All Amazing Babies

The boom of a crimson Ferrari engine shattered the tranquilly of the suburban street. Onlookers stared as the opulent vehicle raced by, the maid’s white apron billowing dramatically while she clutched the steering wheel, her hands still encased in yellow cleaning gloves.

A little girl in the passenger seat lay asleep, her pallid face against the seatbelt. Household cleaning robots Jasmine Clarke, a live-in maid for the influential real estate tycoon Charles Davenport, had never operated a vehicle more luxurious than her cousin’s antiquated Toyota. Upon seeing twelve-year-old Emily Davenport fallen in her bedroom, struggling for breath and unresponsive, she had little time for contemplation. Her phone lacked signal. The closest ambulance would require a minimum of twenty minutes to arrive. In the driveway rested the sole vehicle capable of transporting Emily to the hospital in under five minutes. The Ferrari automobile. Her hands trembled as she seized the keys from the kitchen counter. Each second felt like an offence, yet Emily’s laboured breaths dictated her choice. Jasmine secured the girl in the passenger seat and hoped she recalled sufficient knowledge from her driver’s education course years prior. Household cleaning robots As she sped down the main road, horns sounded as traffic manoeuvred to evade her unpredictable driving. Jasmine’s heart raced. If she damaged the car, she would forfeit more than her employment—she may face imprisonment. However, if she did not make an effort, Emily’s survival could be jeopardised.

As the hospital approached, Jasmine murmured through tears, “Hold on, baby girl.” Do not abandon me. Upon her abrupt halt at the emergency entrance, physicians hurried outside. Jasmine lifted Emily into her arms and exclaimed, “She’s not breathing properly!” “Kindly assist her!” In just seconds, the girl vanished into the emergency room. Jasmine sank into the curb, her apron marked by sweat and tears, as the Ferrari’s engine idled. She scarcely acknowledged the astonished gazes of onlookers—she had just jeopardised everything. Unbeknownst to her, Charles Davenport had been notified on the unauthorised departure of his Ferrari from the estate. Upon his arrival at the hospital, seething with anger, he was prepared to contact the authorities. However, the vision that before him would alter everything. Charles Davenport entered the hospital lobby with fervour, his fancy suit attracting as much notice as the anger displayed on his countenance. “Where is she located?” He shouted at the receptionist. “My maid stole my Ferrari!” Household cleaning robots Before the woman could respond, Charles’s gaze fixated on Jasmine, who was slumped in a chair, her gloves still donned and her face marked by tears. “You,” he spat, advancing towards her.

 

“Are you aware of your actions?” The value of that car exceeds the entirety of your existence. Jasmine gazed at him, fatigued yet resolute. “I am indifferent to your automobile,” she stated hoarsely. Emily was unable to breathe. I needed to bring her here. Time was insufficient for waiting. Charles became immobile. “Is Emily present?” As if prompted, a physician emerged from the emergency department. “Mr. Davenport?” Your daughter experienced a critical asthma attack. She is currently stable; but, an additional delay may have been lethal. The individual who admitted her preserved her life. The words lingered in the atmosphere with the force of a hammer strike. Charles gradually faced Jasmine, his fury abruptly intersecting with incredulity. “You…” His voice wavered. “I did not appropriate your vehicle,” Jasmine said. “I rescued your daughter.” For the first time in years, Charles Davenport—billionaire, mogul, a man who believed all things had a price—experienced profound helplessness. The sight of his cherished Ferrari accelerating away had incited his fury. However, the sight of his daughter, comatose and brought into the emergency room by the maid he scarcely acknowledged, resonated more profoundly than any monetary setback. Household cleaning robots Nevertheless, pride gnawed at him. You ought to have summoned an ambulance. “That is the behaviour exhibited by typical individuals.” Jasmine’s eyes gleamed. “And wait twenty minutes as she perished?” You were absent. I was. Her words rendered him mute. The doctor remarked, “Honestly, Mr. Davenport, she responded more swiftly than the majority would.” Your daughter survives due to her. Charles remained unresponsive. His eyes fell to his shoes, his jaw clenched. For a guy habituated to dominance, he abruptly possessed none. After several hours, while Emily rested quietly, Charles emerged to find Jasmine seated alone on a bench. The Ferrari was parked nearby, its formerly immaculate paint now marred by dust and filth. Jasmine rose abruptly. “I comprehend if you wish to terminate my employment,” she stated softly. “However, I would repeat the action.” Each and every occasion. Charles scrutinised her. For the first time, he perceived not “the maid,” but a woman who had jeopardised her freedom, her means of subsistence, and potentially her life for his child. Household cleaning robots “He conceded gradually that he had considered Emily’s safety more than I had.” I was concerned about a vehicle. You expressed concern for my daughter. Jasmine swallowed, uncertain of how to respond. Charles exhaled audibly, then astonished her with unexpected remarks. You are not terminated. Indeed… I am indebted to you beyond my capacity to repay. “Had you not intervened, I would currently be arranging a funeral.” Tears accumulated in Jasmine’s eyes, yet she compelled a faint smile. “She is a commendable child.” She was undeserving of that treatment. After years, Charles extended his hand and placed it on another’s shoulder with sincere appreciation. “You did not either.” From this point forth, you are no longer merely my subordinate. You are considered family. Family holiday packages Jasmine blinked, astonished. Although the Ferrari’s engine had long since cooled, the narrative of the maid who “stole” it to rescue her employer’s daughter disseminated well beyond the confines of the hospital. To the astonishment of all, including herself, the billionaire’s response was not one of retribution. It was appreciation. At that time, Charles Davenport learnt a lesson that his affluence had never imparted: automobiles are replaceable. The family is incapable.

IDivorced, my husband threw an old pillow at me with a sneer. When I unzipped it to wash it, I was stunned by what was inside…

Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and indifferent glances. Héctor was never violent or loud, but his apathy drained me, little by little, until my heart felt hollow.

After our wedding, we moved into his parents’ house in a neighborhood in Mexico City.

Every morning, I woke up early to cook, do the laundry, and clean.

Every evening, I sat waiting for him to come home, only to hear the same dismissive words:

“Yeah, I already ate.”

I often wondered if this marriage was any different from simply being a tenant. I tried to build, I tried to love, but all I received in return was an empty silence I could never fill.

For illustrative purposes only.
One day, Héctor came home with his usual blank expression.

He sat across from me, placed a stack of papers on the table, and said in a flat voice:

“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”

I froze. Deep down, I wasn’t surprised. With tears stinging my eyes, I picked up the pen with trembling hands. Memories came rushing back—nights waiting at the dinner table, the lonely hours enduring stomachaches in the dark, the endless ache of being unseen. Each one felt like a wound reopening.

After signing, I began to pack my things.

There was nothing in that house that was truly mine, except for a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.

As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me, his voice dripping with mockery:

“Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.”

I caught the pillow, my heart tightening. It was indeed old—the pillowcase was faded, yellowed in places, and torn at the seams.

That pillow had followed me from my mother’s home in a small town in Oaxaca, where I grew up, to university in the city. Later, it came with me into marriage. I couldn’t sleep without it. Héctor used to complain about it often, but I never gave it up.

I left his house in silence.

Back in my rented room, I sat staring at the pillow, still hearing his sarcastic words. Wanting to at least rest peacefully that night, I decided to remove the pillowcase and wash it.

But as I unzipped it, I felt something strange. There was a hard lump hidden inside the soft cotton filling. My hand froze. Carefully, I reached in and pulled out a small bundle, neatly wrapped in a nylon bag.

For illustrative purposes only.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside was a thick stack of 500-peso bills and a folded piece of paper.I unfolded the note. The handwriting was instantly familiar—shaky, but unmistakably my mother’s:

“My daughter, this is the money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I feared you’d be too proud to accept it. No matter what, don’t suffer for a man, my dear. I love you.”

Tears fell freely, blotting the yellowed paper. My mind flashed back to my wedding day. My mother had handed me the pillow, smiling as she said it was very soft and would help me sleep well.

I laughed and replied, “You’re getting old, Mom. What a funny thing to think. Héctor and I will be happy.”

She had only smiled again, though her eyes held a distant sadness I didn’t recognize back then.

Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as though my mother was right beside me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort.

She had always known. She had always understood how much her daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong man. And she had quietly prepared a safety net for me—not riches, but enough to keep me from despair.

That night, I lay on the hard bed of my rented room, clutching the pillow close as tears soaked the fabric.

But this time, I wasn’t crying for Héctor.

I was crying because I loved my mother.

Because I felt grateful. Because I realized I still had somewhere to return to, someone who loved me, and a whole wide world still waiting to welcome me.

For illustrative purposes only.
The next morning, I carefully folded the pillow and placed it in my suitcase. I told myself I would rent a smaller room, closer to my job. I would send more money to my mother. And I would live a life where I no longer trembled at a man’s cold words.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled faintly.

