All Amazing Babies

That The Woman You’re Sleeping With Got Sick Does Not Mean I’m Going To Give You Money For Her Treatment,” Anna Said Coldly To Her Husband.
10.11.2025admin

Roman froze in the middle of the living room of their two-story house. Amazement flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by anger. He hadn’t expected his wife to know about Kristina.

“What nonsense are you talking? What mistress?” he tried to sound indignant, but it came out unconvincing.

Anna slowly turned to him. There wasn’t a single tear in her brown eyes—only icy contempt.

“DON’T, Roman. Just don’t. I’ve known about Kristina for six months. I know about the apartment you’re renting for her. About the gifts. About your ‘business trips’ to Sochi.”

The man flushed crimson. It always infuriated him when his wife turned out to be smarter than he thought. Thirty-eight years old, owner of a chain of car dealerships—he was used to everyone dancing to his tune. Money opened any doors, solved any problems. But not now.

“Fine, LET’S SAY I do have… something on the side,” he ground out through his teeth. “But what do the money have to do with it? I have my own business, I earn my own money!”

Anna smirked. Thirty-five, a housewife—that’s how he introduced her to his friends. A dumb hen who sits at home and spends his money. If only he knew…

“Your business?” She walked over to the bar and poured herself some mineral water. “Remind me, whose money did you use to open your first dealership ten years ago?”

“Your father’s,” Roman admitted reluctantly. “But I paid him back long ago!”

“Paid back?” Anna shook her head. “You repaid the LOAN my dad took out using his company as collateral. And who was the guarantor? Me. And when two years ago you were on the verge of going bust because of your little adventures with gray schemes, who pulled you out?”

“ENOUGH!” Roman roared, slamming his fist on the table. “That’s all in the past! Right now everything’s great, my business is thriving!”

“Thriving?” Anna took a tablet out of her purse. “Want to see the reports? Minus three million last quarter. Debts to suppliers—five million. Loans—seven. That gives us…”

“WHERE did you get this data?!” Roman snatched the tablet from her and threw it onto the couch.

“I’m just a dumb housewife, remember?” Anna said mockingly. “Who’s been doing all the bookkeeping for your companies for ten years. Unofficially, of course. Because officially your buddy Igor works there, the one who only tells debit from credit after his third shot.”

Roman was silent, breathing heavily. It infuriated him that his wife was right. That she knew everything. That without her he would’ve gone under long ago.

“Kristina needs surgery,” he finally forced out. “A serious one. In Germany. Two million rubles.”

“And you want me to give you that money?” Anna laughed. “ON WHAT GROUNDS?”

“Because… because it’s a matter of life and death!”

“Whose death? The one who, six months ago, was posting photos with my husband on Instagram with the caption ‘My love’? The one who called me and said I was an old cow who couldn’t keep a man?”

Roman choked. He hadn’t known Kristina had called his wife.

“She… she was drunk…”

“She was BRAZEN,” Anna cut him off. “Just like you. You both decided I was nothing. Furniture you don’t have to notice. Well then, GET OUT of my life, both of you, to hell!”

The next morning Roman woke up in the guest bedroom with a terrible headache. After last night’s conversation he had gotten drunk and didn’t even remember how he’d made it to bed.

Going down to the kitchen, he found Anna there. She was calmly drinking coffee and reading some documents.

“Good morning,” he threw out dryly, pouring himself some water.

“Morning,” she replied, without lifting her eyes from the papers.

“Listen, Anna… Let’s talk calmly. No shouting, no insults.”

His wife raised her eyes to him. There was a hint of curiosity in them.

“Go on.”

“I admit I was wrong. The thing with Kristina—it’s a mistake. But right now we’re talking about a human life! She has a brain tumor. If she doesn’t have the surgery in the next two weeks…”

“She’ll die,” Anna finished for him. “And?”

Roman couldn’t believe his ears.

“What do you mean, ‘and’? You’re not a monster!”

“I’m not a monster. I’m a woman whose husband betrayed her. Who was humiliated and laughed at. Your Kristina knew you were married. She knew, and she DIDN’T CARE. She wanted money, a pretty life, status. Well, life is a fair thing.”

“You’re just jealous!” Roman exploded. “Jealous that she’s young and pretty and you’re…”

“And I’m what?” Anna stood up from the table. “Old? Ugly? Maybe. But I have something your Kristina doesn’t. MONEY. And power over you.”

“What do you mean?”

Anna walked over to the safe, entered the code, and took out a thick folder.

“These are copies of all the documents for your business. Or rather, for MY business. Because all the companies are registered to me. You yourself asked for that—so that, if anything happened, your creditors couldn’t take them. Remember?”

Roman remembered. Three years ago, when he’d had serious trouble with his debts, he’d transferred everything to his wife. Later, when things got better, he meant to take it all back, but somehow never got around to it. And Anna never reminded him.

“So what? Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary and fix everything!”

“NO,” Anna cut him off. “We won’t go. And we won’t fix anything. You see, darling, while you were having fun with Kristina, I wasn’t wasting my time. All your companies have been re-registered. New founding documents. New official seals. And your name doesn’t even appear there as an employee.”

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT!” Roman bellowed. “You need my signature for that!”

“Signature?” Anna took out another folder. “Here are your signatures. On all the documents. You never read what you sign. ‘Anya, there are papers on the table, sign them for me.’ Remember? Well, I did have them signed. Only not instead of you—you signed them yourself. Just not the papers you thought.”

Roman grabbed the documents and started flipping through them. His face grew paler and paler.

“This… this is FRAUD!”

“Prove it,” Anna shrugged. “An expert will confirm that the signatures are genuine. Witnesses will confirm that you were of sound mind and clear memory. By the way, your friend Igor will confirm it too. I gave him a bonus. A big one.”

“Bitch…” Roman hissed. “You planned all of this!”

“Not all,” Anna admitted. “Kristina and her tumor, I didn’t plan. That’s just… a bonus. Karma, if you like.”

“I’ll sue you! I’ll prove you tricked me!”

“Go ahead. Just bear in mind—while the trial is going on, all the company accounts will be frozen. There’ll be no money to pay salaries. Suppliers will demand their debts be settled immediately. In a month, there’ll be nothing left of your empire but debts. Which, by the way, are also on you. Personal guarantees, remember?”

Roman was pacing around his office. A week had passed since that conversation. Kristina called him ten times a day, crying, begging him to get the money. The doctors gave her at most a month without the surgery.

He tried to find the money elsewhere. The banks refused—there was no collateral left, all the property was in Anna’s name. His friends spread their hands—no one had that kind of money. Sell part of the business? But the business wasn’t his anymore.

Humiliation choked him. All his life he had considered himself in control. A successful businessman, a handsome man everyone envied. And it turned out he was a puppet in his wife’s hands. The same wife he despised for her “petty bourgeois mindset” and “narrow horizons.”

The phone rang again. Kristina.

“Romochka, well? Any news? The doctors say we have to go urgently, they just had a spot open up…”

“Kristina, I… I still can’t get the money.”

“What do you mean, you CAN’T?! You said you had a multimillion business! What kind of man are you if you can’t help the woman you love?!”

“Don’t yell at me!” Roman snapped. “I’m doing everything I can!”

“Not enough! You’re doing NOT ENOUGH! Your wife is probably walking around in fur coats while I’m here dying! You know what? If you don’t get the money, I’ll tell her everything! About us, about the apartment, about everything!”

“She already knows,” Roman said wearily.

“What? And she… she didn’t throw you out?”

“No. It’s more profitable for her to keep me on a short leash.”

“Then… then I’ll tell all your partners! I’ll post our photos online! I’ll make such a scandal your reputation—”

“SHUT UP!” Roman barked. “Just shut up! You think you’re the only smart one? You think you’ll get anything with blackmail?”

“I’m dying, Roma! DYING! And you don’t care!”

“I do care, but I’m not a magician! There IS no money!”

“Then let your wifey pay! She’s rich, right, since she’s got you on a leash! Ask her, beg her, get on your knees!”

Roman hung up. Get on his knees in front of Anna? NEVER. He’d rather die.

That evening he came home completely shattered. Anna was sitting in the living room watching some talk show.

“You look awful,” she remarked without turning around.

“What do you care?”

“None at all. Just an observation. By the way, Kristina called. On the landline.”

Roman flinched.

“And what did she want?”

“Money, of course. Said you promised but aren’t delivering. Called you a rag and a nobody. And me—an old toad sitting on a pile of cash.”

“Anna, listen…”

“NO, you listen,” she turned off the TV and faced him. “Your girl offered me a deal. I give the money for the surgery, and she disappears from your life forever. Moves to another city and never shows up again.”

Roman’s heart skipped a beat.

“And… and what did you say?”

“What do you think?” Anna smiled. “Of course I agreed.”

“Really?!” Roman couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ll give the money?”

“I will. But under certain conditions.”

Here it comes. Roman knew nothing came free.

“What conditions?”

“First—you sign a property division agreement. Everything that’s in my name stays mine. You get your personal belongings and a car. One. Not the most expensive one.”

“That’s robbery!”

“That’s justice. Second—a divorce. No scandals, no claims. We quietly go our separate ways and live our own lives.”

 

“But what about the business? There are people working there!”

“The business will stay. I’ll hire a proper manager. I might even keep you. On a salary. If you behave.”

Roman clenched his teeth. From owner to employee of his own wife—that was worse than death.

“Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice,” Anna said philosophically. “You can refuse. Then Kristina dies, you’re left with nothing, and I’ll still file for divorce. Only through the courts this time, with the division of debts. And you have, let me remind you, twelve million in debts.”

They set the signing for the next day. Roman didn’t sleep all night, trying to think of a way out. But there wasn’t one. Anna had cornered him the way a chess player corners the opponent’s king.

In the morning the notary arrived—expensive, trusted, the one who’d been working with their family for many years. An elderly man.

“Good afternoon, Anna Sergeevna, Roman Viktorovich. Nice to see you. So, the property division agreement?”

“Yes, Semyon Petrovich,” Anna nodded. “My husband and I decided to put our property matters in order.”

“Commendable, commendable. Very sensible in this day and age.”

Roman sat as if on needles. Sign a death sentence to his own prosperity? But he had no choice. Kristina was waiting.

“Roman Viktorovich, have you read the document?” asked the notary.

“Yes,” he squeezed out.

“Are you signing voluntarily, without coercion?”

Roman looked at Anna. She was calmly drinking tea, as if they were discussing the purchase of a washing machine.

“Voluntarily,” he lied.

Signatures, stamps, “I wish you happiness and prosperity.” The notary left, having handed them copies of the documents.

“Now the money,” Roman demanded.

“Of course,” Anna took out her phone. “I’ll transfer it now. To the clinic’s account or to Kristina’s?”

“The clinic’s. I’ll give you the details.”

Five minutes later the transfer was made. Two million rubles went to the account of the German clinic.

“That’s it,” Anna said. “Your girl is going to live. You can go to her.”

“She flies out tomorrow.”

“Excellent. That means you’ve got time to pack your things. I expect you to move out by the end of the week.”

“MOVE OUT?! You’re kicking me out of my own house?!”

“Out of MY house,” Anna corrected him. “You signed the documents. The house is mine now. Like everything else.”

Roman jumped up, knocking over his chair.

“You can’t do this! This is our house! We built it together!”

“We built it with my money. More precisely, with my father’s money. And it’s registered to me. So—come on, get packing. I’ll leave you the studio apartment on Rechnaya. Remember, we used to rent it out? Now you’ll live there.”

“A studio? Thirty square meters?!”

“What, that’s perfect for a bachelor. Unless you’d rather live on the street?”

Roman understood—she was serious. She could call security and have him thrown out. And the law would be on her side.

“You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. “I swear, you’ll pay!”

“Is that a threat?” Anna took out her phone. “I can record it and send it to the police. Threats are a criminal offense.”

Roman clenched his fists but kept quiet. Any careless word now could cost him what little freedom he had left.

The next day he packed the bare essentials and left. Kristina flew to Germany without even saying goodbye—she just sent a short “thanks” in a messenger.

The apartment on Rechnaya turned out to be a shabby hole with peeling walls and a leaking faucet. After the three-story mansion it was like moving from a palace into a chicken coop.

Roman pulled out the whiskey—the only expensive thing he had taken with him. He poured himself half a glass and downed it in one gulp.

His phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number.

“Hi, loser. How’s the new life?”

“Who the hell is this?”

Another message. A photo. Kristina hugging some man. The caption: “Thanks for the money. The surgery went great. By the way, meet my husband Oleg. He’s grateful too.”

Roman couldn’t believe his eyes. Husband?!

The phone rang. Unknown number.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Romchik,” a mocking male voice said. “This is Oleg. Kristina’s husband. Wanted to thank you for paying for her surgery. We’ve been married a year, but we didn’t have the money for treatment. And then you came along, so generous. Sure, you had your fun with my wife for six months, but that’s nothing. The important thing is she’s healthy now and we can live our lives. We’re planning kids, can you imagine?”

“You… you used me! You tricked me!”

“And what did you think—that a beauty like Kristina could really fall in love with a pot-bellied forty-year-old uncle? Don’t make me laugh. You were a wallet, Romchik. A walking ATM. And thanks for withdrawing the right amount right on time. Bye!”

The beeps. Roman hurled the phone at the wall. It shattered into pieces.

A month passed. Roman got a job as a sales manager at a dealership—not his, somebody else’s. Anna kept her word about her own companies—she didn’t hire him. Said she’d changed her mind. Let him start from scratch, like everyone else.

His manager’s salary barely covered food and utilities. His former luxurious life was now just a dream.

One evening, there was a knock on the door. Roman opened it. Anna was standing there. But not the Anna he remembered. An expensive dress, professional makeup, styled hair. She’d lost weight, looked ten years younger.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Why are you here? To admire my downfall?”

“No. I came to tell you something. And to make an offer.”

Reluctantly, Roman let her in. Anna looked around and grimaced.

“How can you live like this?”

“What do you care? You’re the one who shoved me in here.”

“You shoved yourself,” she corrected him. “With your greed, laziness, and arrogance. But that’s not the point. Remember you said I was jealous of Kristina? That she’s young and pretty?”

“So what?”

“So, Kristina is me.”

Roman didn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

Anna took out her phone and opened a photo. Kristina was on the screen—but… something was off.

“Look closer,” Anna suggested.

Roman took the phone, zoomed in—and gasped. It was Anna. In a wig, with different makeup, colored contacts. But it was her.

“HOW?!”

“Theater club in my youth. Plus a good makeup artist and a bit of acting. Changing your voice is harder, but you never heard us at the same time, did you?”

“But… but we… we slept together!”

“In the dark. You always turned off the light, remember? And you were always drunk. And in the morning I ‘left for work.’ In reality, I went home and turned back into the boring wife.”

Roman slid down the wall to the floor.

“Why? WHY did you do this?”

“I wanted to check. If you’re capable of real feelings. Or if all that matters to you is the packaging. Youth, beauty, passion. Turns out it’s just the packaging. Not once did you show any interest in my—I mean Kristina’s—thoughts, dreams, plans. Just sex and expensive gifts.”

“And the illness? The surgery?”

 

“There was no illness. I sent the money to charity. To a children’s hospice. In your name, by the way. You can be proud—you saved three kids.”

“You… you’re a MONSTER!”

“No. I’m a woman who put up with humiliation for ten years. Who you treated like furniture. Who you cheated on left and right, thinking I was an idiot who noticed nothing. I just paid you back. With interest.”

“And the man in the photo? Oleg?”

“My cousin. An actor. I asked him to play a role. He loved it—said he hadn’t had that much fun in years.”

Roman looked at his wife—no, his ex-wife—and didn’t recognize her. This was a completely different woman. Smart, cunning, ruthless.

“What do you want from me?” he asked tiredly.

“Nothing. I just thought you should know the truth. And also—I have an offer.”

“What offer?”

“Come back. Not as a husband—as a partner. You’ll run the dealerships. I see the reports—without you, sales are down twelve percent. You’re a good salesman, Roma. A bad husband, but a good salesman.”

“And why should I work for you?”

“Do you have any other options?” Anna shrugged. “You’ll get a percentage of the profits.”

Roman was silent, digesting her words. His pride was shouting, “Tell her to go to hell!” His reason was calmly calculating: rent, food, loans—his current salary barely covered survival.

“Think about it,” Anna headed for the door. “The offer stands for a week.”

“Wait,” Roman stopped her. “And if I… if I agree… Will we ever be able to…”

“No,” she cut him off sharply. “Never. You killed everything that was between us. But I’m not vindictive. Just smart. I need a competent manager, not a husband.”

The door closed. Roman was left alone in the cramped apartment where even the walls seemed to press in on him mockingly.

He poured himself the remaining whiskey and raised the glass.

“Damn bitch,” he muttered, but without his former rage. There was almost a tired admiration in his voice. “She outplayed me completely.”

