Aunt Galya was a lonely woman. The room in the communal apartment had belonged to her mother, whose portrait hung on the wall in a frame decorated with fake flowers.
She only had sisters, and she’d visit them from time to time, always bringing me back these incredibly colorful, beautiful books. She had no husband, no kids. My grandma called her an “old maid,” though she was, of course, grateful that Aunt Galya spent so much time with me. There were rumors she once had a suitor, but he disappeared, and no one else ever came along.

Aunt Galya’s room was small but bright. It was nothing like ours—clean, no socks lying around on the table. Just a wardrobe, a sideboard, a fridge, a dining table, a couch, and a little TV stand. Minimalist, in a way.

She never turned on the TV during the day, which blew my mind because, in my house, the TV was always on. Aunt Galya didn’t watch TV—she listened to the radio on this old, clunky receiver sitting on top of the wardrobe. It was boring as hell, and I kept asking her to turn on the TV, but she never caved because, according to her, the TV “ate up electricity.”

Every time I walked into her room, it was the same scene: Aunt Galya sitting sideways at the dining table, listening to the radio. What was she thinking about? Who had she been? What had her life been like?

One thing was for sure—her life now included me. Funny enough, my mom had grown up under her nose too, but they never got along. With me, though, she somehow found common ground. And honestly, she was kind of my lifeline, because I didn’t really have other friends.

We often played Cinderella—my favorite game. With Aunt Galya, I could just be a kid. She rarely scolded me and always went along with my ideas. I’d run around her tiny room and “accidentally” lose a slipper, and she’d pretend to be the prince and find it. I also loved pretending to be a singer—I had a whole imaginary side career between my “jobs” as a store clerk and a teacher. I’d grab her mop and sing into it like a mic, belting out whatever other songs I’d picked up somewhere. I’d bring all my dolls over, and we’d play for hours. I’d direct the whole thing, telling her what to do and say, and she always played along perfectly.

Sometimes, she let me take out the figurines from her sideboard. My favorites were Pushkin and the Ballerina. They were made by the Porcelain Factory, and to me, they felt like pure magic.

Pushkin sat at a table, looking thoughtful, his head resting on one hand while he held a quill in the other. A gold stripe ran down the middle of the quill. A book sat in front of him. I was obsessed with that figurine—just being allowed to touch it felt like a huge honor. Aunt Galya often quoted Pushkin too—stuff like “Father Frost, you old blockhead” and “Wind, wind, you are mighty.” I loved it.

And the Ballerina—Aunt Galya said she was Natalia Goncharova, Pushkin’s wife. She was sitting, tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, dressed in a soft pink tutu, with dark hair. I was fascinated by her too. I begged Aunt Galya to let the figurines play with my Barbies, but she never allowed it. Those figurines lived behind the glass, and for her, they were sacred.

Aunt Galya always had snacks for me—like those cocoa-flavored pillow cookies. But I wasn’t a fan. What I really loved was raw pasta. Just plain, dry pasta—either thin vermicelli or little macaroni elbows. They were rock-hard, but I’d crunch them up, convinced they were better than candy. We drank tea a lot—always from a saucer, which I found incredibly charming. And sometimes, she’d make pancakes—thin, pale, almost flavorless, but absolutely delicious, especially with sour cream. I can still taste them.

We often went for walks together. At the little playground in the park across the street, people always assumed she was my grandma. And she was held to grandma-level responsibility too—like if I got into a fight with someone. It’s funny when people say I used to push or hit kids, because as far as I remember, I was always the one getting picked on.

The swings were my favorite part of the playground. Aunt Galya always pushed me, even though I desperately wanted to learn how to swing on my own, but I just couldn’t get the hang of it. I envied the kids who could.

Sometimes, we’d go to another playground right by our building. We’d also stop by the post office in the next building over—there was this giant clock inside, and Aunt Galya would check if it was time to go home yet. Another memory—whenever a thunderstorm rolled in, Aunt Galya would say, “That’s God riding his chariot.” And I could see it so clearly in my head—God, the same one I prayed to for Barbies, riding off somewhere in a giant carriage. A chariot is a kind of carriage, right? And it had to be huge, because those thunderstorms were LOUD.

Oh, I never described Aunt Galya, did I? She was tall, skinny, had short curly hair, wore glasses, and always said, “My dear” or “To hell with them all.”

One time, she gave my grandma money to buy me a new Barbie. It was winter, and Grandma and I went to the store. She ended up getting me two Barbies instead of one—not the fancy kind, but still, two! I was thrilled. Grandma had some money left over and told me not to mention it to Aunt Galya. I wasn’t planning to anyway—I already got more than I expected.

On the way home, Grandma slipped on the ice and fell. I tried to help her up, but I was just a kid—I couldn’t do anything. She kept trying to get up and kept falling. Eventually, someone helped us, but I still remember that feeling—of being completely powerless.

So yeah, my life with Aunt Galya was predictable, but full. When I started school later, she helped me with my homework and listened to all my stories about school—not that I had many.

School wasn’t exactly my favorite place. For one, I never ran around during recess like the other kids. I’d just stand by the classroom door, watching. The hallway was long and narrow, classrooms on one side, windows on the other. Kids tore through it like lunatics the whole break, which honestly felt like a death trap to me. I never ran. Too risky.

One time, after double-checking both ways, I finally worked up the nerve to cross the hall. I was almost there when—bam!—some kid came flying out of nowhere and knocked me flat. Of course. Just my luck. I still remember my inner lip scraping against the grimy wooden floor. I got up, went back to my usual spot, and never tried reaching the windows again.

School itself? I ended up there almost by accident. No one gave me a heads-up like, "Hey, you’re a big kid now, time for school, no more daycare." One day, my grandma took me somewhere to read something, and next thing I knew, I had ribbons in my hair and a stiff black uniform. And that was that—I was in school.

Even after we moved to another shared apartment, Aunt Galya and I still saw each other. We had moved just one street over. It wasn’t far, so we still went on walks together, just not as often. And then, even less often. Eventually, after another move, it was just the occasional phone call. Then, barely even that.

When I was about 17, I visited her in that same old apartment where I used to live.
I brought my first boyfriend along—not sure why. It was awkward. Mostly for me. Aunt Galya was just so excited, almost overwhelmingly so. She kept cussing under her breath, calling me "my sweet girl" and "my dear girl," and I had no idea what to tell her about my life.

We kept calling each other now and then, but it got harder. She’d lose my number or miss my calls because she couldn’t hear them.

About ten years later, when I was already married, Aunt Galya called me out of the blue. We hadn’t talked in at least seven years. She was over 80 by then. The second she heard my voice, she started crying, just like always. We talked briefly. I promised I’d visit her soon—she didn’t live in our old place anymore. The city had finally given her a new apartment, way out on the outskirts, since she was a veteran.

The next time I tried calling, no one picked up. I kept trying, over and over. Then, eventually, the number just stopped working.

I just wish someone had saved those Pushkin and Ballerina figurines for me. I’ve seen the same ones being sold online. But I wanted hers.

Her Pushkin and her Ballerina.