Farewells
July 19, 2026
An ordinary Sunday night turned into something completely unique.
Not to mention that the category of “ordinary Sunday nights” has been in very low demand over the past five years — and that, for the past six months, it had practically been forgotten altogether — every moment of the sun setting that Sunday felt special. I absorbed it with a particular intensity.
And during the last hour of that day, before falling asleep, left to sleep diagonally across a small, uncomfortable sofa bed in the common room, I cried uncontrollably and completely silently, torn apart by thoughts of how painfully and firmly the ritual of major goodbyes had become intertwined with my life.
—
So: Sunday night, July 19, 2026.
Russia. Moscow. My family’s home.
I run back and forth across the kitchen in an almost pre-Christmas frenzy. My brother appears and disappears behind my back, occasionally asking for new instructions. At full volume and on loop, we listen to my patriotic playlist — concisely named “Arg” — singing especially loudly along to “Muchaaaachos” and “Quiero Ser Campeón.”
Tonight’s menu has three items designed to make you feel Albiceleste from the inside out:
- The first culinary experiment for the inhabitants of this apartment, prepared by me: milanesa napolitana with ham and fresh salad (following the recipe and teachings of our host from Ushuaia).
- Accompanied by Mexican nachos made with Argentine corn flour and red salsa — a souvenir of the knowledge I brought back from the Latin American cooking classes I took in Buenos Aires.
- And mate with a Russian analogue of dulce de leche.
Among tonight’s guests are three out of the three people who have lived in this apartment over the past few months — Mom, my brother, and me — as well as my brother’s girlfriend.
The evening’s program consists of an Argentine dinner and watching the 2026 Men’s Football World Cup final: Argentina versus Spain.
As tends to happen with the cooking classes I take, the start of the preparation was indecently delayed by long, leisurely conversations about anything but the tasks ahead of us, so we launched straight into a frantic pace.
My brother runs back and forth, checking the size of the garlic and parsley for the milanesas, adding boiling water to the tomatoes, and trying to memorize a couple of football phrases in Spanish. Meanwhile, I furiously pound a haphazardly cut piece of meat with a heavy, ancient wooden rolling pin — welcome to a world where nobody at the butcher’s understands what you mean when you ask for “meat for milanesa,” and a meat tenderizer is hardly a basic kitchen utensil. At the same time, I try to dance cumbia, keep up a relaxed conversation about my brother’s interests, put another batch of nachos in the oven every now and then, and keep an eye on the cat’s hunt, as he goes after anything that might eventually end up in the dish.
A moment like this reminded me of another, equally hectic culinary episode in the same place, three months earlier. Me in the role of the student, armed with a wooden spatula, an extremely heavy wok, and a mountain of chopped vegetables in front of the stove. My dad, already exhausted by his illness and lack of appetite, sitting on a chair right beside the kitchen, verbally coordinating each of my mechanical movements and passing on his knowledge of how he used to cook wok.
“Now the garlic… Stir… Wider movements… Stir more often… Everything has to jump in the oil all around the pan… Now the carrot… Now the bell pepper… Not the noodles yet: the sauce… Then you’ll go back home and cook for Masha…”
I knew he would eat, at most, a couple of forkfuls of whatever we prepared. I worried that sitting on that hard chair might be too uncomfortable for him, that he might need us to put a cushion behind his back. And at the same time, I let myself be carried away by that perfect coordination between his words, my hands following his instructions, and the aromas of Asian cooking filling every corner. The intensity of the sensations, the speed, the nerves, thousands of thoughts happening in parallel, while little by little I melted in the heat rising from the stove and in the thought that my dad and I were doing together one of the things we had loved most in our lives.
Before I left Russia, my brother and I cooked together very rarely. Usually, those occasions were part of the course “Big Sister’s Survival Lessons,” and we held them away from prying eyes: in my rented apartment or at our parents’ house when they weren’t home. But this time there was no sense that we were alone because we were hiding. This time, we were open to the presence of everyone who was still there.
The previous time, we had made his famous spicy tomato sauce, following the same instructions from Dad — although by then he was already lying in bed. Today, by contrast, our shared cooking was taking place under the silent gaze of my dad from a photograph in a black frame. In it, his expression had remained surprisingly alive, as if he were teasing us: “Surely you didn’t forget to add a pinch of sugar?”
But finally the food is ready and everyone is gathered. In a rush, we put together our football-and-dinner setup. Dad’s glasses, pen, medical papers, and laptop, which are still sitting on the coffee table, are carefully moved to the cabinet beneath the TV to make room for the nachos, salsa, and beer (but only until the match is over: afterward, they will return to the coffee table, just as they used to when Dad was with us).
As I dust the cabinet, I notice small scratches and dents that I remember from almost ten years ago, before I left this house.
This apartment has changed surprisingly little during the years of my absence. The biggest change happened in the cabinets on either side of the TV, where my brother’s trophies and medals gradually pushed my own peasant-proletarian achievements off the shelves, such as my high school graduation photo album and the cover of my diploma from Russia’s leading university.
The photographs on the upper shelves have gathered some dust. But the cabinets, the walls, the uncomfortable sofa, and the enormous TV — all the great protagonists of this room — remain exactly where they were.
