We were getting ready for bed when the shelling suddenly started. The shuddering of the walls made my heart stop. Glass and plaster were falling down. My husband told me to run to the basement.
We went down there together. But it was cold, November – and the husband went to the house to get some warm clothes. He returned mortally wounded and died in my arms. It was shrapnel wound to the chest.
I live in the neighborhood now. I try to come to my house not so often, because I can't. Every minute I spend within these walls is like torture to me.
My future is vague, my past does not let go. This is a trauma for me. We could have lived together, stoked the stove and lived happily…