This woman, with swollen eyes, would now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for all the dreams she had left unfinished.

That marriage, that old pillow, that sneer—it was all just the end of one sad chapter.

My life still had many pages left to be written, and I would write them with my own resilient hands.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.

Natalya was hauling bags up to the fourth floor, cursing the broken elevator. The October rain had soaked through her jacket, and all she wanted was a hot shower and some peace. Working as an architect in a design bureau was draining—especially when clients changed plans at the last minute.

The key turned in the lock with difficulty—the lock was aging along with the building. Natalya pushed the door open and froze. In the narrow hallway stood two huge blue suitcases, taking up almost all the free space.

 

“Seryozha?” Natalya called, tugging off her wet boots.

Her husband stepped out of the living room. Sergey looked unusually tense for someone who usually greeted his wife with a smile and questions about her day.

“Oh, you’re back. Listen, here’s the thing…” Sergey rubbed the back of his head and nodded at the luggage. “This is my son—he’s going to live with us now.”

Natalya slowly hung her jacket on the hook, processing what she’d heard. Gleb, Sergey’s fifteen-year-old son from his first marriage, lived with his mother in another district. In the three years they’d been together, the boy had shown up at their place at most on weekends, and even then rarely.

“What do you mean, ‘going to live with us’?” Natalya frowned and tilted her head, trying to make sense of it.

“Just like that. Get used to it—and you’ll be the one feeding him. You’re the homemaker,” Sergey shrugged, as if he were announcing he’d bought a loaf of bread.

Natalya felt the blood rush to her face. Three years ago, when she married Sergey, she understood that a teenager came with the package. But occasional visits were one thing; living together permanently was something else entirely—especially when the decision was made without the slightest discussion.

“You decided it—so you handle it,” Natalya said evenly, suppressing the urge to raise her voice.

Sergey blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.

“What do you mean? We live together, so—”

“So you inform me about your decisions instead of presenting me with a fait accompli,” Natalya cut him off. “Where’s my child?”

“Lena’s at a friend’s, doing homework. She’ll be home for dinner.”

Natalya nodded and went to the kitchen. Her daughter was in seventh grade and often stayed over at her classmate Sveta’s— the girls had been friends since first grade, and their parents kept warm relations.

Muffled voices sounded from the living room. Sergey was saying something to his son, but the words were indistinct. Natalya took food from the fridge for dinner. She usually cooked with leftovers in mind—Sergey liked to eat his fill, and Lena, at thirteen, could pack away an adult-sized portion.

Today she boiled exactly enough pasta for two. She fried two cutlets. She made a small bowl of salad.

“Dinner!” Natalya called.

All three came to the table. Gleb looked uncertain, glancing from his father to his stepmother. He’d grown since their last meeting, taller and broader in the shoulders, but he still held himself stiffly.

Natalya set out plates—for herself and for Lena. In front of Sergey and Gleb, the places at the table remained empty.

“And for them?” Sergey looked in surprise at the bare spots.

“You brought him—so you provide for him,” Natalya replied calmly, serving pasta to her daughter.

Lena raised her eyebrows but kept quiet. The girl had inherited from her mother the ability not to wade into adult conflicts unless absolutely necessary.

Gleb sat silently, staring at his empty plate. The atmosphere at the table thickened until it could be cut with a knife.

“Natalya, what are you doing?” Sergey spoke more quietly than usual, but tension vibrated in every word.

“Me? I’m having dinner. What are you doing?”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. I feed my daughter; you feed your son.”

Natalya put a piece of cutlet into her mouth and began to chew, not taking her eyes off her husband. Sergey sat red-faced, his fists clenched on the table.

“Mom, can I go to Sveta’s?” Lena asked softly.

“Of course, sunshine. Just be home by ten.”

Her daughter quickly finished eating and disappeared into the hall. The front door slammed.

“Dad, I’m not really hungry,” Gleb mumbled.

“Sit,” Sergey snapped. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Natalya finished her cutlet and moved on to the salad. The silence stretched. Finally Sergey couldn’t stand it.

“Explain to me what’s going on!”

“What’s there to explain? You made a decision on your own—now handle it on your own.”

“We live in the same apartment!”

“In my apartment,” Natalya corrected him. “Which I bought before I met you. In my apartment, I set the rules.”

Sergey stood up sharply, knocking over his chair.

“Have you lost your mind? Gleb’s been left without a mother!”

“What do you mean, ‘without a mother’?” Natalya looked up. “Did something happen to his mother?”

“No, but… she’s getting married. To an American. She’s moving to the States. Gleb refused to fly—he wants to stay in Russia.”

“I see. And you decided to shift responsibility for raising your son onto me?”

“I thought you’d understand!”

“I do understand. I understand that you don’t think you need to consult me about matters that concern our family.”

Natalya stood and began clearing the table. The clatter of plates rang louder than usual.

“Gleb, go to your room,” the woman said without turning around.

“He doesn’t have his own room!” Sergey exploded.

“Then let him settle in yours. Or buy a bigger apartment.”

“With what money? I’m not an architect!”

Natalya stopped, dishes in her hands. Sergey worked as a metalworker at a factory, earning little and not overexerting himself. She made several times more, and he knew it perfectly well.

“Exactly. You’re not an architect. You didn’t buy this apartment. And you don’t get to decide who lives in it.”

Gleb rose from the table and slowly shuffled toward his parents’ bedroom. The boy was hunched, as if trying to make himself invisible.

“Natalya, think with your head!” Sergey lowered his voice. “Where am I supposed to put my son?”

“With his mother. Let her take him with her.”

“He doesn’t want to go!”

“Then to his grandmother’s. Rent him a room. There are plenty of options.”

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

Natalya put the dishes in the sink and turned to her husband.

“Sergey, I’m not against Gleb. I’m against you making decisions for me. If you want your son to live with us—let’s discuss the terms. Like adults.”

“What terms?” Sergey looked bewildered.

“Elementary ones. Who buys groceries, who cooks, who does the laundry, who cleans. Who pays the utilities, which will go up with a third resident. Who buys furniture—the boy needs somewhere to sleep, not the couch in the living room. Who goes to parent-teacher meetings, who handles doctors and tutors.”

Sergey stood silent, shifting from foot to foot.

“Did you think about any of that when you dragged in those suitcases?” Natalya continued. “Or were you counting on me taking everything on while you come home from work to a hot dinner and ironed shirts?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Well… we’re one family now…”

Natalya sat down on a stool and looked closely at her husband.

“Sergey, in three years you’ve never once asked my opinion about raising Gleb. You’ve never asked how I feel about the boy coming here and behaving like it’s a hotel. He shows up, eats, sleeps, leaves. He’s never once said thank you.”

“He’s just shy…”

“Maybe. But that’s not my problem. That’s your problem as his father.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Natalya stood and opened the fridge. She took out eggs, bread, and sausage.

“I suggest you feed your child. And tomorrow morning we’ll calmly talk about the conditions under which Gleb can stay here.”

 

Sergey took the eggs and cracked them into the pan without a word. Natalya went into the bedroom. Gleb was sitting on the edge of the marital bed, staring at his sneakers.

“Gleb,” the woman called.

The boy looked up. His eyes were red.

“I have nothing against you,” Natalya said gently. “But decisions that affect everyone should be made by everyone. Do you understand?”

Gleb nodded.

“Good. Then tomorrow we’ll discuss how we can best live together.”

Natalya grabbed her pajamas and went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the tired face of a thirty-six-year-old woman who had suddenly realized that family life could serve up surprises worse than a broken elevator.

On the other side of the wall, the eggs were sizzling, and a father was saying something quietly to his son. Natalya turned on the tap and began washing her face with cold water, wondering what the next day would bring.

On Monday morning, Sergey woke earlier than usual. Natalya heard him fumbling in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. The sounds said it all—pans clanging, oil hissing, curses muttered through his teeth.

“Mom, what’s that smell?” Lena asked, appearing in the kitchen.

“Your stepfather is making breakfast for his son,” Natalya replied, pouring her daughter some juice.

“Smells burnt.”

“Then something’s burnt.”

Sergey came out of the kitchen red-faced and disheveled, holding a plate with a charred omelet.

“Gleb, breakfast is ready!” he shouted toward the bedroom.

The boy shuffled out, looked at the black mass on the plate, and grimaced.

“Dad, maybe just bread and butter?”

“Eat what you’re given,” Sergey snapped, though he knew himself the dish was inedible.

Silently, Natalya got her daughter ready for school, kissed her, and sent her off. Sergey left for the factory as well. Gleb stayed alone in the apartment—his classes at school wouldn’t start until the next day.