And yet… Somewhere deep down, under the layers of humiliation and wounded pride, a strange gratitude flickered. Anna could have crushed him completely. But she’d given him a chance. A last one.

He picked up his broken phone, turned on his laptop. He had to answer. Before the week was up.

Anna was driving her new Mercedes, smiling. A cheerful song was playing on the radio. The lights of the evening city—her city—flashed by outside the window.

For ten years she had been a shadow. Now she was the mistress of her own life.

Her phone vibrated. A message from her brother: “You deserve an Oscar, sis. Brilliant performance.”

Anna laughed. Yes, she’d played her part. And she’d won. Her freedom, her self-respect, herself.

And Roman… Whether he came back or not didn’t matter anymore. She no longer depended on his choice.

Ahead lay a new life. Finally, her own.

 

Marina was coming home, exhausted.
It was an ordinary autumn evening—weekday, damp. In her bags: bread, milk, a pack of buckwheat, apples. In the stairwell, as always, it smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage, and the bulb above the second floor flickered in its nervous rhythm, like an alarm signal.

Climbing to the third floor, she turned toward the railing almost automatically—when she noticed that the door of her mother-in-law’s apartment, on the second floor, was ajar. In the same instant, she heard the voice of her husband, Andrey, from inside.

“Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’s already taken care of. The apartment is mine under the prenup. She won’t even realize until she’s left with nothing. The signature looks real.”

Marina froze. Her heart dropped into her shoes.

“That’s right, son,” the mother-in-law replied. “Didn’t give you an heir, so why should she get the apartment? She’s just a temporary inconvenience.”

Marina pressed herself against the wall, gripping the handles of her shopping bags as if trying to anchor herself to reality. Without making a sound, she slowly continued upstairs, like a shadow.

She shut the door behind her and slowly set the bags down on the kitchen table. One tore, the bread tilted, and the apples rolled across the floor—she didn’t even try to catch them. She just sat on the stool by the radiator, staring into emptiness.

The words from a floor below hammered in her head like a mallet striking metal.
“She won’t even realize… The signature looks real…”

Stupid. Did he really think she wouldn’t figure it out?

And yet, it had all started with “convenience.” Six years ago, when they were choosing a flat, Andrey spoke with confidence, insistence—like he had already made the decision.

“Mom’s apartment is just one floor down. That’s a plus! She’ll be right there to help, to keep an eye on things. We’ll pay off the mortgage faster. Makes sense, right, Marish?”

He called it “family support.”

Marina had simply nodded. She didn’t know how to argue—and didn’t want to. The important thing was to have their own place. Their own territory. Even with a mortgage, at least it wouldn’t be rented, with someone else’s rules.

They registered the apartment in both their names. Then the papers started.

“Sign this,” Andrey would leave a sheet on the kitchen table, next to her coffee cup. “Just standard stuff, the bank needs it.”
Or, “The lawyers said it’s for insurance. Pure formality.”

She signed. Not because she was stupid—because she trusted him. Who double-checks “formalities” with the person you live with, eat with, sleep with, share a bed and a loan with?

Her mother-in-law, Nadezhda Semyonovna, had never hidden her disapproval:

“You’re cold. No tenderness, no smile. Everything with you is on a schedule. Not a woman—an audit in a skirt.”

Marina never took offense—she simply stayed silent. Only when Andrey left—for work or the gym—did she let herself relax. A deep breath in, and out—like climbing a mountain.
Her mother-in-law interfered in everything: curtains, dishes, the frequency of marital “dates,” as she called them. Even soup.

“Not salty. Do you even know how to cook?”

Marina didn’t know how to snap back. She just did her part—laundry, bills, Saturday cleaning, sorting laundry by color.
She lived by the rules—what she thought were shared rules. Turned out, they were someone else’s.

And now all the “technicalities,” the little things she signed without thinking, had suddenly become a weapon. Against her. With her own signature.

She stared at an apple that had rolled under the fridge and thought, for the first time:
“Maybe I haven’t really been living—just existing on paper.”

She said nothing. Not that evening, not at dinner, not over coffee the next morning. Everything was the same: Andrey hurried through breakfast, complained about traffic, kissed her cheek, and slammed the door on his way out. Only now, she no longer watched him go.

When he left, Marina opened the bottom drawer of his desk. The folder with documents lay there as always—carelessly. She sifted through the papers with trembling fingers. Then—there it was: Prenuptial Agreement.

Inside—her name, his name, and the terms stating that the apartment would go to him in the event of a divorce.
Dated a month before the wedding.
Her signature. Almost.

She stared at it for a long time. It was almost her signature—but not quite. She had never written the letter “M” at that angle.

Two hours later, she sat in a café by the window, across from Sveta, her friend from law school.

“It’s a forgery,” Sveta said, after skimming the scans. “We’ll need handwriting analysis. In the meantime—silence. Don’t let him suspect.”

That evening, Marina placed a small voice recorder in the hallway—under the dresser. She photographed the signature and compared it to her passport.

The next day, she recorded Andrey in the bathroom telling his mother:

“Relax, Mom. She hasn’t noticed a thing.”

Three days passed. Marina kept up the routine—laundry, mopping, stacking groceries on shelves. But now she counted Andrey’s steps, listened to his tone, and asked herself over and over: How can he sit next to me and lie so calmly?

On Saturday, she made borscht—his favorite, with garlic and fried onions. She baked an apple pie. Andrey came home cheerful, snapping his fingers to the music on his phone.

“Smells amazing! I’m dead tired today. Let’s eat?”

They ate in silence. Marina was calm—almost icy. When he finished his second bowl, she dried her hands on a towel and looked him straight in the eye.

“I heard your conversation with your mom. And I found the ‘contract.’ You didn’t even bother to forge my signature properly.”

Andrey froze. Then smirked sharply.

“What nonsense? As usual, you’re making things up.”

Marina took the copy of the document from the drawer and laid it in front of him. Then she played the recording, his voice clearly saying:
“The apartment is mine under the prenup.”

Andrey went pale, then flushed.

“Everything depends on me! You’re nothing! You can’t prove a thing. It’s already done. You make trouble—you’ll be out of here in your slippers.”

Marina stood up calmly.

“Thank you, Andrey. You’ve just helped me win the case.”

The next day, she filed the papers. Sveta handled everything—divorce petition, motion to declare the prenup invalid, request for handwriting analysis.

The experts confirmed: the handwriting wasn’t hers. The slant, the pressure, even the curve of the letter “r”—all wrong. Plus, the audio recordings. In them, Andrey freely discussed with his mother how to leave his wife with nothing. Sveta smiled:

“It’s clean. The scheme he was so proud of is now working against him.”

In court, Andrey sat sullen, lips pressed in a thin line. His mother sat behind him, clutching her purse to her chest. Her expression wasn’t shame—it was disappointment: he hadn’t pulled it off.

The judge didn’t waste time.

“Signature forged. Contract invalid. Audio confirms intent. The apartment remains with the wife. The defendant will pay compensation.”

After the hearing, Marina stood at the courthouse entrance, clutching a copy of the decision. The paper rustled as if it were breathing.

 

Andrey walked past without meeting her eyes. His mother beside him.

“You shouldn’t have eavesdropped,” he muttered. “You ruined everything.”

Marina didn’t answer. She simply turned away and walked to the bus stop. Steady. Straight.

When Andrey finally moved out—over two nights, without farewells—the apartment became quiet. Strangely so. No sound of his footsteps, no mother-in-law’s voice on the phone, no slamming door in the mornings.

A week later, Nadezhda Semyonovna rang the doorbell. Marina opened without checking the peephole.

“Let’s not be enemies? We’re still family,” the mother-in-law murmured, clutching a container of pies.

Marina shut the door without a word. Not harshly—calmly.

That same day, she took down the dark curtains and threw out the wedding china set. Bought a new kettle, painted the kitchen walls a light color. Laid a rug she had always wanted, but which “didn’t match the sofa.”

For the first time, she moved the bed—not according to her mother-in-law’s feng shui, but for her own comfort.
A bright potted plant appeared on the windowsill.

Marina made tea, opened the window, and sat at the table.
This was her place. At last.

A year passed. Marina was now a senior analyst at the same company. Recently she’d been offered a managerial position, and for the first time she didn’t doubt—Yes, I can handle it.

She lived alone. Peacefully. With trips, unhurried weekends, and Saturday pottery classes.

That’s where she met Egor—a widowed instructor, slightly balding, with a quiet voice and warm hands. He didn’t laugh loudly, but his laughter was contagious.

“You’ve got the hands of someone who’s done this before,” he told her once, watching her shape a vase.

They began seeing each other more often. No promises—just warmth.

One evening, sitting in her newly bright kitchen, Marina held a cup of tea and smiled.

“Now I know—whatever they’re saying through the wall, the most important thing is that your own life carries your own voice.”

Good Lord, what on earth is going on?” Marina jerked awake to a crash in the kitchen. The clock on her nightstand read half past six. Sunday. The only day in the last three weeks when she could have slept at least until eight.
Kitchen supplies

She threw on a robe and stepped out of the bedroom. In the kitchen—flour scattered over the table, pots and pans everywhere—her mother-in-law was in full command. In her eternal blue apron, Nina Mikhailovna was kneading dough, humming under her breath.

“Good morning, Marinachka!” she beamed when she saw her daughter-in-law. “I decided to spoil you and Andryusha with pancakes! You’re always at work, no time to cook properly. So I got up early, opened the door quietly with the key so I wouldn’t wake you.”

Marina stood in the doorway, feeling something dark and hot begin to boil inside her. Three years. Three years she had put up with these early-morning invasions. Her mother-in-law came whenever she pleased, cooked whatever she pleased, rearranged things however she pleased. And always with that cloying smile of the doting mommy.

“Nina Mikhailovna,” Marina began, trying to keep her voice even though it betrayed her with a faint tremor, “we agreed. You need to warn us before you come. And the time… It’s six-thirty in the morning!”

Her mother-in-law threw up her hands, leaving floury prints on her apron.

“Oh, come now, dear! What warnings do we need among our own? I’m not a stranger! I’m Andryusha’s mother, aren’t I? I’m taking care of you two. The way you live—like a train station—either at work or off somewhere. You’re hardly home at all.”

That was the last straw. Marina felt something inside her snap, like a string pulled too tight. Months of sleep deprivation, endless projects at work, the fight to keep even a sliver of personal space—all of it crystallized into one clear desire. She wanted quiet. She wanted peace in her own home.

“Leave,” she said softly but firmly.

Nina Mikhailovna froze with a lump of dough in her hands.

“What? Marinachka, what are you talking about?”

“I’m asking you to leave. Right now. And leave the key.”

 

The older woman gave a nervous laugh and went on kneading.

“You’re not awake yet, that’s all. Go splash some cold water on your face and I’ll finish the pancakes.”

Marina took a deep breath, walked over to the stove, and decisively turned off the gas under the skillet where the oil was already sizzling. She picked up the bowl of batter from the table and, without a word, poured it into the sink. Nina Mikhailovna gasped.

“What… what are you doing?!”

“Defending my home,” Marina replied, turning on the tap and rinsing the batter away. “You have five minutes to gather your things and leave. Put the key on the table.”

“How dare you!” the older woman squealed. “I’ll tell Andryusha everything! You’ll be sorry!”

“Go ahead. And now—out.”

The next few minutes passed in tense silence. Puffing with indignation, Nina Mikhailovna gathered her things, slamming cupboard doors as she went. At last she flung the key onto the table with such a bang the glasses in the rack rattled.

“Ungrateful girl! I do everything for you and you—”

“Good-bye, Nina Mikhailovna.”

Marina walked her to the door and shut it with a wave of staggering relief. She leaned against it and closed her eyes. Silence. Blissful, long-awaited silence.

An hour later Andrey woke up. He came into the kitchen, stretching and yawning.

“Morning. It’s awful quiet. Didn’t Mom come by?”

Marina poured him coffee.

“She did. And she left.”

“She didn’t have time to make pancakes?” he said, surprised.

“I asked her to leave. And to hand over her key.”

The cup stopped halfway to his lips.

“You what?!”

“What you heard. I can’t stand these morning raids anymore. I need peace in my own home.”

Andrey set the cup down so hard coffee sloshed onto the tablecloth.

“You threw my mother out?! Are you out of your mind?”

“I set boundaries,” Marina said calmly. “Boundaries that should have been set long ago.”

“She meant well! She takes care of us!”

“Of you, Andrey. She takes care of you. To her, I’m just an unfortunate add-on to her precious little boy.”

He shot to his feet.

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!”

“And don’t you dare shout at me in my house!”

“In OUR house!”

“Which has become a branch office of your mommy’s apartment! She comes when she wants, orders us around as she wants, and I’m supposed to put up with it in silence?”

Andrey grabbed his phone.

“I’m calling her right now to apologize for your behavior!”

“Go ahead,” Marina shrugged. “Just know this: if she gets a new key, I’ll change the locks. And if you make another duplicate—I’ll move out.”

He froze with the phone in his hand.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m warning you.”

The rest of the day passed in icy silence. Andrey pointedly didn’t speak to Marina, had lunch at his mother’s, and came home only late at night. Marina didn’t try to hash anything out. She knew a long war lay ahead. But she was ready.

Monday began with a phone call. At work, Marina saw her mother-in-law’s name on the screen. She declined it. A minute later the phone rang again. And again. After the fifth call, Marina muted her phone. By lunch there were more than twenty messages in her messenger. She opened the first: “Marinka, we need to talk. You had no right to treat me like that.” She didn’t read the rest—she simply blocked the number.

That evening Andrey met her at the door.

“Mom’s been calling you all day and you won’t answer!”

“I’m working,” Marina said evenly, taking off her shoes. “I don’t have time for idle chatter.”

“Idle?! You sent her into a heart episode yesterday!”

“If she’d had a heart episode, she’d be in the hospital, not calling me every five minutes.”

Andrey flushed dark red.

“Enough! Tomorrow you’ll go to her and apologize!”

“No.”

“Marina, I’m not joking!”

“Neither am I.”

She walked past him into the room. He stayed in the hallway, fists clenched. This woman he thought he’d known for three years had suddenly become a stranger. She had always given in, agreed, tried to avoid conflict. Now she looked at him calmly and coldly, as if he were just someone she barely knew.

The next day, Nina Mikhailovna tried a different tactic. She lay in wait for Marina outside the office. When Marina came out after work, her mother-in-law literally blocked her path.

“Marinka! Wait, we need to talk!”

Marina stopped—not because she wanted to talk, but to avoid making a scene in front of colleagues.

“Nina Mikhailovna, we have nothing to discuss.”

“How can you say that? You’ve practically banished me from your home! You’re cutting a son off from his mother!”

“I’m not cutting anyone off from anyone. I’m asking you to respect my boundaries.”

“What boundaries? We’re family!”
Family games

“Exactly. Family is me and Andrey. And you are his mother, who lives separately and should respect our privacy.”

Nina Mikhailovna threw up her hands.

“What kind of person are you! You have no heart! I only want what’s best for you!”

“Your ‘best’ is suffocating me,” Marina said quietly. “Excuse me, I have to go.”

She stepped around the older woman and headed for the bus stop. Behind her came the outraged cry:

“You’ll be sorry! Andryusha won’t forgive you!”

Marina didn’t look back. In one thing, she knew, Nina Mikhailovna was right—Andrey truly wouldn’t forgive her. But she could no longer live with constant intrusions into her personal space.

An angry husband was waiting at home.

“Happy now? My mother called me in tears! Says you insulted her in the street!”

“I told her the truth.”

“Your truth drove her into hysterics!”

“How she reacts to my words is her choice.”

Andrey slammed his fist on the table.

“That’s it! Either tomorrow you apologize and give her key back, or…”

“Or what?” Marina looked at him steadily.

He faltered. He had nothing to threaten her with. The apartment had been bought fifty-fifty, both worked, there were no children.

“Or I don’t know what will become of our marriage,” he managed at last.

“I don’t know either,” she agreed. “But I will not live by your mother’s dictates anymore.”

The following days turned into torture. Andrey practically stopped speaking to her. He came home late, ate at his mother’s. Nina Mikhailovna kept up the assault—calling her at work, showing up outside the office, sending long messages about how heartless and ungrateful Marina was. Marina held her ground, though her nerves were fraying.

The climax came on Friday. Marina returned from work to find the front door ajar. Her heart dropped. She nudged it open and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, but something was off. She walked into the kitchen and froze. Every cupboard stood open, the dishes had been rearranged, a pot of soup simmered on the stove, and on the table lay a note: “Made you dinner. —Mom.”
Kitchen supplies

A wave of fury surged up inside her. Nina Mikhailovna had been here. In her absence. Playing lady of the house in her kitchen despite a direct ban. Which meant Andrey had made her a duplicate key.

She pulled out her phone and dialed her husband.

“You gave her a key,” she said without a greeting.

“Marina, let’s talk at home…”

 

“Answer me. Did you give your mother a key to our apartment after I explicitly forbade it?”