It feels strange to think that, literally within a few months, this apartment could be completely empty or have new inhabitants. I scan the room with my eyes, trying not to miss a single corner that needs cleaning or that I might need to preserve in my memory. It is time to accept that I have to move on, but how good it feels, goddammit, to remain trapped in this moment, to fix my attention on this night and finally say goodbye to the era that is passing, to the apartment where our family stayed for the longest period of my entire life.
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Finally, we eat, and the match begins. We all settle in together.
Mom, with her laptop, hoping to calm her nerves by distracting herself with work and rocking in the armchair we gave her for her last birthday.
My brother, wearing the Argentina national team jersey I sent him from Buenos Aires after the 2022 World Cup victory.
My brother’s girlfriend, who over the past few months has literally become a new member of our family, enthusiastically enjoying the Mexican salsa we made.
Me, nervously opening a non-alcoholic beer and whispering almost ritual wishes to myself, in Spanish, for our team to win.
And my dad’s urn, together with his photograph, closing this family circle.
When Argentina reached the Round of 16 in this World Cup, I felt more frustrated than anything else by not being able to share these matches, these victories, and this excitement with the Argentinians around me. By not being able to immerse myself once again in that madness of sky blue and white that, four years ago, had invaded every shop, grocery store, school, and square in this country. I was deeply sad not to be there.
But throughout the matches we watched with my family before this final, I discovered a new meaning and a new feeling: I am sharing this World Cup with my family in the way I can, and perhaps this is the last opportunity I will have to do so — an opportunity that, until very recently, had seemed completely impossible.
Just a year ago, I never would have imagined myself squeezed against an armchair, crying, while Mom and my brother shouted through their tears every time Argentina scored into the opposing goal. We had never been interested in football. We had never been so invested. We had never experienced a World Cup together as fans, united in front of the same television.
But this year, we did.
Me, immediately after the beer, preparing a mate and nervously taking the first sips, still strangely unpleasant to those around me.
Me, no longer able to imagine a moment like this without mate and dulce de leche — although this time the latter has been replaced by its Russian equivalent.
Me, in my country of origin after four years of separation, unable to make my tongue answer in Russian when I am out on the street, and during these months barely managing to get a “sorry,” an “excuse me,” and a “thank you” out of my Spanish — but only in English.
Me, sitting with my family of origin, in a moment that is so important to us there and to us here. And me, watching a sport that, as recently as the beginning of 2022, interested me only from the perspective of wondering why so much money and attention were devoted to twenty guys emotionally chasing a ball across a patch of grass.
And now, when the yerba in my mate has already begun to germinate in my brain, my heart stops when a sky-blue-and-white flag stretches across the field and the entire stadium is drenched in the colors of our country.
Then, on the screen, appears the national hero of my new country. A man whose haloed portrait I have seen so many times on murals that I may not have seen as many representations of Jesus in my entire life in my native country, my “orthodox” homeland.
This is probably Messi’s last World Cup. It is probably the last World Cup final in which he, focused and free, will walk onto the pitch to carry the Albiceleste. It is the final match of the World Cup and, perhaps, the last match at this level in which my entire generation watches the greatest football player in history reach the end of his career.
All of Argentina is glued to screens, both inside and outside the country. What am I saying — the whole world is saying goodbye that night to a football legend, caught between love and hatred, but with an absolute understanding of the magnitude of that star.
During the match, the room and the entire apartment become charged with such intense tension that we only find time for the drinks and nachos during hydration breaks. The rest of the time, I clench my jaw; my brother, every now and then, begins to make sounds halfway to becoming words; his girlfriend, playing with her fingers and the rings she is wearing; my mom, occasionally adjusting her glasses; well-fed cat, pleased that all the human toys have been gathered into one room; and my dad, in a photograph — all of us mobilize our entire attention in almost absolute silence, exactly as the sky-blue-and-white team mobilizes all its strength to face such a powerful opponent.
The apartment where I spent my adolescence transforms, for a few hours, from a portal through time into a portal through space: it carries us, who knows, to a stand somewhere in the United States, or to my new home in Patagonia, where another part of my family — Masha — is suspended in front of another screen, held captive by the same tension.
After a heroic battle, after hours of tension, at the very last moment, we hand the victory to Spain. The stands bid farewell to one another, to the World Cup, and to their heroes. We bid farewell to this night of football and family. Once again, I say goodbye to my family, now understanding perfectly what it feels like to be separated for years, scattered across different corners of the planet. I say goodbye to my country, still familiar, but already so strange.
Except my brother does not want to say goodbye to his girlfriend. He asks if she can stay, and I give them my room, moving to the same small sofa in the living room.
—
I lie down around four in the morning, caught between heat and cold, unable to find a comfortable position on the sofa. I look alternately at the ceiling and then cry silently, in that room of passage, with the doors wide open toward other realities.
The rays of sunlight tentatively begin to trace the perimeter of the room: the half-finished bowl of spicy nacho sauce on the table, Dad’s things beneath the TV, my brother’s trophies, the frame with Dad’s photograph — and finally hit my half-closed eyes.
The new day has already begun.