In the evening, her husband came home tired and hungry. As usual, Natalya cooked dinner for two—herself and Lena.

“Natalya, can you stop this mockery already?” Sergey sat across from his wife with an empty plate.

“I’m not mocking anyone. I’m eating.”

“Gleb was hungry all day!”

“And where were you all day?”

“At work!”

“Good. Then tomorrow leave him money for lunch or cook in the morning.”

Sergey was silent, realizing he had no argument. After dinner, he went to the store and bought convenience foods—dumplings, sausages, instant noodles.

On Tuesday morning, the story repeated itself. Sergey boiled the dumplings, but overcooked them until they turned to mush. Gleb poked at the soggy dough with his spoon and sighed.

“Dad, can I go to Grandma’s?”

“Why?”

“No reason… it’s just boring here.”

“Bear with it a bit. You’ll get used to it.”

But Gleb didn’t get used to it. He drifted around the apartment, watched TV, played on his phone. By midweek, the teenager started complaining that the place felt stuffy and uncomfortable.

“Dad, when is Mom coming back from America?”

“She’s not coming back, Gleb. She lives there now.”

“Maybe I should fly to her then?”

Sergey didn’t answer, but it was clear his patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t used to cooking, doing laundry, or keeping things tidy. By Thursday, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, laundry lay scattered across the bedroom, and the trash can overflowed with empty packaging from convenience foods.

“Everything’s on me!” Sergey exploded on Thursday evening. “I’m working, cooking, cleaning!”

“Welcome to the world of adults,” Natalya replied calmly, rinsing her plate.

“You can see I’m not managing!”

“I can. And?”

“Help me!”

“Why? This was your decision.”

Sergey grabbed his head and began pacing the kitchen.

“You’re cruel!”

“I’m consistent.”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. You’re his father. Cope with it.”

Natalya stood and went to her room. Half an hour later, her husband tried to start a scene in the bedroom, but each time the woman calmly repeated the same thing:

“That was your decision.”

 

On Friday evening, the landline rang. Sergey snatched up the receiver.

“Hello, Mom… Yeah, everything’s fine… How are you? Gleb? He’s fine, adjusting…”

The voice on the other end grew louder. Natalya caught fragments:

“He called me! He’s complaining! He’s going hungry!”

“Mom, come on…”

“Bring him over immediately! Today!”

Sergey tried to object, but his mother clearly wasn’t going to listen. The call lasted about ten minutes. He put down the phone and sighed heavily.

“Mom’s taking Gleb to her place.”

“Good,” Natalya nodded, not looking up from her book.

“Good? You don’t care?”

“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I feel relieved. The apartment will be in order again.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Saturday turned out rainy. Sergey packed his son’s things into the same blue suitcases he had brought a week earlier. Gleb helped his father, but it was obvious the boy was more relieved than anything to be moving to his grandmother’s.

“Anna Petrovna is a good woman,” Natalya told her husband. “She’ll handle it better than you.”

“She’s a pensioner! She’s seventy!”

“But experienced. She raised a son; she’ll raise a grandson.”

Sergey zipped the suitcase and straightened up.

“Maybe I was wrong… somewhere.”

“Not ‘somewhere’. Specifically. You made a decision without consulting me. And you shifted the responsibility onto my shoulders without even asking my consent.”

Sergey dragged the suitcases into the hall. Gleb put on his things and went to stand by the door.

“Natalya, thank you for letting me stay,” the boy said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Gleb. You can always come visit. But as a guest—when you’re invited.”

The boy nodded, catching the subtext.

The door closed behind father and son. Natalya was left alone in the quiet apartment. She walked through the rooms, assessing the damage. A major cleanup would be needed—the men had managed to make quite a mess.

But first, she sat in an armchair and opened the book she had set aside for a week. The home smelled of cleanliness and calm. No one had to be fed against her will. No one was shifting their responsibilities onto someone else.

Around eight, Lena came back. She’d spent the weekend at her friend’s, waiting out the family crisis.

“Mom, where is everyone?”

“Gleb moved to his grandmother’s; your stepfather took him.”

“Did he talk to us about it?”

“He does now,” Natalya smiled.

“So we’re having dinner for two?”

“For two.”

Mother and daughter set the table for two. Lena told stories about her weekend at Sveta’s, and Natalya listened, understanding that the week of standoff hadn’t been for nothing. Her husband had learned the main rule: in this house, decisions are made together, and no one takes on someone else’s responsibilities.

Around nine, Sergey returned. He looked tired and guilty.

“How are things?” Natalya asked.

“Fine. Mom cooked him soups for the week. She was happy to have her grandson.”

“That’s good. Anna Petrovna loves taking care of someone.”

“And you don’t?” Sergey asked quietly.

“I do. But those I choose myself. And when I’m asked, not forced.”

Sergey nodded and sat at the table. Natalya silently set a bowl of soup in front of him. He looked up in surprise.

“That’s for you. Because today you did the right thing—you found the child a suitable place without shifting the responsibility onto me.”

Sergey picked up the spoon and began to eat. Over the week, he had come to understand that being a parent is hard work—and forcing that work onto others is wrong and unfair.

“Natalya, I’m sorry,” he said between spoonfuls.

“For what?”

“For not thinking. For not asking. For deciding for you.”

“Good. The important thing is that it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t.”

Natalya poured herself tea and sat across from her husband. Peace and order reigned in the apartment once more. Most importantly, Sergey had learned his lesson. He now knew: his wife would not let anyone decide for her, and she would not take on someone else’s duties without her own consent.

The evening passed quietly. A family of three had dinner, watched TV, and planned the next day. No one had to be forced to eat. No one complained about discomfort. Harmony was restored in Natalya’s home—built on mutual respect and shared decisions.

Yana pushed open the apartment door and immediately caught the low hum of voices coming from the kitchen. Her husband, Igor, was in there with his mother—Valentina Stepanovna—who had shown up that morning and, as usual, made the kitchen her base camp.

“So what’s with the TV?” Igor was asking.

“It’s ancient,” his mother complained. “The picture is awful, the sound cuts out. It should’ve been replaced ages ago.”

Yana slipped off her shoes and stepped into the kitchen. Valentina sat at the table nursing a cup of tea; Igor was poking at his phone.

“Ah, Yana’s here,” Igor said, brightening. “We were just talking about Mom’s TV.”

“What happened to it?” Yana asked, already tired.

 

“It’s practically dead. We need a new one,” said Valentina Stepanovna.

Igor set his phone down and fixed his gaze on Yana.
“You always cover things like this. Buy Mom a TV. We don’t feel like dipping into our own money.”

Yana paused mid-motion, halfway out of her coat. He’d said it as casually as if he were asking her to pick up a loaf of bread.

“I don’t feel like it either. Do you?” she asked evenly.

“Well, you have a good job and make solid money,” Igor said. “My salary’s small.”

Yana frowned, studying him to see if he was serious. He was. His expression radiated the serene confidence of a man convinced he was right.

“Igor, I’m not a bank,” she said slowly.

“Oh, come on,” he waved it off. “It’s just one TV.”

Yana pulled out a chair and sat. Her mind ran through the last few months. Who covered the rent? Yana. Who bought groceries? Yana. Who paid the utilities? Yana again. Plus the medications for Valentina’s blood pressure and aching joints. And that renovation loan his mother had taken out—she’d stopped paying after three months, and Yana had picked up the installments.

“Remember something?” Igor prodded.

“I remembered who’s been paying for everything in this family for the past two years.”

Valentina inserted herself with a sigh.
“Yana, you’re the lady of the house; the responsibility is yours. Is it really so hard to buy Igor’s mother a TV? It’s a purchase for the family.”

“For the family?” Yana echoed. “Where is this ‘family’ whenever there’s a bill to pay?”

“It’s not like we do nothing,” Igor objected. “I work, and Mom helps around the house.”

“What help?” Yana blinked. “Valentina comes over for tea and to list her ailments.”

The mother-in-law bristled.
“What do you mean just to talk? I give you advice on how to run a family properly.”

“Advice on how I’m supposed to support everyone?”

“Well, who else would?” Igor asked, genuinely puzzled. “You’ve got steady work and a good income.”

Yana studied him. He truly believed it was normal for his wife to haul the entire household on her back.

“And what do you do with your paycheck?” she asked.

“I save it,” Igor said. “For a rainy day.”

“For what kind of rainy day?”

“You never know—crisis, layoffs. You need a safety cushion.”

“And where’s my safety cushion?”

“You have a reliable job; they won’t fire you.”

“Maybe it’s time you and your mother decide for yourselves what to buy—and with what money,” Yana said calmly.

Igor smirked. “Why talk like that? You manage money so well. We already try not to burden you with extras.”

“Not burden me?” Heat rose in Yana’s cheeks. “Igor, do you actually think you’re not a burden?”