Silence.

“She’s my mother. She has a right…”

Marina hung up. It was over. She knew it with absolute clarity. Moving as if in a dream, she went to the bedroom, took a suitcase from the closet, and began to pack—methodically, neatly, without hurry. Underwear first, then clothes, then documents.

Andrey returned an hour later. Seeing the suitcase in the hallway, he stopped dead.

“What does this mean?”

“Exactly what it looks like. I’m leaving.”

“Marina, don’t be ridiculous. Let’s talk.”

“About what? About how you betrayed me? Chose your mother over your wife?”

“I didn’t choose anyone! I just wanted you two to make peace!”

“No, Andrey. You made your choice the moment you gave her a key. You showed me that her wishes matter to you more than my boundaries.”

She picked up the suitcase and a folder with documents.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To a friend’s. Then I’ll rent a place. I’ll file for divorce next week.”

“Marina, you can’t be serious! Over some key…”

She stopped at the door and turned.

“Not over a key, Andrey. Over respect. Which you don’t have for me. Tell your mother—she’s won. Now she can come every day and make you pancakes.”

Marina walked out, leaving Andrey standing in the entryway with his mouth open. She went down the stairs, stepped outside, and drew a long breath of evening air. For the first time in a long while, she felt free.

The next morning her phone rang. Andrey. She didn’t answer. A few minutes later a message arrived: “Mom wants to talk. She’s ready to apologize.” Marina smirked. Too late. She deleted the message and blocked the number.

A week later she rented a small apartment in another neighborhood. Small, but hers. Where no one would come without an invitation, run her kitchen, or teach her how to live. That evening, sitting in her new place with a cup of tea, she received a text from an unknown number: “Marinka, it’s Nina Mikhailovna. Andryusha is going crazy without you. Let’s talk and make peace. I won’t come over without asking anymore.”

Marina read the message and deleted it. Then she opened the window to let in the fresh air and smiled. A new life had begun. No more early-morning intrusions, no more fighting for the right to be mistress in her own home, no more choosing between her self-respect and staying married.

A month later, her lawyer told her Andrey had agreed to a no-fault divorce with no division of property—Marina would take her half of the apartment’s value in cash. Another month, and she had the divorce certificate in hand. That same evening her friend called:

“Heard the news? Andrey’s living with his mom now. She moved in—cooks, cleans. They’re both happy.”

Marina laughed.

“I’m happy for them. They’ve found each other.”

And it was true. She really was happy—for them, and especially for herself. For finding the strength to say “no.” For choosing herself, her peace, her freedom. For knowing she would never again wake at six-thirty to the clatter in the kitchen
Kitchen supplies

 

Marina sat on the edge of the couch and counted her breaths so she wouldn’t snap.
In the bedroom—a wheeled suitcase; in the hallway—Alexei’s jacket, smelling of someone else’s perfume.
Behind the wall, their son was asleep.
The apartment was breathing silence, like a hospital ward before an operation.

Alexei was carefully folding his shirts, not lifting his eyes.

“You’re silent again,” he threw over his shoulder as he pulled up the zipper. “I was waiting for you to at least ask why.”

“I don’t want to listen to excuses,” Marina replied. “You made all the decisions without me.”

“You could’ve at least tried to stop me.”

“You don’t try to keep garbage,” she said with a sharp smile. “You take it out.”

He flinched.

“Spare me the cheap metaphors. We’re adults. Let’s stay friends.”

“Be friends with your mistress,” she said evenly. “What’s her name again?”

“Don’t call her that,” he snapped. “Lena is a normal person.”

“Normal people don’t lie down in someone else’s bed.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if letting the blow pass through him.

“I’ll take Ilya on the weekends. And I’ll send money. You know I’m not going to disappear.”

“You’ve already disappeared,” Marina said, watching his hands. “Only the body is left here to finish packing the suitcase.”

Alexei’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. A short message. He drew in a breath, not managing to hide his smile. Marina saw that movement of his lips—too alive for a man who was supposedly just “tired.”

 

She stood up.

“If you walk out now—you walk out for good. No late-night calls of ‘how are you,’ no sudden visits to ‘check homework.’ You want a clean start? Enjoy.”

“You don’t know how to forgive,” he said quietly. “That’s what will make things worse for you.”

“I’ve already had worse. From here on—only up.”

At the same moment, both of them looked at the cabinet door: there, in a child’s drawing, three people were holding hands—Dad, Mom, Ilya.
Marina took the drawing off and held it out to Alexei. He didn’t take it.

“You’ll tell him yourself,” she said firmly. “And not with ‘we’re different people’ or ‘these things happen.’ Tell him the truth: you found someone else and chose yourself.”

“You’re cruel.”

“And you’re not?”

He picked up the suitcase. The wheels thudded dully over the threshold.

“Marina, if… if it gets too hard—call me.”

“When it’s hard, I call a doctor, not the cause of the illness.”

The door closed. The apartment became lighter and heavier at the same time.
Marina went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, then turned it off again—the noise irritated her. She picked up her phone. On the screen it flashed: “New card transaction: -120,000.” Joint savings. A week ago. She sat down on the stool and laughed—a hoarse, alien laugh.

“Nice. Very adult,” she whispered to herself.

Behind her, something creaked softly: Ilya was standing in the doorway, rumpled, barefoot.

“Mom? Did Dad leave?”

Marina licked her dry lips and crouched down so she’d be at eye level with him.

“Dad went to live somewhere else. But he loves you. And I love you. And we’ll manage.”

“He won’t come back anymore?” the boy asked, clutching a toy car in his hands.

“He’ll come visit you. But at home it’s you and me now. Whether that’s bad or good—we’ll decide ourselves.”

Ilya hugged her around the neck tightly, like a grown-up. She closed her eyes for three breaths. Let go.

“Go lie down. You’ve got practice in the morning.”

When he left, Marina pulled a shirt out of the laundry basket—he’d forgotten it. A crinkly receipt fell out of the pocket. “Legal consultation. Application: divorce, division of property.” The date—yesterday. Next to it—a business card with a phone number, neatly fastened with a paperclip.

Her phone vibrated again. A message from an unknown number:

“Marina, this is Lena. I understand how unpleasant this is for you. I will respect your boundaries. If Ilya needs anything—write to me.”

Marina deleted the text without opening it and put the phone face down. Inhale. Exhale. She turned the kettle back on—and this time waited for it to start hissing.

“Adult, then adult,” she said aloud. “We’ll start with rules.”

She took out a notebook, drew a thick line and wrote:
“1) Lawyer.
2) Card in my name.
3) Routine for Ilya.”
At the bottom, after a pause, she added:
“4) No more keeping quiet.”

The night sagged like wet laundry on a clothesline, but by morning the room seemed brighter. She got her son ready, they left—and the elevator stopped on the first floor. The doors slid open, and Marina came face to face with a woman in a sky-blue coat, strikingly young. Her lashes cast little shadows. For a moment they both froze.

“Are you Marina?” the woman asked gently. “I’m… Lena. I came to pick up Alexei’s shirt. He… left one here… it was my gift.”

Marina gave a short nod.

“You’ll wait outside. My child is running late.”

“Of course. I… didn’t mean to intrude.”

Marina squeezed her son’s hand tighter and walked past. Outside, the cold street smelled of wet asphalt. Suddenly she understood with perfect clarity: she would never again give up ground to anyone in her own home.

At the school gate Ilya turned back:

“Mom, are you going to smile today?”

She leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

“Yes. Just after I take care of a few things.”

When she came back, Lena was still standing by the entrance, shifting from foot to foot. Marina handed her the shirt tied up in a bag and the stranger’s business card, pinched in the door’s shadow.

“Tell Alexei that next time it goes through the lawyer,” she said calmly. “And no more messages to my number. Ilya has a father. Everything else is not your field.”

Lena went pale and nodded. The door closed softly, almost soundlessly. In the kitchen, the kettle finally switched off by itself.

Marina sat down at the table, opened the notebook and added a fifth point:
“5) Live.”

Marina didn’t remember how the next week went by. Everything blurred together—phone calls, reports, Ilya’s homework, the evening news where someone was always saving someone, but never her.

Only in the mornings, when she put the coffee on, did that same sticky, ringing silence descend for a second—the kind that made you want to scream.

One evening the phone rang.

“Marin, hey, it’s Ira. Are you even alive over there?”

“Sort of.”

“Cut it out with your ‘sort of.’ Let’s go out of town on Saturday, I’ve already planned everything.”

“I can’t, Ilya…”

“You’re bringing him with you. Let him get some fresh air, and you can stop breathing the past.”

Marina smirked, but inside something stirred. She agreed.

On Saturday they drove out to the lake. The air smelled of pine and freedom. Ilya chased a ball around with Ira’s kids, and Marina, for the first time in a long while, just sat there in silence—without the thought of “what next” gnawing at her.

And then she heard a voice:

“Marina?”

She turned—there was a tall man with a beard in a sports jacket, smiling at her.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Anton. Uni, third year, accounting lectures, I always copied from you.”

Marina blinked, and the memories surfaced. That same Anton who once invited her to a concert, but she was already seeing Alexei back then.

“Wow… It’s been a hundred years,” she smiled.

“A hundred years—and one divorce,” he chuckled. “So you’re in the ‘new life club’ too?”

“Looks like it.”

They drank tea from a thermos and talked about everything and nothing. There was no pity in his voice, only lightness. And for the first time, Marina didn’t feel broken.

On the way home, Ilya asked:

“Mom, who was that?”

“An old friend,” she answered.

“He’s nice. You smiled with him.”

The following week Alexei called.

“Marina, could you let Ilya stay with me for two days tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course. He misses you.”

“By the way, who were you with last weekend?” his voice tightened.

“With a friend. Why do you care?”

“It’s just… Ilya mentioned some guy. I don’t want random people around him.”

“Random people? Are you serious, Alexei?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. But I know that a father who left has no right to choose who counts as ‘random’ in our home.”

He went silent.

“You’ve changed,” he said finally.

“Yes, and you don’t like it.”

Anton sometimes texted her. Not obsessively, just short messages:

“How’s your day?”
“Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Don’t forget to eat.”

She caught herself waiting for those lines.

One evening he invited her to an exhibition.

“Not as a date. Just to distract you,” he said.

She hesitated, but agreed.

The gallery was almost empty. Soft light fell on the paintings, which reflected in the glass. Anton stood beside her in silence, then quietly said:

“You hold yourself like everything is under control. But your eyes give you away—you’re tired of being strong.”

Marina turned away.

“I just don’t want pity.”

“And I’m not pitying you. I’m admiring you.”

Her heart twanged like a string. She didn’t answer, just took a deep breath.

On the way home that night, she realized that for the first time in a long while she didn’t want to check her phone—she wasn’t waiting for Alexei’s call.

But the call came anyway. Late at night.

“Are you asleep?” his voice was hoarse.

“Why do you care?”

“I just… miss you. Lena left. It’s complicated.”

Marina snorted.

“Complicated? Was it simple when you were walking out?”

“I made a mistake.”

“No, Alexei. You made a choice. The mistake would be if I believed you.”

He fell silent, as if he hadn’t expected such firmness.

 

“Marin, I…”

“Don’t go on. We both know you don’t miss me. You miss how I made your life convenient.”

She hung up and stared at the screen until it went dark.
Then she got up, poured herself some water and looked out the window.
At the reflection—a woman with a straight back and calm eyes.
And for the first time she thought, “You know… I think I’m starting to like myself again.”

A month passed. Spring. The air smelled of young leaves and something new—not here yet, but already promised.

Marina walked down the street and felt how everything around her was gradually moving into motion: cars, wind, birds, and she herself.

Work went on in its usual rhythm. Evenings—school, dinner, cartoons with Ilya. Sometimes—meetings with Anton. Without big declarations, without promises. Just there.

Sometimes he brought books, sometimes pastries, sometimes he just sat quietly with her in the kitchen while the city hummed outside the window.

And in that silence there was more support than in dozens of “hang in there”s she’d heard before from everyone.

One evening she was coming home with groceries. On the landing of the first floor, Alexei was standing there. Sober, neat, but somehow lost.

“Marin, can I have a minute?”

She stopped, but didn’t move closer.

“Say it.”

“I… wanted to apologize. For everything. For that night, for the way I left. I know it’s late, but…”

“Yes, it’s late,” she answered calmly. “But thank you for finally understanding.”

He nodded, dropped his gaze.

“I can see you’ve changed. Strong. Free.”

“No,” Marina smiled. “I just stopped being convenient.”

Alexei gave a small, crooked smile in return.

“I’m glad you’re doing well. Take care of yourself.”

She nodded.

When he left, Marina felt something strange: not pain, not anger—lightness. Everything had finally fallen into place.

A week later there was a school concert—Ilya was singing.

Marina sat in the audience with her phone ready. Her heart was pounding with pride: he stood there confidently, singing loudly, looking straight into the hall.

In the front row, Anton was holding a bouquet. When the concert ended, he handed the flowers to Ilya, then turned to Marina.

“For him,” he said, smiling.

“And maybe a little for me?” she teased.

“A little,” he replied.

Ilya stood between them, happy, with flowers and a chocolate bar.

“Can Anton come with us for pizza?” he asked.

“Only if you invite him yourself,” Marina said.

“Anton, will you come?” the boy asked hopefully.

“If your mom doesn’t mind,” he smiled gently.

“I’m actually in favor,” said Marina.

Later, when Ilya was asleep, they sat out on the balcony with cups of tea. The city glittered with lights, and the rain softly rustled against the windowsill.

“You know,” Anton said, “I’ve never seen anyone rebuild their life after a storm so calmly.”

Marina looked at him.

“It’s just that at some point I realized: if the hurricane’s passed, you don’t sit around waiting for the next one. You open the windows and let the air in.”

He smiled.

“Can I stay in this house as the fresh air?”

She laughed.

“As long as you don’t blow too hard.”

He gently took her hand. No promises. Just warmth.

For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t thinking about the past. She wasn’t comparing. She wasn’t analyzing. She just sat, listening to the rain tapping, and felt—her heart was alive again.

A few days later she found her old notebook. The one where she’d once written:

Lawyer
Card in my name
Routine for Ilya
No more keeping quiet
Live

She crossed out the last line and added a sixth:

Love. Without fear. Without “if.”

Marina closed the notebook and put it on the shelf.
Life had finally stopped being a fight—it had become a choice.
And that choice was hers

We’re not going to the restaurant for your birthday. I’ve already canceled everything,” Marina said, neatly folding the wrapping paper into the box.
Groceries

Her voice was even, almost flat, but there was something tired in it. A birthday should have been a reason to celebrate, but instead of anticipation she felt irritation mixed with a cold indifference.

There were boxes all over the kitchen—the remnants of the move and of recent purchases. From one of them Marina took out a massive cast-iron frying pan. She immediately felt the weight of the metal, the cold under her fingers, and that sense of “reliability” they always praise in ads. The pan was expensive, branded, with a ridged bottom “for perfect grill marks on steak.”

She set it on the stove next to the others—her husband’s gifts.

Last birthday—a set of pots.

For March 8, Women’s Day—a crepe pan.

For their anniversary—a sauté pan.

The kitchen shelf had turned into an exhibition of shiny but soulless cookware.

At that moment Ilya walked into the kitchen. His face shone with pride and satisfaction—like a man who’s sure he’s done something good.
Gift baskets

“Well? How do you like it?” he asked, hugging his wife. “Told you, best brand. Now you’ve got the whole collection. And, by the way, I got it with a discount.”

Marina silently looked at the pan.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Very… practical.”

“Exactly!” Ilya brightened, missing both the sarcasm and the chill. “You cook incredibly well. I thought you’d enjoy using good cookware. Now you’ve got everything at hand.”

She didn’t answer. She ran her finger over the cold ridges on the bottom and felt an unpleasant sensation growing inside. Not anger—something closer to emptiness.

“So what you’re saying,” she spoke after a pause, “is that this is a present for me?”

“Of course! Who else?” he was genuinely surprised. “You yourself said it was inconvenient to fry meat in the old pan.”

Marina nodded.

“Yes, I did. And I also said that sometimes I’d just like to have dinner somewhere where I don’t have to stand at the stove.”

Ilya waved it off.

 

“Well, that’s different. Home-cooked food is better. And we can create atmosphere ourselves.”

His words sounded sincere, but there was no understanding in them. Only logic. Male logic—simple and straight as a line.

When he went back to the living room, Marina stayed by the stove, staring at the rows of pots and pans. They reflected the light like medals—not for victories, but for years of quiet, invisible submission to a role she had never chosen.

A Logical Response

The idea came suddenly, almost by accident. But the longer Marina thought about it, the more clearly she understood—this would be perfect.

If he saw her as a cook, then let him see himself in the mirror—as a handyman.

The next day she called the restaurant and calmly canceled the reservation she’d made a week earlier. The administrator was surprised, but Marina just smiled into the phone:

“Family circumstances. We decided to celebrate at home.”

