«You should at least throw on a sarong; you’re scaring people with all that skin,» Vitalik drawled lazily. He flipped onto his stomach, kicking a spray of sand toward me. «Seriously, Mom, a string bikini at your age? What were you thinking?»
Dasha didn’t even look up from her phone. She just gave a silent nod, backing her husband up. I calmly adjusted my top, thinking back to my reflection in the mirror this morning. At fifty-two, the view was more than decent—I hadn’t been hitting the gym three times a week for nothing.
«Is there a problem?» I asked with icy composure, reaching for my sunscreen and ignoring his tone.
Vitalik let out a nasty, wheezing laugh, clearly enjoying the fact that he could get away with saying whatever he wanted.
«Well, the skin isn’t exactly a ‘peach’ anymore, Elena Petrovna. Gravity is a heartless mistress.»
He trailed off when he caught my heavy stare, but his arrogance didn’t fade. He felt like he ran the show. I had paid for this entire vacation: from the business-class flights to the very cocktail he was currently sipping through a straw with such self-importance. Vitalik had been in a three-year «complicated period of finding himself» while Dasha worked two jobs.
He spent his time «visualizing success» on the couch, occasionally demanding a change of scenery because he was exhausted from the «pressure at home.»
«Vitalik, maybe you could go get some water?» Dasha asked her husband quietly, almost apologetically.
«Yeah, right. Not in this heat. Let Mom go—the exercise will be good for her old joints.»
I stood up slowly, feeling a cold resolve bubbling up inside me. The beach was crowded and loud; the cries of seagulls mixed with the shouts of snack vendors, creating the perfect backdrop for my performance. I had specifically chosen this moment—peak hours, when the tourists were packed in like sardines.
«Look, Dasha, tell her! It’s embarrassing. People are staring!» Vitalik continued, intentionally raising his voice to draw an audience.
He loved playing to a crowd, fancying himself a charismatic orator and the life of the party. Heads began to turn. A pretty blonde on the next lounge chair even slid her sunglasses down her nose to get a better look.
«Vitalik, stop it,» Dasha hissed, trying to disappear into her towel.
«Stop what? I’m just telling the truth! Everything should be aesthetic!»
Without a word, I grabbed my beach bag and, in one fluid motion, shrugged off my sheer cover-up, standing there in my bright turquoise bikini. Vitalik actually propped himself up on one elbow to make sure his «witty» commentary reached the back rows.
«Gross! An old lady in a bikini!» he bellowed, laughing so hard he started pointing a finger at me.
I turned my back to him with regal dignity. In that exact second, his laughter cut off. Vitalik’s elbow slipped from the plastic armrest, and he face-planted into the sand with a thud, his legs twitching like a downed grasshopper.
He didn’t fall because of the joke. He fell because of the horror of what was written on my back.
Yesterday evening, I had visited a parlor on the boardwalk. The artist, a bearded guy named Nikita, had laughed until he cried while he spent thirty minutes applying the stencil with special long-lasting ink. He didn’t even charge me, claiming it was the «best show of the season.» He had done a masterful job. I stood with my back to my son-in-law, arching slightly so the black Gothic lettering was perfectly legible.
The message across my shoulder blades read: «VITALIK, YOUR MISTRESS SVETA IS WAITING FOR THE SAUNA PAYMENT. MOTHER-IN-LAW KNOWS EVERYTHING.»
And just below that, in slightly smaller but very readable font: «P.S. I BLOCKED THE VACATION FUNDS.»
A ringing silence hung over the beach, finally broken by someone’s loud, snorting laugh. Then the blonde in the sunglasses started howling, and a wave of laughter rolled through the crowd like the tide.
«Mom?» Dasha’s voice trembled.
I turned back around slowly to face my stunned relatives and the delighted public. Vitalik was flailing in the sand, trying to stand up but getting tangled in his own towel, his face turning a blotchy, frantic red.
«Is… is this some kind of joke?» he wheezed, spitting out sand. «Mom’s had too much sun! She’s lost it!»