“It’s not like we ask for something every day,” his mother jumped in. “Only when it’s truly necessary.”

“Is a TV truly necessary?”

“Of course! How can you live without one? The news, the programs.”

“You can watch everything online.”

“I don’t understand the internet,” Valentina cut her off. “I need a proper TV.”

The conversation was looping. To both Igor and his mother, it seemed self-evident that Yana must bankroll everything, while they pinched every last kopeck for themselves.

“All right,” Yana said. “How much is this TV you want?”

“You can get a good one for forty thousand,” Igor brightened. “A big screen, with internet.”

“Forty thousand rubles,” Yana repeated.

“Yeah. It’s not that much.”

“Igor, do you know how much I pour into our family each month?”

“Well… a lot, I guess.”

“About seventy thousand rubles. Rent, groceries, utilities, your mother’s medications, and her loan.”

Igor shrugged. “It’s family. That’s normal.”

“And how much do you contribute?”

“Well… sometimes I buy milk. Bread.”

“Igor, you spend at most five thousand a month on the household,” Yana said, doing the math. “And not even every month.”

“But I’m saving for a rainy day.”

“Whose rainy day? Yours?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Then why is the money in your personal account and not in a joint one?”

Igor said nothing. Valentina fell quiet too.

“Yana, you’re speaking out of turn,” the mother-in-law finally ventured. “My son provides for the family.”

“With what?” Yana asked, genuinely baffled. “Valentina, the last time Igor bought groceries was six months ago—and only because I was sick and asked him.”

“But he works!”

“And I work. Except my salary goes to everyone, while his goes only to himself.”

“That’s how it’s done,” Igor said, less sure now. “The woman manages the household.”

“Managing the household doesn’t mean carrying everyone,” Yana shot back.

“So what do you suggest?” Valentina asked.

“I suggest everyone carry their own weight.”

“How is that supposed to be ‘family’?” the mother-in-law cried.

“What about family? Family means everyone contributes, not one person dragging the rest.”

Igor stared at her, bewildered. “Yana, that’s a strange way to think. We’re husband and wife—we have a joint budget.”

“Joint?” Yana laughed once. “A joint budget is when both people put money into one pot and spend it together. What do we have? I put money in, and you hoard yours.”

“Not hoard—I’m saving.”

“For yourself. Because when money’s needed, you’ll spend yours on your own needs, not shared ones.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Right now your mother wants a TV. You’ve got forty thousand saved. Will you buy it for her?”

Igor hesitated. “Well… that’s my savings.”

“Exactly. Yours.”

Valentina tried to steer the conversation.
“Yana, you shouldn’t address your husband like that. A man should feel like the head of the family.”

“And the head of the family should support the family—not live off his wife.”

“Igor does not live off you!” she protested.

“He does. For two years I’ve paid the rent, food, utilities, your medications, and your loan. Igor has been stockpiling money for his personal needs.”

“It’s only temporary,” Igor said defensively. “There’s a crisis—times are tough.”

“Igor, we’ve been in a ‘crisis’ for three years. And every month you shift more onto me.”

“I’m not shifting; I’m asking for help.”

“Help?” Yana gave a short laugh. “Have you paid the rent even once in the last six months?”

“No, but—”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“Sometimes.”

“Igor, buying milk once a month doesn’t count.”

“Well, all right, I didn’t. But I work and bring money into the family.”

“You bring it in—and immediately stash it in your personal account.”

“I’m not hiding it; I’m saving it for the future.”

 

“For your future.”

The mother-in-law jumped right back in.

“Yana, what’s gotten into you? You never used to complain.”

“I used to think it was temporary. That my husband would soon start carrying his share of the family expenses.”

“And now?”

“Now I see I’ve been treated like a cash cow.”

“How can you say that!” Igor burst out.

“What else do you call it when one person bankrolls everyone and they still expect gifts?”

“What gifts? A TV is something Mom needs!”

“Igor, if your mother needs a TV, your mother can buy it. Or you can buy it—from your savings.”

“But her pension is tiny!”

“And my salary—does it stretch like rubber?”

“Well, you can afford it.”

“I can. I also don’t want to.”

Silence dropped between them. Igor and his mother exchanged a look.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to?” her husband asked, voice low.

“I mean I’m done being the only one supporting the entire family.”

“But we’re a family; we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Exactly—each other. Not one person propping up everyone else.”

Yana rose from the table. It hit her how they saw her: a card that should spit out cash on demand.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked.

“To take care of things.”

Without another word, Yana pulled out her phone and opened her banking app there at the table. Her fingers moved fast—she blocked the joint card Igor used. Then she switched to transfers and began moving all her savings to a new account she’d opened a month ago, just in case.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked, suddenly cautious.

“Handling my finances,” Yana said crisply.

He tried to glance at her screen, but she tilted it away. Five minutes later, every ruble had been moved to her personal account—one neither her husband nor his mother could touch.

“Yana, what’s happening?” Igor asked, alarmed.

“What should have happened long ago.”

She opened the card settings and revoked all access but her own. Igor stared, stunned, not yet grasping the scale of what she’d done.

Sensing danger, Valentina Stepanovna leapt up.

“What have you done? We’ll be left without money!”

“You’ll be left with the money you earn,” Yana replied evenly.

“What do you mean, ‘we earn’? What about family? What about a joint budget?” the mother-in-law shrieked.

“Valentina Stepanovna, we never had a joint budget. There was my budget—and everyone fed off it.”

“You’re out of your mind!” the older woman shouted. “We’re a family!”

Yana’s voice stayed steady and clear.

“From today, we live separately. I’m not obliged to fund your whims.”

“What whims?” Igor protested. “These are necessities!”

“A forty-thousand-ruble TV is a necessity?”

“For Mom—yes!”

“Then Mom can buy it with her pension. Or you can use your savings.”

The mother-in-law rushed to her son.

“Why are you standing there? Put her in her place! She’s your wife!”

Igor muttered something, eyes fixed on the table, avoiding Yana’s gaze. He knew she was right but wouldn’t say it.

“Igor,” Yana said quietly, “do you honestly think I should support your entire family?”

“Well… we’re husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife means partnership. Not one person carrying the rest.”

“But my salary is smaller!”

“Your salary is smaller, but your savings are bigger—because you spend them only on yourself.”

Igor went silent again. Seeing her son wouldn’t push, the mother-in-law lunged forward herself.

“Yana, return the money at once! I’m running out of medicine!”

“Buy it with your own money.”

“My pension is small!”

“Ask your son. He has savings.”

“Igor, give me money for medicine!” she demanded.

Her son hesitated. “Mom, I’m saving that for the family.”

“I am the family!” she snapped.

“But those are my savings.”

 

“You see?” Yana said. “When it’s time to spend, everyone’s money magically becomes personal.”

Realizing how serious this was, the mother-in-law changed tack.

“Yana, let’s talk calmly. You’re a kind woman; you’ve always helped.”

“I helped—until I realized I was being used.”

“You’re not being used—you’re appreciated!”

“Appreciated for what—paying every bill?”

“For supporting the family.”

“I’m not supporting a family. I’m supporting two able-bodied adults who can work and earn.”

The next morning, Yana went to the bank and opened a separate account in her name. She printed statements for the past two years showing where the money had gone: groceries, rent, utilities, medicine, and her mother-in-law’s loan. It was all on Yana.

When she got home, she pulled out a large suitcase and began packing Igor’s things—shirts, trousers, socks—folding everything neatly.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked when he came home from work.

“Packing your things.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live here anymore.”

“What do you mean I don’t? This is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name. I decide who lives here.”

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“For now, yes. Not for long.”

Yana rolled the suitcase into the hall and held out her palm.

“The keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. All sets.”

“Yana, are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Reluctantly, Igor handed them over. Yana checked—main set and spare.

“Does your mother have a set?”

“Yes, she drops by sometimes.”

“Call her. Tell her to return them.”

“Why?”

“Because Valentina Stepanovna no longer has the right to enter my home.”

An hour later, the mother-in-law arrived. She understood immediately when she saw the suitcase in the hallway.

“What does this mean?” she demanded.

“It means your son is moving out.”

“Moving where? This is his home!”

“This is my home. And I’m done supporting freeloaders.”

“How dare you!” the mother-in-law exploded.

“I dare. Hand over the keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. I know you have a duplicate.”

“I won’t give them back!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

She raised a full-blown ruckus—screaming that Yana was tearing the family apart, that you don’t treat relatives like that, that she’d always thought her daughter-in-law was a good girl.

“The good girl is gone,” Yana said calmly, and dialed.

“Hello, we need assistance. Former relatives refuse to return my apartment keys and leave the premises.”

Half an hour later, two officers arrived. They reviewed the situation and checked the property documents.

