One day, sitting at a visit with her school girlfriend, I mentioned in a conversation that my mother’s girl’s surname was very similar to her. The girlfriend’s mother, hearing this, suddenly stumbled and asked, “Is your mother not like that at the time?” I say “Yes.” “And aunt, when is she not your mother’s school friend?” I was surprised, but yes, my aunt-tante is indeed my mother’s school friend, of whom I’ve heard a lot of good and good stories. And then... “So, they killed her... They shot her together with her husband. The husband was a bandit, he threw huge money of influential people, and they were killed. Somewhere a month ago.

I was slightly touched by this news, I never saw this lady in the eyes, but my mother was very upset, cried, mocked herself that because of family and work I did not communicate with my childhood friend and could not fix this.

And here I come home somehow from school, and my mom sits next to the phone and laughs:

"Imagine, he says, I call my daughter "dead", I begin to push the talk of condolences, and the one, surprisedly adds, but everyone tries to say that nothing terrible, this is all fixable." Here, the mother begins to understand that there can not be such a reaction in the daughter.

As a result, it turns out: a aunt, walking in the evening with her husband, fell on the ice, broke her arm. My husband is healthy and works as an economist. Yes, it was a month ago, but how the “sarafan radio” news of a broken arm turned into the death of two by a bandit bullet, it’s a big mystery.