Sometimes I wonder; people often say that every family’s life is special. But what exactly makes it special? Is it their hobbies? Their status? Their neighborhood? Or their jobs?
My family’s life is pretty ordinary. My father runs a small-scale bakery in Stavropol, and my mother acts as his assistant while also managing the household. My twin sister and I are just ten-year-olds who love reading. We live in an ordinary home, too. There are no fancy decorations like statues or decorative lights outside our apartment building, just a streetlamp that flickers whenever the power fluctuates.
The bread isn't particularly extraordinary either... Though don't get me wrong, it’s not that my father’s bread tastes bad. It’s just that his isn't the absolute best in town. There’s a bakery up north that serves piping-hot bread to every customer, and another on the outskirts that offers a huge variety of loaves with a shelf life of over five days.
My father simply says that our livelihood is already ordained; all we have to do is put in the effort. What I admire most is that he never gave in to the temptation of making "fresh-baked" bread or using preservatives; instead, he kept experimenting to create naturally long-lasting bread with diverse flavors. He has successfully developed ten varieties of naturally durable bread so far, and they’ve become favorites among the people in the heart of the city.
But it isn't my father’s job that I want to talk about. While my story does involve bread, it’s what’s inside the bread which made our family life truly special.
***
For as long as I can remember, I never saw my parents argue about anything. Their relationship seemed completely free of friction. I’m being honest here. It was surprising, really, considering Father was quite a calm and laidback, while Mother was a stickler for cleanliness... just like my sister. Yet, strangely, what I usually saw was them talking calmly or joking around; I even witnessed them sharing an intimate moment in the kitchen once. It's a secret I’ve kept as a 8-years-old.
***
[1958]
Then, two years later... suddenly, Father and Mother stopped talking to each other as they usually did; at lunch, they would simply glaring angrily at one another. The very next day... right at two in the morning, my twin sister shook me awake while sobbing uncontrollably.
"Toshenka! Toshenka!!" she trembled.
"Ugh... what is it, Ninusya? I'm sleepy..." I mumbled, swatting her hand away.
"Mom and Dad are screaming... yelling at each other!!" she cried. It finally sank in what she was saying, and I scrambled out of bed. I opened the door slowly, and the sound of Father and Mother’s voices drifted in from the kitchen.
"Do you have to use that brand of flour for bread? Huh?" Mother shouted.
"We already use the usual over there!" Father retorted.
"Well, we can switch to another brand for a while! Besides, there's more than one brand of flour, right?"
"But if we switch, the taste of the bread will change!"
"It can't be changed! I have years of experience in the military base's kitchen, and I know which flours taste the same as regular flour!"
"Didn't all the flours you mentioned before also go up in price? Huh?!"
"Well, try looking for the discounted ones!"
I was helpless, just staring blankly. After ten years without a single quarrel, my head suddenly spun as Mother and Father fought. Meanwhile, my sister just wept beside me... even though she was the eldest and usually the first to take action. Once my parents' shouting died down and I heard their footsteps heading toward their room, I pulled my twin under the bedcovers to hide from them. Unfortunately, her crying was quite loud, and I was terrified our parents would hear us.
"Can you just be quiet?" I finally hissed to her.
"I... *hic*... I can't... *sob*..." she replied, starting to hiccup from the crying.
I covered her face with a pillow to muffle the sound of her sobs, then got out of bed. I slowly opened our bedroom door and saw my parents' tapochki sitting outside of their room. That meant they had calmed down. Or so I hoped...
I went back to bed and hugged my sister to comfort her.
***
The next morning, things felt even gloomier than before. Father started kneading bread dough, while Mother tidied up our apartment. Yet, the usual morning banter and laughter were missing. Svetlana and I packed our school bags before heading out. After kissing Mother on the cheek and saying goodbye to Father (who was still busy making bread), we ran off to school.
Throughout the school day, I kept thinking about my parents' behavior. Why had they changed? Was this the end of the peace that I had once known?
“Hey, you! Pay attention to the lesson, not the pen I’m holding!”
“Yes, sir...” I said, yawning.
Time and again, that incredibly annoying language teacher rapped his desk and scolded me, labeling me the slowest student in the class. Damn it! Just wait until I get the highest score on the exam! Then you’ll be the one crying with regret!
Finally, the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. I gathered my things and ran to my sister’s classroom; she usually finished later than I did. She emerged amidst a crowd of students eager to get home. I gazed deeply at my twin, and she looked back at me in the same way. We decided to walk home, opting out of our usual race.
If we ran, we would usually arrive home exactly at three in the afternoon. Walking added another fifteen minutes to the journey. Yet, because we were both pained inside, the walk didn't feel any longer than the run.
When we arrived home, we were startled to see Father and Mother cooking soup together, laughing just as they had before their argument. Had I dreamt the whole thing last night? Or were impostors pretending to be my bickering parents?
"Toshenka ! Ninusya! What took you so long?" my father called out with a faint smile. My sister just stood there blankly for a moment, then quickly put on an act.
"I wasn't feeling well, so I just walked," she lied, looking down. I promptly guided my sister toward our parents.
"Let me check," my mother said, touching my sister's forehead. "Hmm, your temperature seems normal..."
"But Toshenka said I was running a high fever!" my sister exclaimed. Hmm, so when her act fell through, I was thrown under the bus...
"Oh, your brother can be a tease sometimes," my father joked. I just gave a mischievous smile. Oh well, the important thing was that it was all over.
