buildings. The company was doing well, so the facilities were state-of-the-art, looking more like something out of NASA than a factory. I managed the whole operation and dressed the part: a solid man in expensive suits and ties that once cost more than my entire monthly salary starting out. I had a company car and a driver, though I usually preferred to take the wheel myself.
Of course, I’d started at the very bottom. Even though I had my degree back then, I’d taken a job as a junior lab tech because there wasn't anything else. I had to start from zero just to get a foot in the door. I didn't have connections or family favors to fall back on. I climbed the ladder rung by rung, working overtime while finishing my PhD. I fought for every inch. I went to every seminar, every symposium, every certification course—soon enough, I had enough diplomas to wallpaper a room. You don't get promoted just for showing up; you have to show the board real results, patents, and publications.
Meanwhile, Laura continued to shine in her beloved avant-garde theater, and surprisingly, she was a hit. The critics wrote about her, and she even appeared on a few talk shows to give interviews about "the new frontier of modern performance."
When I bought my first car, I decided to go big: a top-of-the-line SUV. Black, massive, and gleaming—a big boy’s toy, a dream I’d had for years. I was as giddy as a schoolboy. My chest felt like it was going to burst with pride.
When I drove that shiny beast down to the rural outskirts to visit my mother, I pulled into the driveway just as my sister, Vera, was coming out onto the porch with a pot of soup. They were setting the table under the oak tree for lunch. Nearby, a rooster was circling the table, eye cocked, looking for a chance to hop up and peck at something. Usually, he’d be shooed away, but everyone was frozen. Vera stood there, mouth hanging open. Then my mother came out, squinting against the sun to see who this wealthy stranger was in the fancy car. Finally, her husband, Bill, poked his head out and let out a startled hiccup.
Then I stepped out of the SUV.
"Hey! It’s just me! Surprised?"
Vera dropped the pot. It tumbled down the steps, splashing hot soup everywhere. Our dog, Buster, went into a fit of hysterical barking until he was hoarse. The rooster changed his mind about the table and bolted behind the shed to vent to the hens. My relatives were shell-shocked. You’d think they would be happy for me, but no. Once the shock wore off, Vera looked at me with something close to pure hatred.
"Well, look at you! Look who’s come to visit! Come to show off your riches to the poor folk, have you? I guess we’re just 'the help' now, huh?"
Vera spun around and marched inside, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. My mother just shook her head, pressing her hand to her mouth in a sorrowful gesture. I stood there, stunned. I’d suspected my sister might be a little jealous, but I hadn't realized that while she was struggling in the middle of nowhere, my success would feel like an insult. I hadn't expected such naked, raw resentment.
My mother didn't hate me, of course, but she did scold me.
"Oh, son... it’s not right to flaunt it like that in front of family. Not everyone has what you have."
"I didn't think, Mom. I’m sorry. I thought we’d celebrate together, but I guess I blew it."
"My boy grew up, got rich, became a boss... but he didn't grow any wiser," she sighed.
She hugged me, and I held her tight. I realized then how small she’d become—smaller than I remembered. It was especially noticeable now that I’d filled out. Mom, oh Mom...
By evening, Vera had thawed out enough to talk to me normally. Then, predictably, she started buttering me up for money.
"We can’t seem to finish the new house. You think I can save anything with Bill’s habits? The walls have been sitting there for three years, nothing’s moved. I managed to scrape enough for the roof—hidden from Bill, mind you—but there’s still windows, doors, flooring... we need to hire a crew to actually build it. Give us the money for the construction, will you? We’ll pay you back eventually. Little by little, you know?"
Oh, Vera. Always the fox. I knew for a fact that almost all the money I sent Mom ended up in Vera’s pockets. And I sent plenty! But it was like pouring water into sand—it just vanished. Eventually, I’d had to set boundaries, sending Mom only enough for specific things: heating, groceries, animal feed.
I bought my mother’s clothes and shoes myself, knowing she’d never buy them for herself, content to wear rags while giving her "extra" pennies to her sister and that deadbeat husband. It remained a mystery to me where all that money went, since Vera never seemed to have a dime to show for it.
Bill probably drank most of it. Giving those two money was like tossing it down an abandoned well—no result, no trace, no benefit.
Years ago, when I first moved to the city for college, I’d invited Vera to join me. By my second year, I was working two jobs and keeping my grades up so I wouldn't lose my scholarship. I sent Mom money even then—not much, but I did what I could. I’d even offered to help Bill get a job at the plant and find them a place in the company housing. From there, it would have been up to him.
I’d made it work, after all. I planned to claw my way up from the bottom, and I did. Но they didn't want to. Vera wouldn't go, saying she couldn't leave Bill alone or some other woman would "snatch him up." Better to stay where things were easy, taking no responsibility, and just waiting for a handout.
And then drinking it away. That was the most foolish part of all.
So, Vera and I had it out. I explained the situation as clearly as I could, and I said no. I told her what I’d always said: I’d help them find work, but I wasn't going to carry the whole family on my back. They were healthy, capable adults; they could work.