That evening, when Ilya came back from work, she met him with a cup of tea and a smile in which fatigue and a faint mockery were mixed.

“We’re not going to the restaurant for your birthday,” she said casually. “I’ve already called them, canceled everything.”
Groceries

Ilya froze with his keys in his hand.

“Wait, what do you mean? Why? We had plans!”

“I want to spend a quiet evening, just the two of us,” she answered softly. “You’ve given me so many kitchen appliances now that it would be a sin to eat anywhere else.”

He gave a confused little laugh.

“Well… that’s logical. Fine, whatever you say. Then maybe I’ll order delivery?”

“No need,” she shook her head. “I’ll cook everything myself.”

The next morning Marina got up early, baked a cake, and set the table. At ten o’clock the doorbell rang. A courier with a large box was standing on the doorstep.

“Please sign here. Delivery for Ilya Sergeyevich,” he said.

Ilya took the box with curiosity.

“Is this from you?”

“Open it,” Marina smiled, though her eyes remained cold.

He tore off the tape, lifted the lid—and froze. Inside lay a powerful professional hammer drill in a plastic case.

“A… hammer drill?” he repeated, clearly not understanding.

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “One of the most reliable models. Now you can drill through concrete walls. I added a core bit for concrete too—they say it’s indispensable.”

He stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or get angry.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“Not at all,” Marina said evenly. “Aren’t practical gifts the highest form of care? You said so yourself.”
Gift baskets

Silence hung in the air. Then he abruptly shut the case and set it by the table—the heavy box hit the leg with a loud thud.

“Very… original,” he muttered. “Thanks, I guess.”

Marina just shrugged.

“You’re welcome. The main thing is that it’s useful.”

They ate breakfast in silence. Only the sound of the spoon against the plate broke the quiet. Marina looked out the window and felt a strange sense of relief.

She had finally answered his logic with his own weapon.

Word for Word

During breakfast the air was as thick as the cold steam over cooling coffee. Marina said nothing. Ilya ate the cake she’d baked without once looking at her. Then he set his fork down and let out a heavy sigh.

“Marina,” he began, “I do appreciate your… concern. But a hammer drill? Why? I already have a drill. It’s just… weird.”

She looked at him calmly.

“And I already had three frying pans before you gave me a fourth. Yet you didn’t think that was weird.”

“That’s different!” he snapped. “I wanted you to be comfortable! For the kitchen to be like a chef’s.”

“And I wanted you to be productive,” she replied without raising her voice. “The only difference is that you decided what I needed, and I decided what you needed.”

Ilya pressed his lips together.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To… prove something to me?”

“So you’d understand,” Marina nodded. “Understand what it’s like to get ‘practical’ gifts that don’t remind you of yourself, but of your role.”

He pushed back from the table so sharply that the chair banged against the tile.

“I don’t deserve this! I was just trying to do what’s best!”

“And I just wanted to be seen as more than the kitchen,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving the cake half-eaten.

The next evening Ilya came home late. He dropped his bag down loudly, shrugged off his jacket, and stopped by the kitchen door. Marina was sitting at the table, drinking tea and leafing through a magazine.

“Alright,” he said dryly. “I get your hint. My presents were… wrong. What do you want? Name it. Earrings? A dress? A vacation somewhere?”

Marina put down her cup and looked at him for a long moment.

“Right now you sound like you just want to close the issue,” she said calmly. “Not understand it—just resolve it so we never go back to it.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” he threw back irritably. “I’m trying, and you’re nitpicking!”

“I’m not nitpicking, Ilya. I’m just tired of being part of your comfort.”

He turned away, clenched his fists, and walked out. The door shut softly.

After that they barely spoke. Only short phrases:

“Buy bread.”

“Wash the towels.”

“Where’s the iron?”

Their words became mechanical, their voices flat—like two coworkers forced to share the same space.

Marina more and more often cooked in the old, worn pan she had inherited from her mother. The new, “gift” one just sat there untouched. Sometimes Ilya would look at it, wanting to say something, but he couldn’t find the right words.

He understood: a wall had grown up between them. And he was the one who had built it.

Reflections in the Elders

A week later they went to visit Ilya’s parents—Larisa Viktorovna and Pavel Semyonovich. It was Sunday, the kettle hissed on the stove, and the house smelled of baking. Everything seemed as usual, yet there was a strange quiet at the table.

Larisa peered at them over her glasses.

“You two are awfully quiet today. Is everything alright?”

“We’re fine, Mom,” Ilya answered without looking up. “Just tired.”

Pavel chuckled.

“‘Just tired’—that’s what we used to call it when someone was sulking.”

Marina smiled slightly but replied gently:
Gift baskets

“I guess we’re having… a creative crisis with gifts.”
Gift baskets

“Oh really?” his mother perked up. “I was wondering why my son’s walking around so gloomy. What, you guessed wrong with a present?”

“On the contrary,” Ilya cut in with a hint of irony. “Now Marina’s decided to answer using my own logic.”

“Let me guess,” said Larisa, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “He bought you something for the kitchen again, didn’t he?”

Marina nodded.

“And I got him a hammer drill.”

Pavel burst out laughing, almost spilling his tea.

“That’s the spirit! A man should feel the full depth of practicality!”

Larisa smirked, shaking her head.

 

“Nice way to answer. But you know, dear, it won’t fix it. Men think it’s all about the object itself. But really, it’s about what’s behind it.”

“Oh yeah,” Pavel snorted. “Remember when I gave you that juicer for your birthday? You didn’t talk to me for a month.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Larisa huffed. “I thought you saw me as some sort of kitchen appliance.”

“I just wanted to make your life easier!” he protested.

“Did I ask you to?” she replied coolly.

Marina and Ilya exchanged glances. Their eyes met—briefly, but long enough to understand: they weren’t the first to stumble over the same thing.

After dinner Larisa called Marina into the living room. It was quiet there, and it smelled of lavender.

“Listen,” her mother-in-law said softly. “I’ve been through this too. Men don’t do it out of malice. It’s just that their language of care is things. And ours is attention.”

“He keeps insisting I make a wish list,” Marina admitted. “So he’ll know what to buy.”

Larisa smirked.

“Then he hasn’t understood yet. When I put that juicer in a consignment shop and told him it had ‘broken,’ Pavel walked around pensive for a week. Then he finally asked: ‘What do you actually want?’ That’s when things started to change.”

Marina nodded. For the first time in a long while, she felt a little lighter inside.

The drive home passed in silence, but this time it wasn’t resentment—it was reflection. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts.

For the first time in a long time Ilya caught himself thinking that he had no idea what Marina wanted—not in terms of things, but in life.

Wish Map

That evening at home, Ilya went into the study they had planned to turn into a nursery. Usually the room was “Marina’s territory”—he rarely went in there except to grab a book or a tool.

A large world map hung on the wall. It was covered in multicolored pins, like a carpet where every mark meant something.

“What’s this?” Ilya asked, stepping closer.

Marina didn’t look up from her book.

“Places I want to go,” she said quietly. “Red ones are the most desired.”

He leaned in, examining the pins: the Norwegian fjords, Japanese hot springs, Peruvian mountains. He had never paid attention to these places, even though the map had been hanging there for years.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted at last, a bit sheepishly.

“You never asked,” she answered calmly. “And I never told you because I thought you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Ilya braced his hands on the desk and stared at the map for a long time. Something clicked inside him—an understanding that her world was much wider than the kitchen and the cookware in it.

“I… I want to understand,” he said, almost in a whisper. “What matters to you.”

Marina smiled faintly. Her eyes softened. For the first time she felt that the wall between them was beginning to crumble.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s start with what we can do without leaving the city. But someday we’ll go to those places.”

Ilya nodded. For the first time in a long time he felt that a gift didn’t have to be about pots, pans, or tools—but about understanding.
Gift baskets

Turning Point

On their anniversary Ilya came home with a flat package. He looked excited and also a little shy.

“Here,” he said, handing the parcel to Marina. “I’m not sure this is what you wanted, but I tried.”

Marina unwrapped the paper. Inside was an old, worn map of South America, covered with a traveler’s markings and notes. In the mountains of Peru, a small red cross was drawn.

“That’s Machu Picchu,” Ilya explained. “You once said you wanted to go there. If you want, we can go.”

She took the map in her hands, traced the faded ink with her finger, and looked at the little cross. This wasn’t a gift to buy himself off. This was a gift from the heart—one that acknowledged her dream, not her role.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“I was probably wrong before,” he admitted. “I used to see only what I wanted to see.”

Marina nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Now you see.”

They hung the map on the living room wall. The red pins glowed against the soft colors of the wallpaper like beacons. Now it wasn’t just decoration, but a plan they were going to carry out together.

For the first time in a long time there were no walls between them—only maps and dreams they would explore side by side.

Ilya sat down next to her, and Marina laid her hand on his. There were no reproaches or accusations in that gesture—only understanding and a new beginning.

“So, we’re starting with Machu Picchu?” he smiled.

“We’ll start with Machu Picchu,” Marina replied. “And then we’ll see.”

And for the first time in a long time, they laughed together as equals, not as master and mistress of the house

Olya will cook something, like always…” Viktor’s voice rang out as he answered his relatives, staring at the empty fridge. I didn’t start cooking—I decided to make a record of the food that had been eaten.

I opened the fridge and froze for a moment, peering into the emptiness. On the middle shelf stood a lonely jar of brine with the last pickle floating in it. Next to it, a dried-out piece of cheese and a small packet of mayonnaise. That was all.

I ran my finger along the cold shelf. Just yesterday there had been a big pot of borscht here, cutlets neatly wrapped in foil, a container of salad. In the freezer—only ice and a single bag of dill, frozen back in August.

The phone rang in the hallway, Viktor picked up, and I stayed in the kitchen, wiping an already perfectly clean table and catching scraps of the conversation.

“Yeah, hi, Mom… Yes, of course, we remember… No-no, we weren’t planning anything… What, Sveta will be there too? Great…”

I froze with the rag in my hand; that familiar unpleasant feeling slowly clenched in my stomach.

“Of course, come over. Yeah, Olya will cook something tasty, like always…”

I put the rag down on the table. His words sounded as if I wasn’t his wife, but a built-in part of the family system, a function called “make something tasty.” He hung up and carefully looked at me.

My gaze fell on the empty shelf where the honey cake had stood just yesterday. Only two weeks ago I’d spent half a day making it according to my mom’s recipe: rolling out layers thin as paper, cooking the custard, assembling the cake and sprinkling it with crumbs.
Family games

At the table, Anna Petrovna, his mother, had taken a small piece, tried it and, addressing her son, said:

“Tasty, of course, Vityusha, but it’s very sweet. At our age we need to watch our sugar…”

His sister Sveta added with light, sympathetic intonation:

“Mom, oh come on, Olya tried… probably.”

That “probably” sounded like a quiet verdict. The cake stayed on the table, bitten into, a symbol of effort wasted for nothing.

And now the fridge was empty again, but this time the cold was inside me.

My mother-in-law doesn’t eat store-bought ‘chemicals,’ and my husband invited her to look at empty shelves. I made a list of the most expensive products: let this tradition hit his wallet from now on.

“What do you mean, ‘buy food for your relatives’?” I broke the silence.

Viktor stared at the floor, his hands in his pockets, as if he were looking for an escape hatch down there in the linoleum.

“Well… Mom… Sveta… you know how it is. They’ll come… it’ll be awkward if the table is empty.”

“‘Awkward’ is when I’m put in front of a done deal,” I flung open the fridge door, showing the result of other people’s appetites. “This, Vitya, isn’t awkward, it’s a pattern.”

He scratched the back of his head.

“Well… family traditions…”

“Family traditions… We had traditions in my family too. Guests were greeted with whatever was in the house, and people were happy to see them, we didn’t work for them like in a factory canteen. And we also had a tradition of bringing a small cake with you.”

He shifted from foot to foot, as if he had nothing else to say.

“Fine, since we have such guests, we need to prepare properly.”

I took a pretty leather-bound notebook from the shelf—the one he’d once given me—and a good pen. My movements were slow. This wasn’t the start of a hysterics; it was the start of a calculated operation.

“Dictate what your mother likes.”

 

He raised his eyes to me in surprise; I caught a flicker of relief there, as if the storm had passed.

“Well… beef tenderloin, only from the central market, from Aunt Masha, remember?”

“I remember. The kind that’s a thousand per kilo, or can we get something simpler?”

“Oh, only that one… Next.”

“Cottage cheese… farmhouse, 9%, the kind they bring in the morning to the little shop by the park.”

“Got it. Vitya, why doesn’t your mother eat store-bought cottage cheese?”

“Well… there’s chemicals in it.”

“I see, chemicals. What else?”

Not sensing the trap, he started to perk up a bit.

“Oh! And that cheese with holes, the one Sveta likes, but Swiss, not ours. They sometimes have it at the shop on the corner, but not always.”

“So we’ll check.”

“And ‘Ptichye Moloko’ candies. Only Rot Front, she doesn’t acknowledge any others.”

“Of course. That’s it?”

“That’s it, I don’t think there’s anything else special.”

I looked at the neatly written list.

“You’re doing great, Vitya.

Let’s see how much your mother’s love costs us!” I sent my husband for the Swiss cheese. And for the first time he saw how expensive his relatives’ nerve costs really are.

Saturday morning. I touched my husband’s shoulder; he was lying with his back to me, facing the wall.

“Get up, provider.”

Viktor mumbled something and tried to pull the blanket over his head. I set yesterday’s list, the bank card, and a printed city map down on the pillow in front of him.

“Time to go get the groceries.”

He sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes, stared at the papers for a few seconds, then gave me a sleepy, confused look.

“Olya… what are you doing? Maybe we’ll just buy everything at the supermarket next door?”

I feigned surprise.

“What, for your mom? Are you serious? She’ll sense it right away, she’ll be offended.”

Viktor let out a heavy sigh and reached for his jeans hanging on the chair. He knew that tone; arguing was pointless.

“Here’s the market. Meat from Petrovich, he starts selling from six in the morning. Tell him you’re from Olga, he’ll set aside the best piece for you, just don’t be late or the wholesalers will take everything. And here’s the shop with the cottage cheese, the fresh delivery is exactly at seven.”

I handed him the map.

“The money is on the card, it should be enough. Just keep all the receipts, okay? I’m curious how much your mother’s love costs us.”

He flinched at my last phrase, silently grabbed the car keys and left.

An hour later the first call came.

“Olya, I’m at the market, I can’t find your Petrovich!”

“Vitya, you’re a grown man, ask people. You’ll manage, I believe in you.”

And I hung up.

The second call was from the cheese shop.

“Olya, have you seen how much this costs?!” he was practically shouting. “This Swiss cheese is like the price of a plane wing! Maybe we should take ours instead? Poshekhonsky?”

“Vitya, you know Sveta doesn’t like ‘our’ cheese, she’ll be upset, don’t skimp on your relatives. Please, darling, don’t make me ashamed in front of your sister.”

I heard a heavy sigh in the receiver.

The climax was a call from Anna Petrovna.

“Olya, what are you thinking?! Vitenka just called me! You’ve made my son run around some warehouses! The child is exhausted!”

“Anna Petrovna, what are you talking about! This is his initiative! He says: ‘I want to make Mommy happy, I’ll pick everything myself, only the very best!’ A real son, your pride! I’m so impressed by him right now! Don’t stop him from doing something nice for you.”

Silence hung on the other end of the line.

My mother-in-law grew embarrassed when she saw the empty pots, and I said: Vitya set the table all by himself. Let’s thank him! In that moment he realized for the first time what I had done.

By evening Viktor came back, practically fell into the apartment, shoulder-slamming the door open. Three huge, backbreaking bags landed with a dull thud on the hallway floor. His face was flushed, his hair wet.

He sat down on the little hallway stool, breathing heavily, silently untying his shoes. He didn’t raise his head, hunched over, staring at one spot.

Soon the doorbell rang—the relatives. They came in loud, cheerful, already anticipating a hearty dinner.

“Olenka, hello! And what smells so good here?” started Anna Petrovna, though the flat smelled only of her son’s exhaustion.

“Hello. Ask Viktor, he’s the main one today.”

They went into the kitchen, their eyes slid across the empty table and then stopped on me. Svetlana peeked into the empty pots on the stove.

“And what… are we having for dinner?”

I nodded toward the bags in the hallway.

“Well, Vitya brought it all. Only the freshest, the finest delicacies. I’m afraid to even touch such products, I’ll just ruin them. We’ll probably just slice everything: the cheese, the tenderloin…”

An awkward silence fell; Anna Petrovna and Svetlana exchanged glances. They had to unpack the bags themselves, take out their son’s and brother’s trophies, look for plates. I simply sat there with my hands folded in my lap, watching.