“Ma’am,” they said to the mother-in-law, “return the keys and leave the apartment.”

“But my son lives here!”

“Your son isn’t the owner and has no right to dispose of the property.”

With witnesses present, the older woman fished the keys from her purse and flung them on the floor.

“You’ll regret this!” she shouted as she left. “You’ll end up alone!”

“I’ll be alone—with my own money,” Yana replied.

Igor silently picked up the suitcase and followed his mother out. At the door he turned.

“Yana, maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“There’s nothing to reconsider.”

A week later, Yana filed for divorce. There was hardly any joint property to divide—the apartment had always been hers, and the car had been bought with her own money. There was nothing to split.

Igor called, asked to meet, begged to talk. He promised everything would change, that he’d cover all the expenses himself.

“Too late,” Yana said. “Trust doesn’t return.”

“But I love you!”

“Do you love me—or my wallet?”

“You, of course!”

“Then why did you live off me for three years without a flicker of shame?”

Igor had no answer.

The divorce went through quickly—Igor didn’t contest it; he knew resistance was pointless. The court dissolved the marriage.

For another month, Valentina Stepanovna rang Yana’s phone—crying, threatening, then asking for money for medicine. Yana listened in silence and hung up.

“My blood pressure is up because of you!” the mother-in-law complained.

“Ask your son to treat you—he has savings.”

“He says he’s sorry to spend the money!”

“Wonderful. Now you understand how I felt for three years.”

Six months later, Yana ran into Igor at the store. He looked worn out; his clothes had lost their crispness.

 

“Hi,” he said awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Great. You?”

“Fine… I’m living with Mom for now.”

“I see.”

“You know, I realized I was wrong. I really did dump too much on you.”

“You realized?”

“Yes. Now I pay for all of Mom’s expenses myself, and I see how hard it is.”

“But you have savings.”

“I had. I spent them on her medicine and repairs to her apartment.”

“And? Does it hurt to spend it?”

Igor paused, then admitted, “It does. A lot.”

“Now imagine doing that for three straight years.”

“I understand. Forgive me.”

“I already have. It doesn’t change anything.”

“What if I make it right? Become a different man?”

“Igor, you only ‘became different’ when my money disappeared from your life. That isn’t change—that’s pressure.”

“But I’ve learned my lesson!”

“You learned it only when you had to pay yourself. If I’d kept covering everything, you’d never have learned anything.”

He nodded. Yana was right.

“I have to go,” she said, and headed to the checkout.

At home, Yana brewed tea and sat by the window with a book. The apartment was quiet—no one demanding money for TVs, medicine, or anything else. The balance in her account belonged solely to her. No one dictated how to spend it.

When she’d closed the door behind her ex-husband six months earlier, she’d felt light for the first time in years. Freedom from financial parasites was worth more than any blood tie. Now every ruble she spent was a choice, not coercion.

Yana never again let anyone climb onto her shoulders. She learned to say “no”—without guilt—and refused to bankroll other adults. Money returned to what it should be: a tool for her own plans, not a lifeline for people determined to live at her expense.

Yana pushed the apartment door open and immediately heard voices from the kitchen. Her husband Igor was talking with his mother—Valentina Stepanovna. The woman had arrived in the morning and settled in the kitchen, as usual.

“So what’s going on with the TV?” Igor asked.

“It’s gotten really old,” the mother-in-law complained. “The picture is bad, the sound comes and goes. It should have been replaced long ago.”

Yana took off her shoes and went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was sitting at the table with a cup of tea; Igor was fiddling with his phone.

“Ah, Yana’s here,” her husband said happily. “We were just discussing Mom’s TV.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Yana asked tiredly.

“It’s completely broken. We need a new one,” said Valentina Stepanovna.

 

Igor put down his phone and looked at his wife.

“You always pay for things like this. Buy Mom a TV. We don’t feel like spending our own money.”

Yana froze as she took off her coat. He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about buying a loaf of bread at the store.

“I don’t feel like it either. And you do?” Yana asked.

“Well, you’ve got a good job, you make decent money,” Igor explained. “And my salary is small.”

Yana frowned and looked at her husband as if checking whether he was serious. He was. Igor’s face radiated complete confidence in the rightness of his words.

“Igor, I’m not a bank,” Yana said slowly.

“Oh, come on,” her husband waved her off. “It’s just one TV.”

Yana sat down at the table and thought back over the past few months. Who paid for the apartment? Yana. Who bought the groceries? Yana. Who paid the utilities? Yana again. And the medicines for Valentina Stepanovna, who constantly complained about her blood pressure and joints. And the credit her mother-in-law had taken out for renovations—she stopped paying it back after three months, and Yana took over that, too.

“Remember something?” Igor asked.

“I remembered who’s been paying for everything in this family for the last two years.”
Family games

Valentina Stepanovna stepped into the conversation:

“Yana, you’re the lady of the house; the responsibility falls on you. Is it really so hard to buy Igor’s mother a TV? It’s a purchase for the family.”

“For the family?” Yana repeated. “And where is this family when money needs to be spent?”

“It’s not like we’re not doing anything,” Igor objected. “I work, and Mom helps around the house.”

“What help around the house?” Yana was surprised. “Valentina Stepanovna comes over to have tea and talk about her ailments.”

The mother-in-law took offense.

“What do you mean just to talk? I give you advice on how to run a family properly.”

“Advice about how I’m supposed to support everyone?”

“Well, who else would?” Igor asked in genuine surprise. “You have a steady job and a good income.”

Yana looked closely at her husband. He truly thought it was normal for his wife to carry the entire family financially.
Family games

“And what do you do with your money?” Yana asked.

“I save it,” Igor replied. “Just in case.”

“For what case?”

“You never know. A crisis, getting fired. You need a safety cushion.”

“And where’s my safety cushion?”

“You’ve got a reliable job; they won’t fire you.”

Yana said calmly, “Maybe it’s time for you and your mother to decide for yourselves what to buy and with what money.”

Igor smirked. “Why talk like that? You manage money so well. And we already try not to burden you with extra expenses.”

“Not burden me?” Blood rushed to Yana’s face. “Igor, do you seriously think you’re not burdening me?”

“Well, it’s not like we ask you to buy something every day,” his mother defended him. “Only when it’s really needed.”

“Is a TV really needed?”

“Of course! How can you live without a TV? The news, the shows.”

“You can watch everything online.”

“I don’t understand the internet,” the mother-in-law cut her off. “I need a proper TV.”

Yana realized the conversation was going in circles. In their minds, both Valentina Stepanovna and Igor genuinely believed Yana was obligated to provide for everyone and everything—while they pinched every kopeck for themselves.

“All right,” Yana said. “Tell me how much the TV you want costs.”

“Well, you can find a good one for forty thousand,” Igor brightened. “A big one, with internet.”

“Forty thousand rubles,” Yana repeated.

“Yeah. Not that much.”

“Igor, do you know how much I spend on our family every month?”
Family games

“Well… a lot, probably.”

“About seventy thousand rubles every month. The apartment, groceries, utilities, your mother’s medicines, her loan.”

Igor shrugged. “It’s family. That’s normal.”

“And how much do you spend on the family?”

“Well… sometimes I buy milk. Bread.”

“Igor, you spend at most five thousand rubles a month on the family,” Yana calculated. “And not even every month.”

“But I’m saving for a rainy day.”

“Whose rainy day? Yours?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Then why is the money sitting in your personal account and not in a joint one?”

Igor fell silent. Valentina Stepanovna quieted down too.

“Yana, you’re saying the wrong things,” the mother-in-law finally ventured. “My son provides for the family.”

“With what?” Yana asked, astonished. “Valentina Stepanovna, the last time Igor bought groceries was six months ago. And only because I was sick and asked him to go to the store.”

“But he works!”

“And I work. Only for some reason my salary goes to everyone, and his goes only to him.”

“That’s just how it’s done,” Igor said uncertainly. “The woman manages the household.”

“Managing the household doesn’t mean carrying everyone on your back,” Yana retorted.

 

“And what do you suggest?” asked Valentina Stepanovna.

“I suggest everyone support themselves.”

“How’s that supposed to work?” the mother-in-law cried. “What about family?”
Family games

“What about family? Family is when everyone contributes equally, not when one person pulls everyone else along.”

Igor looked at his wife in bewilderment. “Yana, that’s a strange way to think. We’re husband and wife, we have a joint budget.”

“Joint?” Yana laughed. “Igor, a joint budget is when both people put money into one pot and spend it together. And what do we have? I put money in, and you keep yours for yourself.”

“Not for myself—I’m saving it.”

“For yourself. Because when money is needed, you’ll spend it on your own needs, not shared ones.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Right now your mother needs a TV. You have forty thousand set aside. Will you buy it for her?”