"Vera, you have to understand! This money doesn't fall from the sky. I have a family too, remember? Laura won’t even come down here anymore because she’s afraid of you—the second she walks in, you’re asking for money. I’m used to it, but she isn't."
"As if I’ve asked for that much!" Vera snapped. "As if you’ve given so much!"
I sighed.
"Anyway, I don't have it right now, especially not enough for a whole house. I’m still paying off our apartment. And now the car."
At the mention of the car, Vera hissed like a cat. She bolted from the table, knocking her plate to the floor, and flew out of the house like a fury, slamming the door again. Before she left, she screamed one last thing at me:
"Fine! Choke on your money then! You greedy, selfish prick!"
So that’s how it went.
I’d helped for years, and it was never enough—I was still the selfish one.
The next day, the neighbors started trickling into the yard. It started with small talk—how’s life, how are you holding up, how’s your "big shot" son doing in the city? Then came the ask.
"Tell us, since your son is such a rich gentleman with such a fancy car, he must have plenty to spare! If he can afford to beat up a luxury SUV on these backroads just to visit, surely he has a little extra..." One after another, they all had the same request: a "loan."
One needed firewood, another a new roof, another a fence.
And they all promised to pay me back "when they could." My mother just looked at me helplessly. I’d forgotten that in her small town, you don't refuse a neighbor’s request, even if it’s blatant extortion. I asked them directly: why should I give them anything? Their logic was ironclad:
"But you’re one of us! We knew you when you were this high! And now you have so much! You’re a rich man now! Look at that car you’re driving! You probably have bags of cash sitting at home!"
That damn car. It was like a bone stuck in everyone's throat.
I tried to explain that I was buried in debt myself, but nobody was listening. They didn't take the rejection well; they were all offended. And they took it out on my mother, too. I regretted bringing the SUV. I should have taken the train and walked from the station like I used to. Instead, I’d alienated my family and the whole town.
So much for showing off.
***
My wife continued to perform in her plays. And she continued to tell me I was a "savage" who lacked a sense of beauty. She kept pushing for more material things; what we had was never enough. By then, we had a spacious apartment downtown and cars for both of us. We vacationed in Greece or Italy every summer. Laura developed a taste for fur coats, buying them in Europe or at the high-end boutiques in the city. She draped herself in jewelry.
We didn't need to save for the apartment—it was great: big, comfortable, perfect location. New furniture, everything... but...
"But we need to start looking for a house! We can’t keep living in this 'ant farm' forever! And I need a new mink coat for the winter—something soft, silver-blue, very fashionable..."
And why only vacation in the summer? Apparently, the "chic" thing to do was to fly to the tropics for New Year’s—leaving the slushy, grey city for the sun and exotic fruit. Laura grew tired of yellow gold; she started buying white gold and diamonds. She didn't want to look like a "plebeian" in rubies anymore.
And God forbid I disagreed.
The only thing Laura refused was having children.
"Where would we put a child right now? Not for at least five years. It’ll ruin my figure! And what about the stage? What about my career?"
I started remembering, with a strange ache, how much I used to love open spaces, animals, the river, the woods.
A campfire, the smell of fresh fish stew in a cast-iron pot, the sound of crickets and a sky full of stars like spilled diamonds on black velvet. My wife only loved the city—the noise, the lights, the frantic movement of the metropolis. She hated the countryside and suffered if she was more than ten minutes away from a Starbucks. I’d always loved the quiet. I’d even paid out of pocket to install soundproof windows in my office because it faced a six-lane highway. By then, I was teaching at the university, having finished my doctorate. My mother was secretly proud of me, but my sister and Bill just tapped their temples and called me "the dreamer."
"What’s wrong with that dreamer?" they’d say. "Does he want all the money in the world? He should just give us enough to finish the roof!"
Laura loved the noise, the chaos, the theater! The shows, the press, the fans asking for autographs...
"Laura, can we just go to the mountains for once? Just for a week? I need some peace. I’m tired of the traffic and the smog. I just want to catch some fish, cook over a fire, and listen to the crickets in the dark. It would be perfect."
"There you go again. Like I said—a savage. Ugh! The mosquitoes, the tents... it sounds horrific. Absolutely not!"
***
And then, one day, I lost my mind.
I quit everything. I resigned from the plant and the university, packed a rucksack, and moved to the wilderness. I became a forest ranger. Everything I’d achieved, I traded for the middle of nowhere and a tiny log cabin with one window. No one understood. Not my colleagues, not the university, not the people back home. Not a single soul supported me. Even my mother just shook her head, pressing her thin hand to her mouth.
Laura demanded a divorce. Despite the fact that she got everything—even my expensive suits and English leather shoes that I didn't take with me—she cursed me the whole way out.
"You coward! You loser! You hit forty and your brain just leaked out of your ears! A ranger? I hope the wolves get you! I hope you rot out there!"
And so on. What could I do? I accepted it. I gave her the divorce; we didn't have a future anyway.
***
One time, a group of hikers was passing through my territory. Among them was a quiet woman, strange and pensive. For some reason, she stuck in my mind. I didn't even catch her name. I told the group I’d help them with directions and support, but I warned them—no hunting. They agreed; they weren't hunters, just travelers.