Dasha stared at my back with glazed eyes, then slowly shifted her gaze to her husband. There were no tears in her eyes—only a strange, new expression of relief. It was as if she had been lugging around a heavy suitcase with no handle for years, and suddenly realized she could just drop it right here.
«Sveta?» she asked with a terrifyingly casual tone. «Is that the one you called your ‘logistics manager’?»
Vitalik froze, realizing the ground had completely vanished beneath him.
«Dash, honey, come on! This is crazy! This is… it’s Photoshop! I mean… some kind of Tattoo-shop scam!.»
He was spewing utter nonsense, trying to crawl away from the crowd of laughing onlookers, many of whom were already recording the whole thing on their phones.
«Bravo, Elena Petrovna!» a stout man from the next row shouted, saluting me with his beer can.
I took a theatrical bow and announced loudly:
«Thank you, everyone! The show is over!»
«Mom,» Dasha said, standing up and walking decisively toward me.
She picked up my sarong, but instead of covering me up, she twisted the fabric into a tight rope.
«Did you really block the card?» she asked, looking me straight in the eye.
«Five minutes ago via the app. I also canceled his return ticket.»
Vitalik turned so pale he looked like sour cream.
«What are you guys doing? Are you broads crazy? I don’t have a cent in my pocket!»
«But you have Sveta,» I smirked. «Let her buy your ticket. Logistics is her specialty, after all.»
Dasha suddenly burst out laughing—not hysterically, but with a light, clear ring. She wound up and whipped the twisted sarong across Vitalik’s legs with a sharp snap.
«Now get the hell out of here!»
«Dash, what are you doing?»
«Out!» she barked, so loud that even the seagulls went silent for a second. «And I don’t want to see a trace of you in the room. Leave your things with the front desk.»
Vitalik looked around for support, but the crowd was firmly on the side of the «old lady in the bikini.» He scrambled up, grabbed his flip-flops, and trotted toward the beach exit with a limp, accompanied by the jeers and catcalls of local teenagers.
I took a deep breath, feeling my back burning—not from shame, but from the hot southern sun.
«Nice font,» Dasha remarked, looking at my back with a newfound calmness. «Is that Gothic?»
«Something like that. Nikita worked really hard to make every letter perfect.»
«How did you find out about Sveta?»
«His phone is synced to the tablet he left lying around at home,» I explained. «The guy’s a regular mastermind of spycraft.»
We sat back down on our lounge chairs. Around us, the beach gradually settled, everyone returning to their crosswords. Only the blonde next to us winked at me and gave a thumbs-up in solidarity.
«Mom,» Dasha said, sliding on her dark sunglasses to hide her eyes. «Is there any sunscreen left?»
«Of course.»
«Rub some on my back, please, before I burn to a crisp.»
I squeezed the cool cream onto my palm.
«What are we going to do about Vitalik?» I asked, gently rubbing the oil into my daughter’s shoulders.
«Nothing,» Dasha said, stretching as she looked out at the endless sea. «Let him keep ‘finding himself’—only now, he can do it on his own dime.»
She paused for a few seconds and added with a smile, «By the way, that bikini really is great. That color looks amazing on you.»
I smiled and leaned back, knowing I’d have to spend half the evening scrubbing the ink off with a washcloth, but it was worth it.
That evening, Dasha and I went to the hotel’s best restaurant. Vitalik was already gone from the room; only a single lonely sock with a hole in it remained under the bed—a fitting monument to his era. We ordered grilled fish and a bottle of expensive wine.
«To ‘old ladies’?» Dasha suggested, clinking her glass against mine.
«To free women,» I corrected. «And to good logistics.»
We laughed so genuinely that the waiters turned to look at us with smiles. Just then, a notification popped up on my phone from the bank: Transaction declined: Insufficient funds.
Vitalik was trying to buy a bus ticket, but his credit limit had been exhausted by my patience. I happily locked my screen and ordered us the biggest dessert on the menu.