Igor hesitated. “Well… that’s my savings.”

“Exactly. Yours.”

The mother-in-law tried to turn the tide:

“Yana, you shouldn’t talk to your husband like that. A man should feel like the head of the family.”

“And the head of the family should support the family, not live off his wife.”

“Igor does not live off you!” the mother-in-law protested.

“He does. For the past two years I’ve paid for the apartment, food, utilities, your medicines, and your loan. And Igor has been saving money for his personal needs.”

“It’s only temporary,” her husband tried to justify himself. “There’s a crisis, times are tough.”

“Igor, we’ve been in a ‘crisis’ for three years now. And with every month you shift more expenses onto me.”

“I’m not shifting them; I’m asking for help.”

“Help?” Yana let out a short laugh. “Did you pay the rent at any point in the last six months?”

“No, but—”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“Sometimes.”

“Igor, buying milk once a month does not count as buying groceries.”

“Well, okay, I didn’t. But I work and bring money into the family.”

“You bring it in and immediately stash it in your personal account.”

“I’m not hiding it; I’m saving it for the future.”

“For your future.”

The mother-in-law jumped back in:

“Yana, what’s gotten into you? You never used to complain.”

“I used to think it was temporary. That my husband would soon start pulling his weight with family expenses.”

“And now?”

“Now I understand I’m being used like a cash cow.”

“How can you say that!” Igor burst out.

“What else am I supposed to call it when one person supports everyone else and they still demand gifts?”

“What gifts? The TV is something Mom needs!”

“Igor, if your mother needs a TV, then your mother should buy it. Or you can buy it for her out of your savings.”

“But her pension is small!”

“And is my salary made of rubber—stretchable without limit?”

“Well, you can afford it.”

“I can. But I don’t want to.”

Silence fell. Igor and his mother exchanged glances.

“What do you mean you don’t want to?” her husband asked quietly.

“It means I’m tired of supporting the family alone.”
Family games

“But we’re a family; we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Exactly. Each other. Not one person helping everyone else.”

Yana stood up from the table. She realized they saw her as a cash machine that should dispense money on demand.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked.

“To take care of things.”

Without another word, Yana took out her phone and opened her banking app right there at the table. Her fingers moved quickly over the screen—she blocked the joint card Igor had access to. Then she went to transfers and began moving all her savings to a new account she’d opened a month earlier, just in case.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked warily.

“Taking care of financial matters,” Yana said curtly.

Her husband tried to peek at her phone, but Yana angled the screen away. Five minutes later, all the money had been moved to her personal account, to which neither her husband nor her mother-in-law had any access.

“Yana, what’s going on?” Igor asked, alarmed.

“What should have happened a long time ago is happening.”

Yana went into the card settings and permanently revoked access for everyone but herself. Igor stared at his wife, bewildered, not grasping the scale of what was happening.

Sensing trouble, Valentina Stepanovna jumped up from her chair.

“What have you done? We’ll be left without money!”

“You’ll be left with the money you earn yourselves,” Yana replied calmly.

“What do you mean, ourselves? What about family? What about the joint budget?” the mother-in-law screamed.

“Valentina Stepanovna, we never had a joint budget. There was only my budget, which everyone fed off.”

“You’ve lost your mind!” the mother-in-law kept shouting. “We’re a family!”

In a steady voice, Yana said clearly:

“From today on, we live separately. I am not obligated to pay for your whims.”

“What whims?” Igor objected. “These are necessary expenses!”

“A forty-thousand-ruble TV is a necessary expense?”

“For Mom, yes!”

“Then let Mom buy it with her pension. Or you buy it with your savings.”

The mother-in-law rushed to her son:

“Why are you keeping quiet? Put her in her place! She’s your wife!”

Igor mumbled something unintelligible, avoiding Yana’s eyes. He knew she was right but wouldn’t admit it out loud.

“Igor,” Yana said quietly, “do you really think I should support your whole family?”

“Well… we’re husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife means a partnership. Not a situation where one person supports all the others.”

“But my salary is smaller!”

“Your salary is smaller, but your savings are bigger—because you don’t spend them on anything but yourself.”

Igor fell silent again. Realizing her son wouldn’t pressure his wife, the mother-in-law decided to act herself:

“Yana, return the money immediately! I’m running out of medicine!”

“Buy it with your own money.”

“My pension is small!”

“Ask your son. He has savings.”

“Igor, give me money for medicine!” the mother-in-law demanded.

 

Her son faltered. “Mom, I’m saving that for the family.”
Family games

“I am the family!” she shouted.

“But those are my savings.”

“You see?” Yana noted. “When it comes to spending, everyone’s money suddenly becomes personal.”

Realizing how serious things were, the mother-in-law changed tactics.

“Yana, let’s talk calmly. You’re a kind woman; you’ve always helped.”

“I helped until I realized I was being used.”

“You’re not being used— you’re appreciated!”

“Appreciated for what? For paying all the bills?”

“For supporting the family.”

“I’m not supporting a family. I’m supporting two adults who can work and earn their own money.”

The next morning Yana went to the bank and opened a separate account in her name. She also printed statements for the last two years to show that all the money had been spent only on her husband and his mother—groceries, rent, utilities, medicines, and the mother-in-law’s loan. It was all on Yana.

When she got home, Yana pulled out a large suitcase and started packing Igor’s things. Shirts, trousers, socks—she folded everything neatly.

“What are you doing?” her husband asked when he came home from work.

“Packing your things.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live here anymore.”

“What do you mean, I don’t? This is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name. I decide who lives in it.”

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“For now, yes. But not for long.”

Yana rolled the suitcase into the hallway and held out her hand.

“The keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. All sets.”

“Yana, are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Reluctantly, Igor handed over the keys. Yana checked—main set and spare.

“Does your mother have keys?”

“Yes, she comes by sometimes.”

“Call her. Have her return them.”

“Why?”

“Because Valentina Stepanovna no longer has the right to enter my apartment.”

An hour later the mother-in-law arrived. She understood it was serious when she saw the suitcase in the hallway.

“What does this mean?” she asked sternly.

“It means your son is moving out.”

“Moving out where? This is his home!”

“This is my home. And I no longer want to support freeloaders.”

“How dare you!” the mother-in-law exploded.

“I dare. Hand over the keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. I know you have a duplicate.”

“I won’t give them back!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

The mother-in-law raised a real ruckus. She screamed that Yana was destroying the family, that you don’t treat relatives like this, that she had always considered her daughter-in-law a good girl.
Family games

“The good girl is gone,” Yana said calmly and dialed the police.

“Hello, we need assistance. Former relatives refuse to return the keys to my apartment and to leave the premises.”

Half an hour later, two officers arrived. They clarified the situation and checked the documents for the apartment.

“Ma’am,” they said to the mother-in-law, “return the keys and leave the apartment.”

“But my son lives here!”

“Your son is not the owner and has no right to dispose of the property.”

With witnesses present, the mother-in-law reluctantly took the keys from her purse and threw them on the floor.

“You’ll regret this!” she shouted as she left. “You’ll end up alone!”

“I’ll be alone, but with my own money,” Yana replied.

Igor silently picked up the suitcase and followed his mother out. At the door he turned back.

“Yana, maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“There’s nothing left to reconsider.”

A week later, Yana filed for divorce. There was almost no joint property to divide—the apartment had belonged to Yana from the start, and the car had been bought by Yana with her own money. There was nothing to split.

Igor tried calling, asked to meet and talk. He promised everything would change, that he would pay all the expenses himself.

“Too late,” Yana answered. “Trust doesn’t come back.”

“But I love you!”

“Do you love me—or my wallet?”

“You, of course!”

“Then why did you live off me for three years without a shred of remorse?”

Igor had no answer.

The divorce went through quickly—Igor didn’t contest it, understanding how pointless it was. The court declared the marriage dissolved.

For another month, Valentina Stepanovna kept calling Yana—crying into the phone, then threatening, then asking for money for medicine. Yana listened silently and hung up.

“My blood pressure is up because of you!” her mother-in-law complained.

“Ask your son to treat you; he has savings.”

“He says he’s sorry to spend the money!”

“Wonderful. Now you understand how I felt for three years.”

Six months later Yana ran into Igor at the store. Her ex-husband looked tired; his clothes had lost their former crispness.

“Hi,” Igor greeted her awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Great. And you?”

“Fine… I’m living with Mom for now.”

“I see.”

“You know, I realized I was wrong. I really did dump too much on you.”

“You realized?”

“Yes. Now I pay for all of Mom’s expenses myself, and I see how hard it is.”

“But you’ve got savings.”

“I had. I spent them on Mom’s medicine and repairs to her apartment.”

“And? Does it hurt to spend it?”