There was tension at the table; they were eating the expensive tenderloin and Swiss cheese, but without their former pleasure. Because now this food tasted of Vitya’s torments at the market, his anger over the phone. He sat next to me, shoulders slumped, pushing food around his plate with his fork, barely raising his eyes.
Groceries

When the pause became unbearable, I smiled gently:

“Mom, don’t scold me if something’s not right. This is all Vitya—he picked it, he bought it, he brought it. A truly caring son, let’s thank him.”

Anna Petrovna blinked in confusion, a piece of cheese on her fork; Svetlana buried her face in her plate, and Viktor lifted his heavy, resentful gaze to me. And in that gaze, for the first time, I saw not only resentment, but understanding—he understood everything.

My husband himself cancelled the visit to his mother when I opened the notebook to a blank page. He realized that my list was the price of his weakness, a price he was no longer willing to pay.

 

Dinner ended quickly; conversation didn’t flow. The relatives left almost immediately after the meal, citing tiredness. No “see you next weekend” or “that was delicious.”

On the way out, Anna Petrovna patted her son on the shoulder:

“Get some rest, son, you look worn out.”

It was the final jab, aimed of course not at him, but at me.

Viktor and I were left alone among the dirty dishes and leftovers of expensive food on the table. He was silent for a long time, gathering the plates and stacking them in the sink, then he turned to me:

“Why did you do that?”

“And how else, Vitya? What other way is there? I tried talking, you didn’t listen. Now you’ve felt it.”

He didn’t answer, just turned away and turned on the water.

A week went by in silence; we barely spoke, keeping to purely practical phrases. The tension hung in the apartment.

On Friday evening he came up to me while I was watering the plants, shifting nervously as he searched for words.

“Olya… maybe… this weekend… guests…” I could see how hard it was for him to say it.

I said nothing, set the watering can down, went over to the dresser, took out the leather notebook and the pen. Sat down at the table and opened it to a clean page.

He looked at me, then at the blank sheet, and panic flickered in his eyes. He understood: this wasn’t a threat, just a reminder.

Silently he turned around, took his phone and went out onto the balcony, carefully closing the door behind him. Through the glass I could see his silhouette, standing with his back to me, the phone pressed to his ear. His voice was firm, without the childish, ingratiating notes:

“Hi, Mom. Yeah. This weekend we’re going to Olya’s parents for pancakes. Yeah, we’ve already arranged it. Next weekend? Mom, let’s talk during the week and see. Okay, bye.”

He came back in, put the phone on the table and walked past without looking at me.

I put the pen and notebook back in the dresser drawer and went to the fridge. Same jar of brine and packet of mayonnaise, but now that emptiness no longer weighed on me; it was a symbol of freedom.

I took a big red apple from the fruit bowl and, for the first time in a long while, truly smiled

“Valera, you’ve got visitors!” Irina called out when she heard the doorbell ring on Saturday morning.

She had just sat down to check her eighth-graders’ tests, spreading the exercise books out on the kitchen table. Sunday was tomorrow, and on Monday she had to submit the academic performance report. Off to the side lay a stack of unmarked notebooks that didn’t seem to get any smaller no matter how much Irina worked.
Kitchen supplies

The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Irina sighed, put down her red pen, and went to open the door. On the threshold stood Galina Petrovna, Irina’s mother-in-law, her daughter Natalya with her husband Sergei, and their fifteen-year-old daughter Dasha.

“Surprise!” Galina Petrovna exclaimed with a broad smile. “We were just passing by and decided to drop in for lunch!”

Irina silently stepped aside, letting the guests into the apartment. “We were just passing by” was the standard phrase she’d heard dozens of times in five years of marriage to Valera. For some reason, her husband’s relatives never called in advance. They preferred to “just happen to be nearby” precisely at lunchtime.

“Valera’s in the shower,” Irina said when everyone had entered the hallway. “Go on into the living room, he’ll be out in a minute.”

“And what are you making for lunch today, Irina dear?” asked Galina Petrovna, taking off her coat. “I hope it’s something tasty? We got so hungry on the way!”

Irina took a deep breath, counted to three, and slowly exhaled.

“No, I’m not going to cook for you. If you’d like, I can pour you some water,” she said calmly to her husband’s relatives, who once again had shown up without warning.

A deafening silence fell in the hallway. Galina Petrovna froze with her mouth slightly open. Natalya blinked several times in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard right. Her husband Sergei suddenly became very interested in the pattern on the wallpaper, and Dasha hid a smile behind her phone.

 

Valera came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair as he walked.

“Oh, Mom! Natasha!” he said happily, then immediately noticed the tension. “What’s going on?”

“Your wife is refusing to feed us,” Galina Petrovna said in an icy tone. “She says she can only offer us water.”

Valera stared at Irina in shock.

“Ira, what are you doing? This is my family who came to visit.”
Family games

“Without warning,” Irina replied calmly. “For the third time this month. I’m working, I’m drowning in notebooks and reports. I don’t have time to cook everything.”

“But they’re hungry!” Valera protested.

“There are plenty of cafés along the way,” Irina shrugged. “Or you could have called in advance. I would’ve prepared.”

“So that’s how relatives are treated in this house,” Galina Petrovna muttered loudly, turning to her daughter. “Natasha, you would never behave like this.”

Part 2

“Mom, let’s not start,” Valera said unexpectedly. “Maybe we really should have called first?”

Galina Petrovna looked at her son as if he had betrayed his country.

“So now I have to make an appointment to see my own son?” Her voice trembled with hurt. “We’re leaving. We won’t interfere with your… busy life.”

“Wait,” Valera tried to stop his mother, but Galina Petrovna was already marching toward the door, dragging Natalya with her. Sergei and Dasha exchanged glances and followed them.

When the door closed behind the relatives, an oppressive silence settled over the apartment.

“Happy now?” Valera turned to Irina, folding his arms across his chest.

“No, I’m not happy,” she replied. “I’m tired of being a 24/7 canteen for your relatives. They come whenever they feel like it and expect me to drop everything and run to the kitchen.”

“They just wanted to visit us!” Valera raised his voice.

“They wanted to be fed,” Irina shot back. “And why is it always me who has to do it? Why not you?”

“Because you’re a woman!” Valera blurted out, then immediately fell silent, realizing what he’d just said.

Irina gave a bitter little laugh.

“There it is. The truth. For your family I’m just service staff. A cook, a maid, a waitress.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Valera muttered.

“That’s exactly what you meant,” Irina said and went back to the kitchen, to her stack of notebooks. “I’m a math teacher. I have my own job that I need to do. And I am not obligated to drop everything every time your mother feels like sitting at a laid table.”
Kitchen supplies

Valera stared at her silently for a few seconds, then grabbed his jacket.

“I’m going to my mom’s. I need to calm her down after your… stunt.”

“Of course, go,” Irina nodded, not lifting her head from the notebooks. “Just don’t forget to apologize for my behavior.”

The door slammed so hard the glass rattled.

That evening Valera didn’t come back. He didn’t show up the next day either. On Monday morning, as Irina was getting ready for work, the phone rang. It was Marina, a colleague from school.

“Ira, are you okay?” she asked in an anxious voice.

“Yes, why? What happened?”

“The principal got a call from some woman who said you’re a bad wife and unfit to work with children. That you threw your husband’s relatives out of the house hungry and without even offering them water.”

Irina sank down onto a chair. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“That was my mother-in-law,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to the principal.”

“Don’t stress,” Marina reassured her. “Anna Sergeyevna said she’s not interested in employees’ family dramas as long as they don’t affect their work. She just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Family games

After her lessons, Irina walked home slowly, wondering what awaited her there. Valera had ignored her calls all weekend. Could a five-year marriage really fall apart over one refusal to cook?

Part 3

The apartment was quiet and empty. Irina checked her phone—no messages from her husband. She dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. Deciding to keep herself busy, Irina started sorting through the kitchen cabinets—something she’d been meaning to do for a long time but never found the time.

The doorbell rang. Irina’s heart leapt—maybe Valera had come back? But on the threshold stood their neighbor, Zinaida Vasilievna.

“Irochka, is everything all right?” the elderly woman asked. “I saw your Valera leaving on Saturday with a suitcase. Didn’t you two have a fight?”

“Everything’s fine, Zinaida Vasilievna,” Irina replied politely. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

“Because of your mother-in-law, right?” the neighbor asked unexpectedly, and seeing Irina’s surprise, she added, “I saw her car by the entrance. She comes over a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, quite often,” Irina sighed.

“And always without warning, so you don’t have time to prepare?” the older woman asked knowingly. “And then she criticizes your cooking and how you keep house?”

Irina stared at her in amazement.

“How do you…?”

“I had a mother-in-law just like that,” the old woman smiled. “Only back then times were different. I put up with it for thirty years, until my Petya… well, until he passed away. And you did the right thing, showing some backbone right away.”

“And did your husband run off to his mother’s too?” Irina asked hopefully.

“Of course!” Zinaida Vasilievna laughed. “Three times over the course of our life together. But he always came back. Where else could he go? Just don’t give in. You have to set your rules right from the start, otherwise it’ll be too late later.”

After talking to her neighbor, Irina felt a little better. At least she wasn’t the only one who had decided to stand up to “family traditions.”

On Tuesday evening the doorbell rang again. This time it was Valera. He looked crumpled and tired.

“I’m here for my things,” he said, walking into the apartment. “I’ll stay at Mom’s for a while.”

“You’re serious?” Irina could hardly believe it. “Because I refused one time to cook for your relatives?”

“That’s not the point,” Valera started taking clothes out of the wardrobe. “You insulted my family. Mom says you don’t respect our traditions and…”

“Your mom?” Irina cut him off. “You’re a grown man, Valera. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. Can’t you see she’s manipulating you?”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that!” Valera snapped. “She’s always wanted only the best for me!”

“And calling my principal to badmouth me—is that ‘only the best’ too?” Irina asked quietly.

Valera froze.

“What call?”

“Your mother phoned the school and said all kinds of nasty things about me. She wanted me fired.”

“That can’t be,” Valera muttered in confusion. “She wouldn’t…”

“Ask her yourself,” Irina shrugged. “Though I doubt she’ll admit it.”

Part 4

At that moment the doorbell rang again. Irina opened it and saw a tall, gray-haired man of about sixty.

“Good evening,” the stranger said. “I’m looking for Valery Nikolaevich Sokolov. Does he live here?”

“Dad?” Valera peered out of the bedroom, not believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see what kind of mess your mother has stirred up,” the man replied calmly. “May I come in?”

Irina stepped aside, letting her father-in-law into the apartment. She had never seen Valera’s father before. All she knew was that her husband’s parents had divorced when he was twelve and that since then Nikolai Ivanovich had lived in another city.

“My name’s Nikolai,” the man introduced himself, holding out his hand to Irina. “Sorry for coming without warning, but apparently that’s our family tradition.”
Family games

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Irina couldn’t help but smile.

“How did you find out what was going on?” Valera still looked stunned.

“Natalya called,” Nikolai Ivanovich replied. “She said you’ve got a family drama unfolding here and your mother is getting ready to ‘rescue’ you from your ‘evil wife.’ I decided to come and see for myself.”

 

“And you came from another city?” Valera asked skeptically.

“I’ve actually been back for a year,” his father answered calmly. “I work as a consultant at a construction company. I just didn’t want to meddle in your life, son. I thought you’d call when you were ready.”

They sat down in the living room. Nikolai Ivanovich looked around with interest.

“It’s nice here. Cozy,” he remarked. “Now tell me, what happened?”

Irina and Valera started talking at the same time, then stopped.

“Let’s go in order,” suggested Nikolai Ivanovich. “Irina, why don’t you start.”

Irina told him how her husband’s relatives constantly came over without warning, always right at lunchtime, expecting her to feed them despite her workload. How her mother-in-law criticized her housekeeping skills and lectured her on how to run a home properly. And how, the last time, she’d simply had enough and refused to cook.

“And now you, son,” Nikolai Ivanovich turned to Valera.

“Mom says Ira doesn’t respect our family,” Valera began. “That she’s a bad housewife and doesn’t take care of her husband. That if she doesn’t apologize to everyone, it’d be better for us to split up.”

Nikolai Ivanovich sighed heavily.

“And you, of course, took your mother’s side,” he said—not as a question, but as a statement. “As always.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Valera protested. “Ira was rude to Mom!”

“She wasn’t rude,” his father said calmly. “She refused to comply with a demand she considered unfair. There’s a difference.”

Part 5

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that your mother calls your wife’s workplace?” Nikolai Ivanovich went on. “That she turns you against Irina and demands a divorce because she didn’t get a hot meal on command one time?”

Valera stayed silent, staring at the floor.

“Son, you’re repeating my mistake,” his father said gently. “I also always did whatever your mother wanted. I always put her wishes above my own and above those of my family. And do you know where that led? To divorce and to the fact that you and I hardly spoke for twenty years.”

“But Mom said you left her for another woman,” Valera said, bewildered.

Nikolai Ivanovich gave a bitter little smile.

“I left because I couldn’t stand the control and manipulation anymore. And the other woman came into my life much later. But it was easier for Galina to paint me as a traitor than to admit her own mistakes.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Irina didn’t know what to say. She could see Valera digesting the information, his expression changing.

“I’m not saying your mother is a bad person,” Nikolai Ivanovich continued. “She’s just used to controlling everyone around her. It makes her feel safe. But it destroys relationships, Valera. And right now she’s destroying your marriage, and you’re helping her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Valera asked helplessly.

“That’s up to you,” his father shrugged. “But if you want my advice—start setting boundaries. Tell your mother you love her, but that you and Irina have a right to your own rules in your own home.”

“She’ll be offended,” Valera said quietly.

“Of course she will,” Nikolai nodded. “She’ll sulk, lay on the guilt, maybe even threaten you. But if you don’t do it now, you’ll lose your wife. And then the next one. And in the end, you’ll end up alone, like me.”

Valera raised his eyes to Irina.

“Forgive me. I… I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“I’m not angry at you,” she replied softly. “I just want our family to have fair rules for everyone. I’m not against your relatives, really. I just want them to respect our time and our home.”

“You know what,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, clapping his hands lightly, “let’s have a big family talk. We’ll invite Galina, Natasha and her family, and discuss everything like adults. What do you say?”

Irina and Valera exchanged glances.

“I’m in,” Irina nodded.

“Me too,” Valera said, looking determined. “It’s time for everyone to grow up—me included.”

Part 6

The following Saturday, everyone gathered in Irina and Valera’s apartment: Galina Petrovna, Natalya with Sergei and Dasha, and Nikolai Ivanovich. Irina had prepared a spread, but this time Valera helped her in the kitchen instead of sitting with the guests, waiting for his wife to serve everyone.

When Galina Petrovna saw her ex-husband, she almost turned around to leave. But curiosity got the better of her, and she stayed, though her entire posture radiated displeasure.

“So,” Valera began when everyone sat down at the table, “we’re here to talk about the situation in our family and find a solution that works for everyone.”

“What solution can there be?” snorted Galina Petrovna. “Your wife needs to apologize for her behavior, that’s all.”

“Mom,” Valera said firmly, “let’s listen to each other first, okay? No accusations.”

Galina Petrovna pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

“Irina,” Valera turned to his wife, “please tell us what’s bothering you.”

Irina took a deep breath.

“I work as a math teacher. I have six classes—over a hundred and fifty students. I teach lessons, check notebooks, prepare materials, write reports. It takes almost all my time. When you come over without warning and expect me to drop everything and cook lunch for six people, it’s… it’s simply impossible. I’m not against family gatherings, truly. I just want them to be planned so I can prepare.”

“Listen to her, how busy she is,” muttered Galina Petrovna. “And what about family values? When I was young, I always found time for my husband’s relatives!”

“Times have changed, Mom,” Valera said gently. “Nowadays women work just as much as men. Ira really does have a lot on her plate. And I should’ve understood that and helped her instead of expecting her to manage everything alone.”

“This is what modern upbringing leads to,” Galina threw up her hands. “In the old days wives respected their husbands and their husbands’ families!”

“Respect has to go both ways, Galina,” Nikolai Ivanovich suddenly interjected. “You can’t demand respect for yourself while not respecting others.”

“Oh, you be quiet!” flared up Galina Petrovna. “You haven’t been around for twenty years, and now you’re here to teach us?”

“Grandma, please don’t shout,” Dasha said quietly. “Let’s really talk calmly.”

Everyone looked at the teenage girl in surprise.

“Aunt Ira is great,” Dasha went on. “She helps me with math when I ask. And she always treats us when we come over. It’s just that this time we came without warning when she was busy. Is it really fair to expect her to drop her work?”

Galina Petrovna was taken aback; she hadn’t expected this from her granddaughter.

“Dasha’s right,” Sergei unexpectedly chimed in, supporting his wife’s sister-in-law. “We wouldn’t be thrilled either if people kept showing up at our place unannounced and demanding to be fed.”

“Sergei!” Natalya exclaimed indignantly. “Whose side are you on?”