***
And since then, Mother and Father never argued the way they had that night. My sister and I still found it hard to believe that night had even happened. Whenever I tried to ask about the shouting, the conversation would inevitably be steered toward my consistently poor grades in Russian literature class, and the same went for my sister regarding her PE grades.
Time flew by. Finally, we blew out the candles together, marking the start of our eleventh year. We sliced the cake Mom and Dad had made, and ate it together outside balcony.
Mom had a knack for arranging the candles. The outdoor area, which usually gloomy... now transformed into something resembling the balcony of a luxury city apartment.
“From now on, your responsibilities will grow...” Mother advised, just as she had seven years ago.
“Yes, Mama...” my sister and I replied in unison.
“As you grow older, I hope you achieve even greater success than your mother or I ever did,” Father said, taking his turn to offer advice.
“Yes, Papa...” we answered again. There was no need to argue, and we were soon able to head back to bed.
***
A month later, summer holiday arrived. My family has no extended relatives and grandparents... So we usually spend the holidays at my father’s bakery or at home. But I didn't feel bored to death this year, because I had finally found an answer that had been missing for a year.
As usual, my sister and I were tussling in the living room, fighting over a storybook Mother had just bought. I managed to snatch it, run into our parents' bedroom, and lock myself inside. My sister shouted and pounded on the door, threatening to tell Father about my mischief. Heh heh, luckily both Mom and Dad were working at the bakery, so I could tease her to my heart's content. Then, I sprawled out on my parents' bed and started reading the story in peace.
Just as I opened the book, my eyes fell on a round loaf of bread near the wardrobe. I’m actually hungry, so why not just eat it?
But when I picked up the bread, I found a slip of paper underneath. I decided against eating the bread and read the note instead.
“To Dashenka... I was angry when I saw you getting so worked up and snappy because of a customer earlier. I couldn't understand why you lost your patience. It saddened me to see you glaring at customers—some of whom were truly awful, like the one who cut in front of that elderly woman just when you were swamped with my bread orders and had to handle the situation all alone.
But I was happy to see you stand your ground, prioritizing that elderly woman’s purchase and lecturing the rude customer. Above all, I love you because you still care about others. From your loving husband.”
I wonder why Father wrote a letter like this to Mother?
***
“Did Papa really write this?” my sister asked in disbelief, after I let her into our parents' room.
“You can tell just by his cursive handwriting. Look, that’s definitely his signature!” I said, pointing it out to her.
“It’s impossible for Papa to have written something so cruel to Mama. Although, it is strange? Why does the second paragraph actually praise Mama’s actions?” my sister wondered aloud.
I glanced at a bundle sitting outside the window; the one Father always referred to as the trash bin. When I opened it, I found a collection of old papers. I picked one up.
“To Dimochka: I read your letter yesterday. I want to explain why I stayed silent. First, I hate seeing how you always react negatively whenever someone offers promotional help. It frustrates me when you turn it down, even though we know we need promotion to boost our bread sales.
But I was also pained when you were forced to sign a promotional contract, even threatened with the eviction of our bakery... yet you still tried to refuse.
Still, I’m so happy that you aren’t the type of person to be tempted by quick riches. I love you even more because you chose to promote the business through personal customer connections; that’s why, even now, our bakery remains popular with so many people, even if it’s just a small crowd... Love and kisses from your wife.”
I remembered that five months earlier, someone had visited our apartment. Than man trying to get Father to sign a promotional contract. Father had firmly refused; when the person threatened him, Father had kicked him out. Sure enough, two weeks later, that man was arrested. It turned out he was a con artist who habitually posed as a marketing agent. Judging by the handwriting, this letter had been written before the man was caught...
“If I were to sum it up, it seems all these letters are expressions of Papa and Mama’s feelings...” Svetlana concluded.
“Ah... maybe a year ago, they heard our fear? So they decided to fight using ink and paper instead,” I added.
“But it means... they have to think before writing?” Svetlana continued quietly.
We both fell silent. Yes... Perhaps they had heard my sister crying and felt guilty. They must have discussed a way to argue without frightening us. Eventually, one of them would write a letter first to air their grievances; then, later that night or in the early hours of the morning, the other would open it, reading the words while eating the bread that had been placed right on top of the letter.
Upon learning their partner's true feelings without the need for shouting, they would reply with a polite note, placing it back in the same spot alongside a fresh loaf of bread—or perhaps a loaf that had already been partially eaten. Once the issues were resolved, Mom and Dad would usually return to their affectionate ways in the kitchen, just as they had been three years prior.
It all made sense now: the times they had gone silent, only to become cheerful again a few days later.
“Hey, isn't that Mama and Papa?” my sister panicked, pointing down toward the window.
“Oh no! Let’s put these letters away!” I urged. We quickly gathered the letters, except for the one tucked inside the round loaf, and grabbed the storybook. We ran to the living room and pretended to read. Just as we opened the book to the middle pages, our parents walked through the door.
“We are home, kids!” Father greeted us cheerfully.
“Welcome home!!” Sveta and I replied, feigning cheerfulness too.
“Wow, it’s not often I see you two reading a story together. Usually, you’re bickering in the living room, aren't you?” Mother asked with suspicious, yet also smirked.
“Well, we just decided to make peace...” my sister lied. I flashed a big, convincing smile.
“Alright then... Now, let’s make potato patties. It’s been a while since you’ve had those, hasn't it?” Mother suggested. We happily followed our parents to the kitchen to help prepare the potatoes.
My sister and I decided to keep the letters a secret. It didn't matter if the truth never came out, as long as our family life remained peaceful and free of shouting. And now I understood what made our family life so special: a simple piece of bread and a peace offering had saved our family...
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