Igor paused, then answered honestly, “It does. A lot.”

“Now imagine doing that for three years straight.”

“I understand. Forgive me.”

“I already have. But that changes nothing.”

“What if I make it right? Become a different man?”

“Igor, you only ‘became different’ when you were left without my money. That’s not change—that’s being forced by circumstances.”

“But I’ve realized my mistake!”

“You realized it only when you had to pay yourself. If I had kept supporting everyone, you’d never have realized anything.”

Igor nodded. He knew Yana was right.

“I have to go,” Yana said, and headed for the checkout.

At home, Yana brewed tea and sat by the window with a book. The apartment was quiet—no one was demanding money for TVs, medicines, or anything else. The money in her account belonged to Yana alone. No one told her how to spend it.

When she closed the door behind her ex-husband six months earlier, Yana had felt truly light for the first time in a long while. It turned out that freedom from financial parasites was worth more than any family ties. Now every ruble she spent was a conscious choice, not coercion.
Family games

Yana never again allowed anyone to climb onto her shoulders. She learned to say “no” and not to feel guilty for refusing to support other adults. Money once again became a tool for realizing her own plans, not a means of survival for the freeloaders around her.

 

“Who is this?” Sergey Alexandrovich asked, voice cold as steel, the moment Anna stepped over the threshold with a newborn bundled against her chest. There was no gladness, no wonder—only a flint of irritation. “Do you honestly expect me to accept this?”

He had come home from yet another weeks-long business trip: contracts, meetings, flights—his whole life a conveyor belt of departure lounges and conference tables. Anna had known it before the wedding and took it as part of the bargain.

They met when she was nineteen, a first-year medical student, and he was already the sort of man she had once scrawled into her school-girl diary: established, confident, unshakeable. A rock to shelter behind. With him, she had believed, she would be safe.

So when the evening meant to be among her brightest curdled into nightmare, she felt something inside her fracture. Sergey looked at the child, and his face went foreign. He hesitated—then his voice came down like a blade.

 

“Look at him—nothing of me. Not a single feature. This is not my son, do you hear? Do you take me for a fool? What game are you playing—trying to hang noodles on my ears?”

The words slashed. Anna stood rooted, heart hammering in her throat, head ringing with fear. The man she had trusted with everything was accusing her of treachery. She had loved him wholly; she had given up her plans, her ambitions, her old life to become his wife, to give him a child, to build a home. And now he spoke to her like an enemy at the gate.

Her mother had warned her.

“What do you see in him, Anyuta?” Marina Petrovna would say. “He’s nearly twice your age. He already has a child. Why volunteer to be a stepmother? Find an equal, someone who will be your partner.”

But Anna, glowing with first love, hadn’t listened. Sergey, to her, was not simply a man—he was fate itself, the protective presence she had craved since childhood. Having grown up without a father, she had longed for a strong, reliable husband, the keeper of a family she could finally call her own.

Marina’s caution was perhaps inevitable; to a woman of Sergey’s years, he looked a peer, not a match for her daughter. Still, Anna was happy. She moved into his spacious, well-appointed house and began to dream.

For a while, life did look perfect. Anna kept at her medical studies, living out, in part, her mother’s unrealized wish—Marina had once wanted to be a doctor, but an early pregnancy and a vanishing man had ended that dream. She raised Anna alone. The absence of a father left a hollow that made her daughter lean toward the promise of a “real” man.

Sergey filled that space. Anna imagined a son, a complete family. Two years after the wedding, she learned she was pregnant. The news flooded her like spring light.

Her mother worried. “Anna, what about your degree? You won’t throw it all away? You’ve worked so hard!”

The fear was reasonable—medicine demanded sacrifices: exams, rotations, pressure without relief. But none of it mattered in the face of what grew within her. A child felt like the meaning of everything.

“I’ll go back after maternity leave,” she said gently. “I want more than one—two, maybe three. I’ll need time.”

Those words triggered every alarm in Marina’s heart. She knew what it meant to raise a child alone; hard years had taught her prudence. “Have only as many children,” she liked to say, “as you can raise if your husband walks.” And now her worst thought stood on the doorstep.

When Sergey threw Anna out as if she were a nuisance, something in Marina broke. She gathered her daughter and grandson close, fury trembling in her voice.

“Has he lost his mind? How could he? Where is his conscience? I know you—you would never betray.”

But warnings and years of quiet advice had collided with Anna’s stubborn belief in love. All Marina could say now was bitter and simple: “I told you who he was. You didn’t want to see.”

Anna had no strength for reproach. The storm inside her left only pain. She had pictured a different homecoming: Sergey taking the baby, thanking her, embracing her—three of them welded into a real family. Instead: coldness, rage, accusation.

“Get out, you traitor!” he shouted, his decency shredding. “Who was it? You think I don’t know? I gave you everything! Without me you’d be crammed in a dorm, barely scraping through med school, slaving in some forgotten clinic. You can’t do anything else. And you bring another man’s child into my house? Am I supposed to swallow that?”

Shaking, Anna tried to reach him. She pleaded, told him he was wrong, begged him to think.

“Seryozha, remember your daughter when you brought her home? She didn’t look like you straight away. Babies change; features emerge with time—eyes, nose, gestures. You’re a grown man. How can you not understand?”

“Not true!” he snapped. “My daughter looked exactly like me from the start. This boy isn’t mine. Pack your things. And don’t count on a single kopeck!”

“Please,” Anna whispered through tears. “He’s your son. Do a DNA test—it will prove it. I’ve never lied to you. Please… believe me, if only a little.”

“Go to laboratories and humiliate myself?” he barked. “You think I’m that gullible? Enough. We’re finished.”

He burrowed deeper into his certainty. No plea, no logic, no memory of love could pierce it.

Anna packed in silence. She lifted her child, took one last look at the house she had wanted to make a hearth, and stepped into the unknown.

There was nowhere else to go but home. As soon as she crossed her mother’s threshold, the tears came.

“Mama… I was so foolish. So naive. Forgive me.”

Marina did not cry. “Enough. You’ve given birth—we’ll raise him. Your life is beginning, do you hear? You’re not alone. Pull yourself together. You are not quitting your studies. I’ll help. We will manage. That’s what mothers are for.”

Words failed Anna; gratitude flooded her in place of speech. Without Marina’s steady hands, she would have shattered. Her mother fed and rocked the baby, shouldered the night shifts, and guarded Anna’s unbroken line back to school and forward to a new life. She didn’t complain, didn’t scold, didn’t stop fighting.

Sergey disappeared. No alimony, no calls, no interest. He slipped away as if their years together had been a fever dream.

But Anna remained—no longer alone. She had her son. She had her mother. In that small, real world, she found a deeper love than the one she had chased.

The divorce felt like a building collapsing inside her. How could a future so carefully imagined turn to ash overnight? Sergey had always had a difficult temperament—jealous, possessive, a man who mistook suspicion for vigilance. He had explained his first divorce as a “financial disagreement.” Anna had believed it. She hadn’t understood how easily he erupted, how swiftly he lost control over the smallest, most innocent things.

In the beginning he had been tenderness itself—attentive, generous, solicitous. Flowers for no reason, questions about her day, little surprises. She thought she’d found her forever.

Then Igor was born, and she poured herself into motherhood. As he grew, she recognized a duty to herself too. She went back to university, determined to be not just a graduate but a true professional. Marina backed her in every way—childcare, money when it was tight, encouragement when it wasn’t.

Her first work contract felt like a flag planted on new ground. From then on she supported the family herself—modestly, yes, but with pride.

The chief physician at the clinic saw something immediately—focus, stamina, a hunger to learn. A seasoned woman with clear eyes, Tatiana Stepanovna took Anna under her wing.

“Becoming a mother early isn’t a tragedy,” she told her gently. “It’s strength. Your career is ahead of you. You’re young. What matters is that you have a spine.”

Those words were a pilot light. Anna kept going. When Igor turned six, a senior nurse at his grandmother’s hospital reminded her, not unkindly, that school was coming fast and the boy wasn’t quite ready. Anna didn’t panic; she acted. Tutors, routines, a small desk by the window—she built the scaffolding for his first steps into study.

“You’ve earned a promotion,” Tatiana said later, “but you know how it is—no one advances here without the numbers behind them. Still… you have a gift. Real medical instinct.”

“I know,” Anna answered, calm and grateful. “And I’m not arguing. Thank you—for everything. Not only for me. For Igor.”

“Oh, enough,” Tatiana waved, embarrassed. “Just justify the trust.”

Anna did. Her reputation grew quickly—colleagues respected her, patients felt safe in her care. The compliments piled up; even Tatiana wondered aloud if there were too many.

And then, one afternoon, the past stepped into Anna’s office.