“On the side of common sense,” he replied calmly. “We’re the ones being rude, Natasha. Just admit it.”

 

Part 7

Little by little, the conversation became more constructive. Valera suggested setting clear rules for family visits: agree in advance, at least a day ahead, preferably several. And share responsibilities for cooking—if the gathering is at their place, he and Irina would cook together.

“And it would be nice sometimes to meet at a café or restaurant,” Irina suggested. “So no one has to cook and everyone can just talk and enjoy being together.”

“At a café? To waste that kind of money?” protested Galina Petrovna.

“Mom, we’re not destitute,” Valera said gently. “Once a month we can afford to go out as a whole family.”

“Yes, and I can treat everyone,” Nikolai Ivanovich offered unexpectedly. “After all, I have the right to spend time with my family too.”

Galina pursed her lips but stayed silent. It was clear she didn’t like what was happening but could no longer control the situation as before.

“You know,” Natalya said thoughtfully, “Dad is right. We really could meet as a whole family more often. Dasha barely knows her grandfather.”

“I’d like that,” Nikolai smiled at his granddaughter.

By the end of the evening, the atmosphere had noticeably lightened. Even Galina had thawed a little, though she still kept somewhat aloof. When the guests started to leave, Valera walked his parents out.

“You did the right thing, son,” Nikolai said quietly, shaking his hand. “Take care of your family. And don’t repeat my mistakes.”

Hearing this, Galina sniffed indignantly but said nothing. She kissed her son on the cheek and left the apartment without saying goodbye to Irina.

“Don’t worry,” Natalya said, hugging Irina goodbye. “Mom just isn’t used to being contradicted. She’ll get over it.”

When everyone had gone, Irina and Valera were left alone in the suddenly quiet apartment.

“Thank you,” Valera said softly, hugging his wife. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that closed loop. And I’d never have reconciled with my father.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Irina smiled. “I just wanted us to be respected.”

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Valera stepped back and looked her in the eyes. “Maybe we should move? Rent a place farther from Mom? So she can’t ‘just happen to be passing by’ every week.”

“And you’re ready for that?” Irina asked in surprise.

“I think so,” he nodded. “We need our own space to build our own family. By our own rules.”

Part 8

Three months passed. Irina and Valera moved to another part of the city, renting an apartment not far from the school where Irina worked. This significantly cut down her commute time and gave them more freedom from unexpected family visits.

They established a new tradition—family lunches once a month, agreed upon in advance. Sometimes the gatherings were at their place, sometimes at Natalya and Sergei’s, and sometimes in a café or restaurant. To everyone’s surprise, Nikolai Ivanovich began to appear regularly at these meetings, gradually building relationships with his grandchildren and children. At first, Galina kept her distance and often refused to come if she knew her ex-husband would be there. But gradually, seeing how the family dynamics were changing, she too started to soften.

At one such gathering, when everyone met at a café for Valera’s birthday, Irina noticed Galina and Nikolai having a calm conversation in the corner, without their usual tension.

“Can you believe it,” Natalya whispered, sliding into the seat next to Irina, “they’re discussing how they’ll help Dasha prepare for her exams together. Mom offered to help with Russian, and Dad with physics.”

“Miracles do happen,” Irina smiled.

“And it’s thanks to you,” Natalya said seriously. “If you hadn’t stood your ground back then, everything would still be the same. Mom would be controlling everyone, we wouldn’t be talking to Dad, and Valera would be torn between you and her.”

Irina shook her head.

“I just didn’t want to cook lunch without warning.”

“And in the end you turned our whole family system upside down,” Natalya laughed. “By the way, things are different between me and Sergei now too. He helps more with the housework, and I’ve learned to ask for help instead of waiting for him to magically guess.”

Just then Valera came over with a big cake in his hands.

“Ladies, help me cut this masterpiece,” he grinned. “I can’t handle it alone.”

“Before, you’d just plop it down in front of Irina and go back to the guests,” Natalya pointed out.

 

“Before—yes,” Valera nodded. “But now I know that a family is a team. Everyone has to pull their weight.”

When the cake was cut and everyone gathered around the table, Nikolai unexpectedly stood up and raised his glass.

“I’d like to make a toast. To my son, who turns forty-one today. To the fact that he turned out wiser than his father and found the strength to change what wasn’t working in his family. To the fact that he wasn’t afraid to go against the usual way of doing things and create new, healthy traditions. And”—he looked at Irina—“to his wonderful wife, who helped him do it.”

“To Valera and Irina!” everyone echoed.

Only Galina stayed silent, but when Irina met her eyes, her mother-in-law gave her the slightest of nods. It wasn’t a full admission of guilt or an apology, but it was a step toward understanding. A small one, but important.

After the celebration, when she and Valera came home, Irina asked:

“Do you regret that everything changed so much?”

Valera thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. You know, for the first time I feel like we’re a real family. Not one where everyone plays assigned roles and no one dares step out of line, but one where people respect each other and can be themselves.”

“And all because I refused to cook lunch,” Irina smiled.

“No,” Valera said seriously. “All because you weren’t afraid to break the unspoken rules. Sometimes you just have to say ‘no’ to change what doesn’t work.”

He hugged his wife and added quietly:

“So, how about we cook something together now? I’m hungry.”

Irina laughed and nodded. Cooking together with her husband, by choice and not on demand, was a completely different thing.

Six months later, Nikolai Ivanovich and Galina Petrovna announced they had decided to try to rebuild their relationship. No one had expected such a twist, but everyone was happy. Even Irina, who had already grown used to the fact that her mother-in-law now called before visiting and no longer criticized her housekeeping.

“I never would’ve thought that my phrase, ‘No, I’m not going to cook for you,’ would lead to your parents getting back together,” she said to Valera when they heard the news.

“And I’m grateful you said it,” he replied. “Sometimes you have to stop doing what doesn’t bring anyone happiness so you can start building what really matters.”

And Irina couldn’t disagree. Sometimes a single refusal can change an entire system of relationships. You just have to find the courage to say it out loud.

When I got married at thirty, I didn’t have a penny to my name. No, I wasn’t poor—I just had no savings, no inheritance, no financial cushion. My wife, Anna, came from the same kind of family, where every kopek was accounted for. Her only close relative was her father, a quiet, taciturn man in his sixties living on a modest pension.

Soon after our wedding he moved in with us. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was Anna’s father, and I respected her wish to take care of him. What I couldn’t possibly foresee was that he would stay with us for many, many years.

Two decades. He lived under our roof for twenty years.

In all that time, not once did he offer to help pay the electric or water bills, buy groceries, or cover his medicine. He never volunteered to watch the kids, never cooked dinner, never cleaned up after himself, and he rarely joined in conversation. Some of our acquaintances jokingly called him “the neighborhood’s chief homebody.”

I tried to remain patient, but sometimes the irritation rose right to my throat. I’d come home after a hard day, open a nearly empty fridge, and see him sitting in the living room in his armchair, calmly sipping tea as if that were the natural order of things. I remember once muttering through my teeth, “Must be nice—living without paying for anything…” But I never said it out loud where he could hear.

Every time anger started to boil in me, I stopped myself. He’s old. He’s my wife’s father. If not us, who would look after him? And so, over and over, I swallowed my resentment and carried on.

That’s how our days flowed into years. Our children grew up. We scraped by—sometimes living from one paycheck to the next—but we managed. And he stayed the same: silent, motionless, like part of the furniture, a familiar element of the home’s scenery.

Then, one morning, it was all over. As usual, Anna made his breakfast—a bowl of oatmeal. When she went to call him, she found him sitting still, his hands resting calmly on his knees. He had passed away quietly in his sleep.

The funeral was very modest. Since he had no other relatives, all the arrangements and expenses fell on our shoulders. I didn’t complain: to me it was the last duty I owed. After all, he had lived with us for twenty years, whether I liked it or not.

 

Three days later, as life was slowly settling back into its usual rhythm, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood an elderly man in a formal suit, a leather briefcase in his hand.
“Are you Mr. Artyom Semyonov?” he asked politely.
I nodded, feeling a flicker of unease.
He entered and set his briefcase on the coffee table in the living room.

Chapter 1

The stranger introduced himself: Sergei Petrovich, an attorney. His face was impassive, but there was a certain solemn gravity in his eyes.

“Your father-in-law, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov, left a will,” he said clearly. “In this document, you and your wife are named as the sole heirs.”

My mind refused to process what I’d heard.
“Heirs?” I repeated, bewildered. “Heirs to what? He had nothing but his pension and an old suitcase with war medals.”

Sergei Petrovich allowed himself a faint, barely noticeable smile.
“That’s just it, Artyom. Your father-in-law left you a house. And funds in a bank account. The amount totals seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

The air seemed to thicken around us. I looked at Anna—she had gone as pale as a sheet.
“This… must be a mistake,” she whispered. “Papa? Seven hundred thousand? That can’t be.”

The lawyer gently but firmly shook his head and laid a certified copy of the will before us. Everything was official: signatures, seals, the date—the document had been drawn up two months before his passing.

Chapter 2

We sat in complete silence, unable to say a word. Scenes from the past flashed before my eyes—twenty years spent side by side with a man I had thought of as a quiet, unassuming lodger. He rarely spoke, ate little, spent his days at the window with a cup of tea and old newspapers. Sometimes he dozed. Sometimes he would slowly write something in a thick notebook.

But an estate? Savings? It seemed utterly unreal.
“Excuse me,” I finally managed, trying to collect myself. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no mix-up? Maybe he… sold something before he died? Or…”

Sergei Petrovich delicately cut off my wandering guesses.
“All the documents have been thoroughly verified. The funds were in an account opened in his name twenty-five years ago. The heirs named are you and Anna.”

He handed us a heavy envelope. Inside was a key and a short note written in an unsteady, trembling hand:

“Artyom, forgive the trouble. Everything I had now belongs to you. Don’t judge me harshly. You can’t imagine what I had to go through to save this.”

Anna began to cry softly. I sat there, clutching the slip of paper, as a hot, heavy wave of shame washed over me.

Chapter 3

The next day we went to the address listed in the will. It was a small, time-blackened wooden house on the very edge of the city, looking long abandoned. The paint on the shutters had peeled; the yard was overgrown with weeds.

The key from the envelope fit the lock perfectly. Inside, it smelled of dust, old paper, and time.

Right on the table stood a metal box. Inside, neatly arranged, were stacks of notebooks, cracked photographs from the war years, several letters, and… an old, worn diary.

With trembling hands, Anna opened to the first page.
“1944. France. If I’m destined to return alive, I must repay them this debt…”

We read, holding our breath.

It turned out that during the war Ivan Grigoryevich had saved the life of a young French businessman—the son of the owner of a small jewelry workshop. In gratitude, the man registered a share of the family business in Ivan’s name. After the war, Ivan never returned to France, but that little workshop eventually grew into a successful chain of stores. And his share—ten percent—had continued to yield income all those years. The money quietly accumulated in an account no one knew about.
Family games

Chapter 4

We sat in his old house until late evening. Every object breathed the history of a life lived in the shadows—the worn armchair by the window, the stack of letters with French stamps, a small box with a “For Courage” medal.

“Why didn’t he tell us anything?” Anna asked softly, almost in a whisper. “Why did he live so modestly, almost in need, if he had those means?”

I thought for a moment. And then it struck me. He didn’t want to live for himself. He lived for her. So that one day she would have the security he himself had never known.

I remembered how he would silently hand me a cup of tea when I was especially anxious about the bills. How sometimes, passing by, he would simply lay his hand on my shoulder at a hard moment. No extra words. He was just there.

And the shame surged again, searing and merciless.

Chapter 5

In one of the notebooks we found an envelope marked: “To be opened only after my death.”

Inside was a letter addressed to both of us.

“Artyom, Anna,
I know you were often irritated with me. I felt it, even though you tried not to show it.
Forgive me.
I didn’t tell you about the money because I didn’t want it to change anything between us. I saw how honestly you live, how hard you work. You are the kind of people I can rely on.
This money is not a reward. It is protection.
Artyom, you taught me to forgive myself. You never turned me out, even when I felt I’d become a burden.
And you, Anna—you were the light of my life all these years.
I wasn’t the best father, but I hope I managed to become part of your home.
With love,
Ivan.”
Gift baskets

 

Chapter 6

We came home completely different people. The house where his quiet footsteps had sounded for twenty years now felt empty, and yet it was filled with a new, profound meaning.

Anna completed all the inheritance paperwork, and a month later the very sum appeared in our joint account.

I assumed she would immediately want to buy something expensive—a new car, a larger apartment. But Anna looked at me and said:
“We’ll create a fund. A fund in my father’s name. To help veterans who have no family left. Let it make life a little easier for someone.”

I couldn’t help smiling.
“He would be proud of you.”

Chapter 7

A week after the fund’s official opening, the bank called.
“Mr. Semyonov,” the manager said politely, “while processing the documents we discovered another safe-deposit box registered to Ivan Grigoryevich. You may want to come in.”

In the box lay a small envelope and an old photograph: Ivan Grigoryevich in uniform, embracing a young woman holding a small child.

On the back was written: “Marie and little Jean. Paris, 1946.”
And in the letter—just a few lines:
“If fate has arranged for you to read this, tell them I never forgot them. That I was grateful for every day I had the chance simply to breathe.”

At the bottom an address for a notary office in France was added.

Anna looked at me, a silent question in her eyes.
“Do you think… he had a family there?”
I only shrugged.
“Maybe. Or maybe they were the ones whose lives he once saved. But one thing is clear—he wanted us to know.”
Family games

Chapter 8

In the spring we went to Paris. The French notary confirmed: yes, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov was indeed an owner of a share in the company “Maison Duret.” We were received in an old stone building where archives from the 1940s were still kept.

The senior manager, a silver-haired, elegant man named Jean Duret, turned out to be the very child from the photograph.

He couldn’t hold back tears when we told him who we were.
“Your father-in-law saved my father’s life,” he said, his voice trembling. “And he refused to take any money. He left only one note: ‘If your business ever prospers, help those who truly deserve it.’ And we did. All these years.”

He led us to his office and showed us a wall where an old black-and-white photograph of Ivan Grigoryevich hung with a simple, eloquent caption: “The man who gave us life.”

Chapter 9

On the way home I thought about how true greatness sometimes lies not in loud words or in deeds that everyone sees.

It lies in quiet, daily patience. In the readiness to live modestly and unnoticed so that one day other people’s lives might be better and brighter.

Anna and I began a new life. We opened a small shelter for elderly people left alone. A modest plaque hung on the door: “Ivan’s Home.”

Every time I pass by, I catch myself thinking that somewhere, just beyond our understanding, he is sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea, looking out the window. Calm. Having finally found his peace.

Five years have passed. Our fund has helped many people. Not long ago one of our beneficiaries, a gray-haired veteran, said to me: “Your father-in-law was a very wise man. He understood that a person doesn’t live to hoard wealth, but to leave at least a little light behind.”

And that evening, for the first time in a long while, I set two cups of tea on the kitchen table.
One for me.
And one for him.

Sometimes the most precious gifts are given to us by those we considered the most unnoticeable.

And gratitude is not just a word. It is an entire life lived with the simple knowledge that you’ve already been given everything that truly matters.

Do you have any idea how I feel when I come home and see that everything’s been moved around?” Polina stood in the middle of the living room, looking at her husband. Her voice was tight with tension. “I’m the one paying the mortgage, and yet your mother has somehow decided that she owns part of this apartment.”

Pavel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. They’d already had this conversation more than once in the past few weeks.

“Polina, she just wanted to help. She thought it would feel cozier this way.”

“Without saying a single word to me?” Polina folded her arms across her chest. “Pasha, this isn’t help, it’s… it’s an invasion!”

It had all started two months ago. Olesya Mikhailovna, Pavel’s mother, had lost her job. The company where she had worked as an accountant for more than ten years suddenly closed. And instead of going to her elder daughter Margarita, she asked to stay with them. Temporarily, of course. Just for a couple of weeks, until she found a new job.

Polina had agreed without hesitation. After all, the apartment was small, but there was enough space for three. Besides, Olesya Mikhailovna had always been friendly with her. Until now.

“Darling, I understand you’re tired,” Pavel stepped closer and tried to hug his wife, but she pulled away. “Mom will find a job soon and move out. Just bear with it a little longer.”

 

“Two weeks turned into two months, Pasha. And she’s not even looking for a job! Instead, she’s acting like she runs my apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Pavel corrected gently.

Polina drew a deep breath, holding back her irritation.

“Legally – mine. The mortgage is in my name, because your salary wasn’t enough for the bank to approve the loan. And every month I give almost half my income to the bank. I’m not against us living here together, but your mother…”

The front door opened, and in walked Olesya Mikhailovna carrying bags of groceries.

“Oh, kids, you’re already home! I just popped into the store to get some stuff for dinner,” she said with a cheerful smile, as if she didn’t notice the tense atmosphere.