Somehow, that woman managed to get separated from the group and get lost. It was getting close to dark.
She wandered alone until she slipped off an embankment and fell into the river. She nearly drowned in the current, but she managed to snag a thick branch. She couldn't get out of the water on her own, and she couldn't call for help—she’d screamed until her voice was a raspy whisper. My dog, Bosun, found her. How he knew where to look is a mystery, but dogs have a sense for things we don't. He just bolted from the cabin into the trees. He found her by the river and then led me to her. He didn't bark; he was a man of few words, just like me.
Our silent procession headed back to the cabin: Bosun in the lead, then me with the woman in my arms. All three of us were silent. Bosun had a job to do, so there was no point in barking. I had a job to do: carrying a wet woman through the brush—not an easy task even for someone my size. And the woman, who was in total shock and shivering to the bone, was silent too.
I got her inside, stripped off her wet clothes, and rubbed her down with rubbing alcohol to get the circulation going and prevent pneumonia. Then I put her in my biggest, scratchiest wool sweater.
"It’s itchy," she rasped.
"It’s supposed to be. It’ll get the blood moving," I explained.
"Doctor?" she whispered.
"Not exactly. I’m a ranger. Но I know how to treat a chill." I didn't mention my past in pharmaceuticals. No point; that was another life.
I handed her a mug of hot herbal tea with honey and a spoonful of pine-cone preserves for good measure.
"Good," she whispered, coughing.
"Don't strain your voice. You won't have one for a few days if you do," I warned her. "Drink your tea and keep quiet."
Maybe it wasn't the most polite thing to say, but she understood and obediently sipped her tea. In silence.
She got sick anyway. She spent four days in a feverish haze—it would have been madness to try to walk her out of the woods in that state. We had no cell service. It was just the two of us, plus Bosun, cut off from the world.
It took another few days for her to get her strength back so she wasn't stumbling against the log walls. In that time, we talked. I told her about my past—how I’d been a "respected" man with titles and positions. And now, I was just this... hermit. All my degrees and accolades in the scientific world had vanished into thin air, hardly worth remembering.
But I didn't want anything else! This was real life. Everything back there was just noise.
As it turned out, the woman—Nadia—had been a business owner. She’d had a chain of coffee shops and her own small confectionery factory.
"So, a sweet woman?" I teased.
"I’m a bitter woman, not a sweet one," she answered darkly.
Nadia had been married for fourteen years to a man she realized she never actually knew. Much like me and Laura. I’d looked at her but never really saw her. It was like looking through a foggy mirror—you see one thing, but it’s something else entirely.
Nadia had a business and a dream: to have a child. But it never happened, despite years of treatments, specialists, and spending a fortune on clinics.
She never got pregnant. She and her husband even went to a fertility clinic that was—ironically—named "Hope."
They tried IVF four times. Every time, it failed. It was as if her body refused to accept anything from that man. Eventually, he said he was giving up. She begged him to try one more time. He said he was tired of wasting the money. She said, "To hell with the money! I have plenty of money! I just want a child!" She shouldn't have said that.
While she was focused on the doctors, her husband took her at her word. He cleared out her accounts, moved the money to offshore holdings, and filed for divorce. Nadia barely had enough left to settle her debts, and her business went under. Her partner bought out her remaining shares, giving her just enough for a fresh start somewhere else. Somewhere quiet, away from the betrayals.
She’d come to the mountains to see if she could find a place to settle—she’d always wanted to live among the pines. Then she’d fallen in the river and nearly died of pneumonia. Just her luck.
"So, like I said. A bitter woman," she repeated.
"Well... I happen to like bitter things. Dark chocolate, for instance," I said, quite seriously.
She just looked at me. She didn't say no.
***
The weather cleared, and her health returned, but Nadia didn't go back to her group. She sent word that she was fine, picked up her rucksack, and stayed at the ranger’s cabin.
Strangely enough, neither of us—despite years of living in luxury—minded the cramped cabin or the lack of amenities. We lived together as if we’d known each other forever. Or rather, the three of us did, with Bosun as part of our little family. Eventually, we had a talk.
Bosun was there, of course, watching us both intently.
"I’m thirty-five," she said. "I’m not exactly a spring chicken. Does that matter?"
"So what? I’m forty. And I’m broke... I’ve got nothing but this one-room cabin, Bosun, and a few thousand acres of wilderness."
"You’re just... passing through. Like me. We met by chance, and we’ll probably drift apart by chance. It probably won't work out. Unless..." She trailed off.
"I’m not letting go," I said. "I’m a savage, remember? But I’d even go back to civilization if that’s what you wanted. If you’d be happier there."
"Oh boy, look at him. So protective. I’m going to faint from the sentiment."
"I am protective. And responsible."
"Responsible? Well... that responsibility is going to come in handy. Because... I’m pregnant. With your little 'savage.'"
I swept her up into my arms and spun her around while she shrieked and kicked.
"Put me down, you bear! You’ll squish us! Me and the cub!"
"Never! I’m never letting go!" I laughed, spinning her again.
She closed her eyes, looking happy. Well—I guess I really am a savage.
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