Polina forced a tight smile.

“Thank you, Olesya Mikhailovna, but I already ordered delivery. I had a hard day.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear! What delivery? Home-cooked food is always better,” Olesya Mikhailovna went into the kitchen and started unpacking the bags. “I’ll make my signature salad, Pavlik has loved it since childhood.”

Polina cast a helpless look at her husband, but he only shrugged and said quietly:

“Let’s not argue today, okay?”

The next morning, Polina woke up to the sound of voices in the living room. Women’s voices, laughter. The clock showed 7:30 – far too early for visitors.

Hastily getting dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom and froze in the doorway. At the coffee table sat Olesya Mikhailovna and two women about her age whom Polina had never seen before.

“Oh, and here’s Polinochka awake!” the mother-in-law exclaimed joyfully. “Let me introduce you, this is Valentina Petrovna and Irina Stepanovna, my friends from my old job.”

The women eyed Polina with open curiosity, while she felt awkward standing there in home clothes in front of strangers.

“Good morning,” Polina said with a strained smile. “Sorry, I didn’t know we had guests.”

“They just dropped by for a minute,” Olesya Mikhailovna waved her hand. “We haven’t seen each other in so long!”

“You have such a cozy little apartment,” one of the women remarked. “Olesya did such a good job arranging everything.”

Polina went rigid.

“Yes, I always said Olechka has great taste,” chimed in the second guest. “She told us how she helped you set everything up.”

Polina turned her gaze to her mother-in-law.

“Helped set everything up?”

“Well, I suggested a few things, gave some advice,” Olesya Mikhailovna brushed it off lightly, but something wary flickered in her eyes.

“Don’t be so modest, Olesya!” one of her friends exclaimed. “You said that without your help the youngsters wouldn’t have managed at all.”

Something snapped inside Polina. She was about to respond, but just then a sleepy Pavel walked out of the bedroom.

“Good morning, Mom,” he kissed his mother on the cheek, then nodded to her friends. “Hello.”

“Pash, we need to talk,” Polina said quietly. “Now.”

They stepped out onto the small balcony and closed the door tightly behind them.

“Your mom is telling her friends she helped us buy the apartment,” Polina tried to keep her voice low, but emotion spilled over. “They think she’s the one who arranged everything here!”

Pavel frowned.

“Well, maybe she exaggerated a little, just to feel important in front of her friends. What difference does it make?”

“The difference is that it’s a lie!” Polina raised her voice, then caught herself and continued in a whisper. “I saved up for six years for the down payment. I went from bank to bank begging for approval. I pay this loan every month. And your mother is taking credit for everything.”

“You’re overreacting. Mom just…”

“No, Pasha, I’m not overreacting. Be honest—what else is she telling them? That she put money into the purchase? That she owns a share here?”

From the look on Pavel’s face, she knew she’d hit the mark.

“Pash, this is not okay. You have to talk to her.”

Pavel stared past Polina for a long moment.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her,” he said at last. “Just not now, not in front of her friends. And… please, don’t turn this into a tragedy.”

At work, Polina got a surprise. The director called her into his office and offered her a promotion—to head a new department working with clients from other regions. It meant a thirty percent salary increase, but also frequent business trips.

“We need your answer within a week, Polina Andreevna,” he said. “Think it over. You’re our best candidate for this position.”

Under normal circumstances, Polina would have agreed without a second thought. She had always aimed for career growth. But right now, the idea of leaving the apartment in Pavel’s and his mother’s hands made her uneasy.

That evening she decided to discuss it with her husband. But when she came home, she found that Olesya wasnikhailovna once again wasn’t alone. This time, her elder daughter Margarita had come with her husband.

“Oh, here’s our Polinochka!” Olesya exclaimed. “Come on in, we were just about to have dinner.”

Polina noticed that the table was set in the living room instead of the kitchen where they usually ate. Their small dining table was covered with an unfamiliar tablecloth, and the dishes were arranged differently than she and Pavel were used to.

“Hi, everyone,” Polina nodded to the guests. “Pash, can I talk to you for a minute?”

They stepped out into the hallway.

 

“Why didn’t you warn me we’d have guests?” Polina asked.

“I only found out an hour ago,” Pavel replied. “Mom called Margarita and they decided to drop by.”

“To our apartment? Without checking with us?”

“Polin, it’s my sister, not strangers.”

“It’s not about that, Pash. It’s about your mother behaving as if this is her home. She invites guests, rearranges things, tells everyone she helped with the purchase…”

“I told you I’d talk to her,” Pavel cut in. “Just not today, okay? Rita and Sergey don’t visit us often.”

Polina gave in. After all, one evening wouldn’t change much.

Over dinner, the conversation turned to Margarita’s work. She worked at a travel agency and often went on business trips.

“Can you imagine, this month alone I’ve already been to St. Petersburg three times,” she said. “I spend less time at home than in hotels.”

“That must be hard,” Polina said sympathetically, thinking of the offer from her own boss.

“Yeah, but what can you do? That’s the job. Sergey is used to spending half the month alone.”

“I was offered a promotion too,” Polina blurted out unexpectedly. “Also with business trips.”

“Really?” Pavel looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I only found out today.”

“And will you have to travel a lot?” asked Olesya.

“About a week a month.”

“Oh, but what about Pavlik? He’ll be lost without you!” the mother-in-law exclaimed. “Men are so helpless in everyday life.”

“Well, as long as you’re living with us, he’ll have someone to help him,” Polina remarked, watching her mother-in-law’s reaction closely.

“Of course, of course! I’m always happy to help my boy.”

Polina noticed Margarita and her husband exchange glances.

“Mom, you still haven’t found a job?” Margarita asked.

“I’m looking, slowly but surely, dear,” Olesya answered. “But right now the youngsters need my help. Just look how tired Polinochka is from work. If not for me, they’d be eating nothing but convenience foods.”

Polina almost choked. She cooked no worse than her mother-in-law; it was just that lately, because of the tension at home, she preferred staying late at the office.

“By the way, Polina,” continued Olesya, “I ran into the neighbor from the first floor. She says there are pipe problems in the basement again. You should call the management company.”

“Why me?” Polina asked in surprise.

“Well, the apartment is in your name,” the mother-in-law replied innocently. “Although of course we all helped with the purchase, each in our own way.”

There it was. Polina glanced at Pavel, but he quickly looked away.

“Helped?” Margarita repeated. “Mom, you never said you contributed to their apartment.”

“Well, I… helped with advice and support…” Olesya waved vaguely. “Without me they’d never have dared to take such a step.”

Polina felt anger boiling inside her. It was an outright lie, but calling out her mother-in-law in front of guests didn’t feel right.

After dinner, when Margarita and her husband had left, Polina decided she couldn’t put off the conversation any longer.

“Olesya Mikhailovna,” she began when the three of them were in the living room, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding between us.”

“What do you mean, dear?” the mother-in-law looked genuinely surprised.

“About the apartment. You tell people you helped us buy it, but that’s not true.”

“I never told anyone that!” Olesya cried. “I just mentioned that I supported you morally.”

“Mom,” Pavel cut in, “your friends this morning said outright you’d told them you helped financially.”

Olesya flushed.

“They misunderstood! I said I would’ve helped if I could. You know my financial situation.”

“It’s not just that,” Polina went on. “You invite guests without asking us, you rearrange our things…”

“I only wanted to make it cozy!” Olesya interrupted. “Is it so bad that I care about you?”

“Caring means asking permission,” Polina said firmly. “It means respecting someone else’s space.”

“Someone else’s?” Olesya raised her voice. “So you think I’m a stranger here? In my son’s apartment?”

“Mom, that’s not what Polina meant,” Pavel tried to intervene.

“That’s exactly what she meant!” Olesya stood up, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “She’s always seen me as a stranger. To her I’m just a guest who’s overstayed her welcome! And all I’ve ever done is try to help you!”

“Olesya Mikhailovna,” Polina tried to keep her tone even, “when you moved in, we talked about two weeks. It’s been two months. You’re not even looking for work.”

“How am I not looking? I check the listings every day! But at my age it’s not so easy to find a position.”

“I understand, but…”

“No, you don’t!” Olesya turned to her son. “Pavlik, tell her! Tell her I have a right to be in your apartment! In your family!”
Family games

Pavel looked lost.

“Of course, Mom. No one is saying you have to leave right this second. It’s just… maybe we should talk about some ground rules?”

“Rules? In a family?” Olesya let out a bitter laugh. “I see she’s turned you against me. Fine, I won’t get in the way. I’ll go to my room.”

She went into the guest room, closing the door loudly behind her.

Polina and Pavel were left alone in the living room.

“What was that?” Polina asked quietly.

“She’s just upset,” Pavel sighed. “Losing her job, not knowing what’s next…”

“Pash, she’s manipulating you. Don’t you see that?”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that,” Pavel frowned. “She’s been through a lot since the divorce. It’s not easy for her.”

“And it’s easy for me? Every day I come home and have no idea what’s waiting for me. What guests, what new furniture layout, what stories she’s told the neighbors about ‘our family apartment.’”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No, Pasha. You just don’t want to see reality. Your mother has no plans to leave. And no plans to respect our… my boundaries.”

The next few days passed in strained silence. Olesya barely spoke to Polina, only when absolutely necessary, but she was conspicuously affectionate and caring with Pavel.

On Wednesday, the director called Polina:

“Polina Andreevna, we need your answer about the new position. There’s another candidate, but we’d prefer to have you.”

Polina hesitated only a moment.

“I agree, Viktor Sergeyevich. When do I start?”

“On Monday. And get ready for a business trip to Novosibirsk right away. For two weeks.”

Two weeks. Polina pictured what might happen in the apartment during that time, and shuddered inwardly. But it was too late to back out.

That evening, she told Pavel and Olesya the news.

“Two weeks?” Pavel looked worried. “That’s pretty long.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Olesya responded immediately. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll be fine.”

Polina caught a triumphant note in her voice.

“I’m sure you will,” she replied dryly. “I just ask that you don’t invite any guests while I’m away.”

“While you’re away,” Olesya repeated, putting emphasis on “you.” “Of course, dear. Everything will be just as you want.”

Polina didn’t believe a single word, but she had no choice. Work was work, and the promotion was too important for her career.

The business trip began on Monday. Polina called Pavel every evening, but his answers were brief: “Everything’s fine,” “All good,” “Don’t worry, we’re managing.”

On the tenth day, during one of their calls, Polina heard an unfamiliar female voice in the background.

“Pash, do you have guests?”

“No, it’s…” He hesitated. “It’s Kristina, Mom’s niece. She came to apply to university and is staying with us for a couple of days.”

Polina froze.

“Niece? In our apartment? Pash, we agreed—no guests!”

“Polin, she’s family. We couldn’t just turn her away. She’s only here for a few days, then she’ll move into the dorm.”
Family games

“And when were you going to tell me?”

“I… didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Polina felt the anger rising.

“Pash, that’s the last straw. I’m coming back tomorrow.”

“But your business trip is until Monday.”

“I’ll wrap up everything early. Expect me tomorrow evening.”

Polina didn’t wait for his objections and hung up. She really could finish her work sooner—only formalities remained, which could be handled remotely.

When Polina opened the door to her apartment the next day, she didn’t at first understand if she’d come to the right place. There were strangers’ things in the hallway, and voices and laughter drifted from the living room.

She walked further in and stopped in the doorway. At the table sat Olesya, a young girl of about eighteen, and an older woman Polina had never seen before.

“Polina?” Olesya looked surprised. “You weren’t supposed to be back until Monday!”

“I finished work early,” Polina said, sweeping her gaze over the room. The furniture had been rearranged, unfamiliar paintings hung on the walls, and her work corner had vanished. “What is going on here? And who are these people?”

“This is Kristina, my niece,” Olesya pointed to the girl. “And this is Nina Fyodorovna, an old friend of mine. She came to stay for a week.”

“To stay?” Polina looked at the big suitcase in the corner. “Here? With us?”

“Yes, with us,” Olesya emphasized the word. “What’s the problem? There’s plenty of space.”

“Plenty?” Polina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “In a two-room apartment? Where does your friend sleep?”

“In the living room, on the sofa. And Kristina is in my room with me. Everyone’s comfortable.”

“And who did you discuss this with? Me? Pavel?”

“Pavlik didn’t mind,” Olesya shrugged. “And you were on a business trip.”

“Where is Pavel?” Polina looked around.

“He’s at work. He has extra classes at school today.”

Polina took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm.

“Olesya Mikhailovna, we need to have a serious talk.”

“Of course, dear. Just not right now, we’re having lunch. Will you join us?”

“No,” Polina said sharply. “I’ll wait for Pavel in the bedroom.”

She turned and headed for the bedroom—the only place she hoped had been left untouched.

But there too a surprise was waiting. Clothes were spread out on the bed—clearly not hers or Pavel’s. Women’s clothing, a makeup bag…

“What is this?” Polina came back into the living room holding a strange sweater.

“Oh, those are Kristina’s things,” Olesya replied casually. “We were sorting them. We’ll put everything away in a minute.”

“You were sorting clothes in my bedroom?”

“Well yes, there’s more space in there. What’s the big deal?”

Polina felt herself losing control.

“This is beyond all bounds, Olesya Mikhailovna! You’ve moved strangers into my apartment. You’re doing whatever you want in my bedroom. You’ve rearranged all the furniture. What’s next?”

“Dear, you’re overreacting,” Olesya shook her head. “My son lives in this apartment, which means it’s partly mine too. I have the right to invite whomever I want.”

“What?” Polina couldn’t believe her ears. “Repeat what you just said.”

“I said that my son has a share in this apartment, which means I have a share too!” Olesya said firmly. “And I won’t let you tell me what to do!”

At that moment, the front door opened and Pavel walked in.

“Polina?” he froze in the doorway, surprised. “You’re already home?”

“Yes, I’m home,” Polina turned to her husband. “And do you know what I found? Your mother has turned our apartment into a hostel. And she’s claiming that she owns a share of it!”

Pavel looked from his wife to his mother, bewildered.

“Mom, what is she talking about?”

“Oh, Pavlik, your wife is exaggerating again,” Olesya threw up her hands. “I just invited Kristina and Nina Fyodorovna to stay. What’s the big deal? We’re one family!”
Family games

“No, we are not one!” Polina was on the verge of losing it. “And you do not have any share in this apartment!”

“How can I not?” Olesya snapped. “Pavlik lives here, so part of the apartment belongs to him!”

 

“Legally, it does not,” Polina cut her off. “The apartment is in my name only. I’m the one paying the mortgage. And I will not allow you to treat my property as your own!”

“Polina, calm down,” Pavel tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

“No, Pash, I won’t calm down. This has gone way too far. Your mother has to move out. Right now.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“I see how it is,” Olesya said at last. “So you’re throwing the mother of your husband out onto the street? Maybe you should kick Pavlik out too while you’re at it? Since the apartment is only yours?”

“Mom, stop,” Pavel looked exhausted. “No one is throwing anyone out. Let’s all calm down and talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Olesya got to her feet. “I can see I’m not wanted here. Come on, Kristina, let’s pack your things. You too, Nina Fyodorovna. They don’t want us here!”

Kristina looked confused, first at her aunt, then at Polina.

“Maybe I should just go to the dorm? They promised me a room from next week, but I can ask if they can move me in earlier…”

“No!” Olesya grabbed her niece by the hand. “We’ll go to Margarita’s. She’ll definitely take us in, unlike some people!”

Pavel helplessly glanced from his mother to his wife.

“Mom, don’t get carried away. No one said you have to leave right this minute.”

“I did,” Polina said firmly. “Pavel, your mother stayed with us for two months instead of the promised two weeks. She didn’t look for a job. She treated my apartment as her own. She invited strangers without our permission. And now she claims she owns a share of the apartment for which I alone pay the mortgage!”

“Polina, I understand you’re upset, but…”

“No, Pash, you don’t understand!” Polina no longer held back her emotions. “I work from morning to night. I just got a promotion that I earned with years of hard work. I’m paying off a loan for our apartment. And I have the right to come home and feel comfortable there, not like a guest in a hotel taken over by strangers!”

Olesya began to demonstratively scoop things off the table.

“Everything’s clear. We’re leaving. Let’s go, Nina Fyodorovna, Kristina. We won’t disturb the young couple. Pavlik, call me when your wife cools off.”

“Mom, wait,” Pavel tried to stop her. “Let’s talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to discuss! She’s kicking me out!” Olesya shook her head indignantly. “All I wanted was to help. To make it feel homey. And she… she…” The mother-in-law sniffed theatrically. “That’s how you find out who your real friends are and who’s just a stranger!”

Polina watched this performance in silence. Everything became crystal clear—Olesya would never admit she’d done anything wrong and would seize any chance to paint her daughter-in-law as the villain.

“I’m going to pack my things,” Polina said to her husband. “Let me know when your mother and her guests are gone.”

“What?” Pavel looked at her in shock. “Where are you going?”

“To Lena’s,” she meant her best friend. “I need time to think everything over. And so do you.”

She went into the bedroom, packed what she needed, and, ignoring Olesya’s laments, walked out of the apartment.

The next week was the hardest in their relationship. Polina stayed with her friend; Pavel called every day, but their conversations were short and tense.

On the third day he told her that his mother had moved in with Margarita, taking Kristina and her friend with her.

“I want you to come back,” he said. “I miss you.”

“And I miss respect, Pasha,” Polina replied. “Your mother crossed every line there is, and you let her.”

“I know. I talked to her. I explained she was wrong.”

“And what did she say?”

Pavel hesitated.

“She… doesn’t exactly agree. But she promised not to do that again.”

Polina gave a bitter little laugh.

“So she doesn’t admit she was wrong, but promises not to repeat what, in her view, isn’t wrong at all? Sorry, but I don’t believe that.”

“Polin, let’s give her a chance. She’s still my mother.”

“That’s not the point, Pash. The point is that she doesn’t respect me or my rights. And apparently, you don’t either.”

“That’s not fair! I’m always on your side!”

“Really? It seems to me you’re always looking for a compromise where there shouldn’t be one. This is my apartment, Pash. I pay for it. And I have the right to decide who lives in it.”

“So we’re back to this?” Pavel’s voice turned cold. “‘My apartment.’ Maybe I should move out too then?”

Polina sighed.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’ve always seen this as our home. But your mother decided she could run it as she pleased, and you let her.”

After that call, there was silence for a few days. Polina threw herself into work, trying not to think about home.

On the fifth day, Margarita called.

“Polina, can we meet? We need to talk.”

They met at a café not far from Polina’s office.

“I wanted to apologize,” Margarita began, which surprised Polina. “I didn’t know Mom behaved like that in your apartment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean inviting strangers without asking you, rearranging things, telling everyone she helped with the purchase… Now that she’s living with me, I see how she tries to remake everything to her liking.”

Polina looked at her carefully.

“And how do you react?”

“I shut it down immediately,” Margarita smiled wryly. “I told her this is my home and my rules. Mom was offended, of course, but she backed off. We sorted things out with Kristina too—she moved into the dorm, just as planned.”

“And Nina Fyodorovna?”

“She went home. She, by the way, was shocked by the whole situation. She said Mom invited her by assuring her that everything was agreed with you.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“You know,” Margarita continued, “I think I understand what’s going on. Mom has always been the boss in the family. Dad indulged her in everything. When he left, she shifted that way of behaving onto me and Pavel. I got married early and moved out, and Pavel stayed with her. He got used to giving in, to pleasing her.”
Family games

“I’ve noticed,” Polina said dryly.

“Don’t be too hard on him. It’s not easy for him to stand up to Mom. But I can see how miserable he is without you. He calls me every day, asking for advice.”

“Do you advise him to take my side?” Polina asked with a hint of irony.

“No,” Margarita answered seriously. “I advise him to find his own. Not Mom’s, not yours—his own. To finally become an adult and independent.”

After that conversation, Polina did a lot of thinking. About Pavel, about their relationship, about what had happened. She understood she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to quarrel with his mother. But she also wasn’t going to blame herself—she had every right to defend her boundaries.

On the seventh day Pavel showed up at her work with a bouquet of flowers.

“We need to talk. Not here. At home.”

Polina hesitated.

“Is your mother there?”

“No. And she won’t be, unless you say so. This is your home, Polina. Our home. And I want you to feel happy in it.”

There was such sincerity in his eyes that Polina agreed.

At home, the table was set—Pavel had clearly prepared for this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” he began when they sat down. “And I realized I was wrong. I should have defended you, not run back and forth between you and Mom.”

“I’m not asking you to choose between us,” Polina said quietly. “I just want your mother to respect me and my boundaries.”

“I know. And I talked to her. Really talked, probably for the first time in my life. I explained that her behavior was unacceptable. That she has no right to run our apartment or tell people she helped buy it.”

“And how did she react?”

“As usual—she was offended, said I was an ungrateful son for choosing my wife over my mother…” Pavel smiled sadly. “But then, when she saw I wasn’t backing down, she became… more flexible. Admitted she went too far.”

“She apologized?”

“Not exactly. She said that ‘maybe she was too active in trying to help.’ For her, that’s almost the same as admitting she was wrong.”

Polina nodded. She hadn’t expected a full apology from Olesya.

“So what now?”

“Now she’s living with Margarita. And the most surprising thing—she found a job. She’s going to work as an accountant at a small company near their house. She starts next week.”

“That’s good,” Polina said sincerely. “I’m glad for her.”

“I want you to know,” Pavel squeezed her hand, “that I’m on your side. Always. And I promise I’ll never put you in that position again.”

Polina looked at him for a long time, then squeezed his hand in return.

 

“I believe you. And I’ll come back. But I have one condition—we have to clearly set rules for your mother if she wants to visit us.”

“Of course,” Pavel agreed immediately. “What rules?”

“No unannounced visits. No rearranging things in the apartment. No guests without our permission. And most importantly—no more talk about her having a share in our apartment.”

“I agree with everything. I’ll tell her. And I’ll make sure she sticks to it.”

A month later, Polina and Pavel hosted a family dinner. They invited Polina’s parents, Margarita and her husband, and of course, Olesya.
Family games

The atmosphere was tense, but everyone tried to be polite. Olesya was unusually quiet, only occasionally remarking on her new job.

After dinner, when everyone moved to the living room, Olesya suddenly turned to Polina.

“I’d like to say something,” she began, looking more serious than usual. “I didn’t behave very well when I lived here. It was hard for me to accept that my son is already an adult, an independent man with his own family. That he has a wife who has the right to set her own rules in the house.”

Polina looked at her in surprise—she hadn’t expected such a speech.

“Margarita talked to me a lot,” Olesya went on. “She explained that I was crossing boundaries. That I can’t boss people around in someone else’s home.”

She paused.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness, because I really did want what I thought was best. But I admit that I was wrong. And I want us to be able to communicate normally. For Pavlik’s sake.”

It wasn’t a full apology, but for Olesya this was a huge step.

“I want that too,” Polina replied. “For Pavel’s sake and for our own. We don’t have to be best friends, but we can respect each other.”

Olesya nodded.

“I agree. And… I won’t say anymore that I have a share in your apartment. I understand that’s not true.”

Polina glanced at Margarita—she discreetly winked. Clearly, she had done a lot of work with their mother.

“Thank you,” Polina said sincerely. “That means a lot to me.”

The evening went on in a more relaxed atmosphere. There was no real reconciliation between Polina and Olesya—the hurt on both sides ran too deep. But they’d reached a truce based on mutual respect.

When the guests had left, Pavel hugged Polina.

“Thank you. I know how hard this was for you.”

“It was hard for both of us,” she answered. “But we got through it. Together.”

“Do you think Mom has really changed?”

Polina thought for a moment.

“I’m not sure she’s changed. But she’s understood the rules of the game. And that’s already a lot.”

They stood by the window, looking out at the night city. Their apartment had once again become their fortress, their shared space where both of them felt safe.

“I love you,” Pavel said quietly. “And I promise I’ll never put anyone’s interests above yours again. Not even my mother’s.”

Polina leaned into him.

“And I promise to always remember that even though the apartment is in my name, this is our home. But only ours—yours and mine.”

She knew that her relationship with her mother-in-law would never be perfect. Olesya would always try to push her boundaries, always want to be the main woman in her son’s life. But now they had clear rules. And most importantly, Pavel had finally found the strength to stand up for their family, their home, their future.

And that meant they could handle any difficulties that lay ahead

 

“Larisa, just a little more… Come on, dear, you can do it!”

She barely moved her legs. Every step was taken with tremendous effort, as if heavy weights were strapped to her feet.

“I want to take a shower…” Larisa whispered, feeling her strength finally leaving her. “Gleb, I can’t anymore. Honestly, I can’t!”

Her husband looked at her with feigned concern, but there was a strange coldness in his eyes. How had she not noticed that icy gleam before?

“You can, darling, you’ll manage! Look, there’s our goal — the little house!”

Larisa followed his gaze. In front of them stood a building that looked like a mix between an old shed and a fairy-tale hut on chicken legs.

“Are you… really sure the healer lives here?” Her voice betrayed her exhaustion and fear.

“Of course, dear! Come on, just a bit more!”

Larisa climbed onto the crooked porch almost mechanically, as if in a dream. Gleb laid her down on a wooden bench and suddenly smirked smugly. That smile cut through her heart.

“Now you can rest… for a long time.”

She surveyed the gloomy room: cobwebs, dust, dampness. She looked at her husband fearfully.

“Gleb… Nobody lives here!”

“That’s right!” He laughed. “Nobody has lived here for about twenty years. And no one’s been here for a long time. If you’re lucky — you’ll die your natural death. If not…” — he paused — “wild animals will find you.”

“Gleb! What are you saying?! Snap out of it!”

He straightened up, and the mask of a loving husband vanished forever.

Discover more

Family games

Gift baskets

“I asked you — register the business under my name! But you were stubborn as a mule!” He spat. “Do you even realize what it cost me to put up with you? To sleep with you? You disgust me!”

“And my money doesn’t disgust you?” Larisa whispered.

“Those are MY money!” He growled. “They’re mine, just need to finish the paperwork. Everyone knows how obsessed you are with all this witchcraft nonsense. I tell everyone you’re crazy and ran off to some quack in the sticks. I tried to convince you, but…” He theatrically threw up his hands, “you’re stubborn! Like my plan? I don’t even need to buy a coffin!”

His laughter sounded like a dog’s bark. Larisa closed her eyes — this was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

But the door slam was all too real.

She tried to get up — she needed to run, this must be a joke! But her body wouldn’t obey. Lately, she grew tired quickly, as if someone was draining the life out of her.

“Now I know who…” flashed through her mind.

She had no strength left. Larisa gave up and sank into a restless sleep.

Five years ago they got married. Gleb appeared out of nowhere — penniless, but with charm that made her lose her head. Tired of loneliness and work, Larisa fell madly in love.
Gift baskets

But they had warned her… Everyone around said he only wanted money, that he spent her funds on other women. She found out the truth a year ago. After that, health problems began — sometimes her heart, sometimes her stomach, sometimes everything at once. Doctors blamed nervous breakdowns.

She tried not to worry. Really tried! But how not to worry when you love someone who betrayed you?

 

And now she was a wealthy, successful woman, but so sick she couldn’t get out of that ruin in the woods. Her death would remain a secret.

Half-asleep, Larisa heard a rustle. Someone was standing nearby. Her heart stopped — could it really be wild animals?

“Don’t be afraid!”

She startled.

“A girl?! Where did you come from here?”

In front of her sat a child about seven or eight years old. The girl crouched beside her.

“I was here before. When he brought you here, I hid.”

Larisa lifted herself up.

“You’re alive? How did you end up here?”

“I come by myself. When I fight with Dad — I hide here. Let him worry!”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Nope! He just makes me help. But I don’t want to. Why should kids work? If I don’t listen — he makes me wash the dishes. A whole mountain!” The girl spread her arms.

Larisa weakly smiled.

“Maybe he’s just tired. Trying to give you manageable chores. I would do anything for my dad if he were alive.”

“Your dad died?”

“Yes, long ago.”

“Everyone will die,” the girl stated with childlike philosophy.

“Are you saying your dad will die too?!” The girl perked up.

“People die when they get old. That’s how it is.”

The girl thought.

“Mom was sick… She went to the angels. I often cry because I miss her. I’ll help Dad so he won’t die!” She looked at Larisa. “Did they bring you here to die too?”

“Looks like it…”

“Why not in a hospital?”

A tear slid down Larisa’s cheek.

“He decided so himself… So they wouldn’t cure me.”

“Bastard!” The girl was outraged. “I’ll run to Dad! You know what he is? He heals everyone in the village! Except Mom… ” Her voice trembled.

“How come?”

The girl went to the door, then turned and whispered:

“My dad is a wizard!”

Larisa involuntarily smiled.

“Sweetie, there’s no such thing…”

“But there is! Your husband said you believe in that. Okay, don’t be sad, I’ll be back soon!”

“What’s your name?”

“Dasha!”

“Dasha, aren’t you afraid to stay here? What if animals come?”

“What animals?!” The girl snorted. “No one visits this forest except hedgehogs!”

And with those words she slipped out the door as if she had wings on her shoulders.

“Counting on a child — stupid beyond reason,” Larisa thought, closing her eyes. “She’ll run around the forest, meet a squirrel or the same hedgehog — and forget about me…”

She began to drift off when a whisper woke her:

“Dad, is she dead?”

“No, sunshine. She’s just sleeping.”

Larisa snapped her eyes open.

“Dasha! You’re back!”

The hut was dimly lit, and she couldn’t make out the man’s face.

“Hello. Sorry things turned out this way…”

“It’s okay. Can you stand? Go outside?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

The man touched her forehead with his palm, and warmth spread through her body like spring sun after a long winter.

“You can. I promise.”

And she really could! With his help, she stood up, took a few unsteady steps. Outside the hut was a… motorcycle with a sidecar? Her vision blurred, legs wobbled, but strong hands supported her and gently laid her in the sidecar.

Where they were going and how long it took — Larisa didn’t remember. She came to only on the bumps, saw stars above — and fell back into darkness.

She didn’t care. What difference did it make where to die?

But then it got warm. Cozy. And even… hungry!

She opened her eyes. High ceilings, bright log walls — nothing like that ruin. On the wall… a TV?!

“Some kind of strange afterlife,” crossed her mind.

“Awake? Great! Dinner’s ready. Today’s special — Dasha volunteered to help for the first time! I don’t know what you told her, but I’m very grateful.”

Larisa smiled. She would never tell what exactly had moved the girl. Shameful — an adult woman saying such things…

The man helped her sit up, placed pillows behind her. On the table — potatoes with gravy, fresh salad, milk… And bread. But what bread! Loaves like fluffy clouds, with big holes inside.

“This… bread?” Larisa was surprised.

“Eat up!” The man laughed. “I bake it myself. Can’t eat store bread. Maybe you’ll try someday.”

Larisa smiled sadly — “someday” seemed too far away. But the potatoes were so tasty, it felt like the best dinner of her life.

She didn’t finish — drowsiness overtook her. Before sleep, she whispered:

“What’s your name?”

“Aleksei.”

Day by day it got better. Appetite returned, strength, desire to live. Larisa rejoiced but understood nothing: no medicines, no treatments, no IV drips…

Once, when Dasha ran off to play, she asked directly:

“Are you the one treating me?”

Aleksei looked at her with clear blue eyes:

“Me?”

“Yes! I feel better. Much better! And I was supposed to die… Dasha said you’re a wizard.”

He laughed — so sincerely that Larisa couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Oh, Dasha the dreamer! Our granny was one who knew herbs. She passed a little to me. But I’m as far from a wizard as China is on foot!”

Days passed. And then — she walked outside on her own, without support.

“Larisa! Well done!”

Aleksei picked her up in his arms and spun her around. She clung to him and cried — from happiness, relief, and the fact she was alive…

Half a year later

 

Gleb was pacing the office like a wounded beast:

“I need all rights! Without me, the company can’t work!”

“The company works like clockwork,” someone cautiously noted. “Larisa Sergeevna kept everything in perfect order.”

“Stop calling her ‘Larisa’! She’s gone! Ran off to the woods to quacks, got eaten there! I’m the rightful husband!”

“Gleb Sergeevich,” one of the attendees said softly but firmly, “the body hasn’t been found. And your behavior… raises certain questions.”

“What difference does it make?!” He exploded. “I’m a man who lost his beloved wife!”

An elderly employee stood up:

“I won’t work under your leadership.”

“Who else?” Gleb looked around. “All of you can leave!”

But at that moment the door flew open.

“I wouldn’t rush to hire a new team.”

Gleb collapsed into a chair. Larisa stood before him — alive, blooming, eyes shining. Beside her — a tall man, and behind them — police officers.

“You… how… you were supposed to…”

“To die?” She finished calmly. “Your plan failed again. As usual.”

As they led Gleb away, yelling and cursing the world, Larisa turned to the staff:

“Hello! I’m back. I have many ideas. Let me introduce my husband — Aleksei. And I invite you all for a barbecue this weekend — get to know nature and the new family!”
Family games

Everyone smiled. Everyone was happy.

“And a heads up: now I have a daughter. Dasha was with us, but Svetochka lured her away with her makeup suitcase.”

Everyone laughed heartily — Larisa’s secretary did always carry a suitcase full of jars and tubes.

“Semyon Arkadyevich,” she addressed the lawyer, “please take care of the divorce and adoption.”

“Of course, Larisa Sergeevna. Welcome back!”

“Thank you,” she replied, squeezing Aleksei’s hand tightly.

Sometimes, to find true happiness, you have to lose everything. And meet a little girl in the forest who believes in miracles…