“Good afternoon,” she said evenly. “Come in. Tell me what brings you.”

Sergey Alexandrovich had followed a recommendation to the best surgeon in the city and had assumed the shared initials were coincidence. The second he saw her, doubt ended.

“Hello, Anna,” he said, quietly, a tremor under the words.

His daughter, Olga, had been sick for a year with something no one could name. Tests inconclusive, specialists baffled. The child was fading.

Anna listened without interruption. When he finished, she spoke with clinical clarity.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. It’s unbearable when a child suffers. But we can’t afford delays. We need a complete workup—now. Time is not on our side.”

He nodded. For once, he did not argue.

“Why are you alone?” she asked. “Where is Olga?”

“She’s very weak,” he whispered. “Too tired to sit up.”

He tried for composure, but Anna heard the storm beneath his restraint. As always, he moved as if money could batter down fate.

“Help her,” he said at last. “Please. Whatever it costs.”

Igor’s name never surfaced. Once, that would have split Anna open. Now she filed it away—an old wound that had scarred over.

Professional duty steadied her. Patients are not divided into “ours” and “theirs.” Still, she wanted him to understand: she wasn’t a miracle worker.

A week later, after exhaustive testing, she called. “I’ll operate,” she said. Her certainty steadied him even as fear shook him.

“What if… what if she doesn’t make it?”

“If we wait, we sign a sentence,” Anna replied. “We try.”

On the day of surgery, he hovered at the clinic, unable to leave, as if presence were prayer. When Anna finally came out to him, he rushed forward.

“Can I see her? Just a minute—just say a word—”

“You’re speaking like a child,” she said, more gently than the words. “She’s waking from anesthesia. She needs hours of rest. The operation went well—no complications. Tomorrow.”

He did not explode. He didn’t insist that he was the father and the rules didn’t apply. He only nodded and walked into the night.

 

He went home a broken figure, slept not at all, and returned before dawn. The city was fog and empty streets; he noticed none of it. Olga was awake now, fragile but improved. When she saw him at such an hour, she smiled faintly.

“Dad? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “I had to see you breathing.”

For the first time, Sergey felt what fatherhood truly was. How little of real family he had, and how much of it he had ruined—twice—by will and by weakness.

When day thinned the windows, he stepped into the corridor—spent but oddly lighter—and nearly collided with Anna.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, edged with irritation. “I made the rules clear—no visits outside hours. Who let you in?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes lowered. “No one. I asked the guard. I just needed to be sure she was all right.”

“The same old story, then,” Anna exhaled. “You thought money would open the door. Fine. You’ve seen her. Consider the mission accomplished.”

She passed him and slipped into Olga’s room. He waited in the hall, unwilling to walk away.

Later, he came to her office with a spring-scented bouquet and a neat envelope tucked under his jacket—gratitude, not only in words.

“I need to speak with you,” he said, steady now.

“Briefly,” she replied. “Time is scarce.”

She held the door open. He hesitated, searching for a beginning—and fate cut the knot.

The door burst inward and an eleven-year-old boy marched in, all indignation and energy.

“Mom! I’ve been standing out there forever,” he said, scowling. “I called you—why didn’t you answer?”

That day had been marked for him—no emergencies, no operations. Work had a way of devouring promises; guilt flickered across Anna’s face.

Sergey froze. The boy stood before him like a living echo.

“My son,” he managed. “My little boy.”

“Mom, who is this?” Igor asked, frowning. “Has he lost it? He’s talking to himself.”

Anna went rigid. This was the man who had called her a liar, abandoned them, sliced them out of his life as if erasing a line of text.

But she said nothing. Pain surged; behind it, something else smoldered—small but unmistakably alive.

Sergey was drowning in remorse and a fear that he did not deserve a second chance. He didn’t understand why this door had opened to him at all. He only knew he was grateful—for the dawn after a night of prayers, for a child breathing, for a woman who had once loved him and now, despite everything, had saved his daughter’s life.

Zhanna smoothed her hair and looked at Max’s parents’ house. The two-story brick mansion had always seemed too big for two elderly people.

Well, ready?” Max pulled the bags from the trunk.

“Of course,” she smiled. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her how to hide awkwardness.

The door was opened by Irina Vasilievna. Made up, in a new housecoat.

“Oh, you’re here. Maksimka, son!” She hugged her son and pecked his cheek. She shot Zhanna a brief glance. “Hello, Zhanna.”

“Hello,” Zhanna held out a box of chocolates.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have. Your father’s diabetes is getting worse.”

Max said nothing. As always.

In the living room sat Pyotr Semyonovich, watching the news. He nodded to them and turned back to the TV.

“Dinner in an hour,” the mother-in-law announced. “Maksim, help me in the kitchen. Zhanna, you rest.”

 

Rest. As if she were an invalid.

Zhanna went to the guest room. She put her things in the closet and sat on the bed. Through the wall she could hear Max and his mother talking. About work, the neighbors, health.

Why did they come here every month? For appearances’ sake? Or did Max truly miss his parents?

“Zhannochka, come eat!” Irina Vasilievna called.On the table—chicken, potatoes, salad. Same as always.

“Max said you spent your vacation in Turkey again,” the mother-in-law began. “When we were your age, we went to the dacha. We helped the country.”

“Times are different now,” Zhanna replied.

“Oh, they’re different, all right. Back then family mattered more than entertainment.”

Zhanna felt her fists clench. Max chewed his chicken and kept quiet.

“And when are you having children?” Pyotr Semyonovich looked up from his plate. “The years are ticking by.”Dad, we’ve talked about this,” Max muttered.

“Talked and talked. And what came of it?”

Zhanna stood up from the table.

“Excuse me, I have a headache. I’ll turn in early.”

In the room she shut the door and sat on the bed. Her hands were trembling. Every time the same thing. Hints, reproaches, disapproving looks.

Max came in half an hour later.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Nothing. Just tired.”

“They don’t mean any harm. They worry about us.”

Worry. Zhanna lay down and turned to the wall.

“Good night.”

Max undressed, lay down next to her, and a few minutes later began to snore.

Zhanna lay there thinking. About how tomorrow there’d be snide comments over breakfast again. About how Max would once more pretend not to notice anything.

Fifteen years. Was this how it would be forever?Zhanna woke at three in the morning. Her mouth was dry, her head buzzing. Next to her, Max was snoring, sprawled across the whole bed.

She got up, threw on a robe, and went to the kitchen for water. A night-light glowed in the hall; the floorboards creaked underfoot.

She stopped by the kitchen. Voices were coming from inside—her father-in-law and mother-in-law.

“…putting up with that barren cow,” hissed Irina Vasilievna. “Fifteen years! No kids, no use.”

“Quiet, someone will hear,” grunted Pyotr Semyonovich.

“Let her hear! Maybe she’ll finally feel shame. Maksimka could have any woman. Handsome, well-off.”Zhanna pressed herself to the wall. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed the whole house could hear.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Talk to him tomorrow. A serious talk. A man needs to understand—time isn’t made of rubber. At forty-three you can still start a normal family.”

“And their apartment? The car?”

“The apartment is in Maksim’s name; we gave the money for the down payment. The car is his too. She’ll only get what she earned herself.”

Irina Vasilievna let out a nasty laugh.And that’s peanuts. A damned librarian.”

“You think he’ll agree?”

“Of course he will. I’m his mother; I know how to talk to him. The main thing is to frame it right. Like, you’re unhappy, son, suffering with that… what’s her name…”

“Zhanna.”

“Right, that one. Time to get rid of the dead weight!”

Zhanna stood there, unable to believe it. Dead weight. Fifteen years, and she was dead weight.

“And if he refuses?”“He won’t. Maksim has always listened to me. He will now too.”

Bags rustled in the kitchen; dishes clattered.

“All right, time for bed. Big day tomorrow.”

Zhanna hurried to the bathroom, locked the door. She sat on the toilet lid and covered her face with her hands.

Dead weight. A barren cow.

For fifteen years she had tried. Cooked for holidays, gave gifts, endured hints and reproaches. And they were planning to dispose of her like old furniture.

And Max would obey. Of course he would. When had he ever disobeyed his mother?

Zhanna went back to the room. Max was still snoring. She lay down, pulled the blanket over herself, and waited for morning.

At seven she got up, got dressed, and packed her things. Max woke from the rustling.

“Zhan, why so early?”

“I’m going home.”

“How home? We were going to stay till evening.”

“I want to go home. Now.”

Max sat up on the bed, rubbed his eyes.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I just want to go home.”

“And my parents? They’ll be upset.”

Your parents. Zhanna picked up her bag.

“Tell them I said hello. Say I had a headache.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. Stay. Spend time with your parents.”

She left the room. In the hall she put on her jacket and took out her phone. She called a taxi.

“Zhannochka, where are you going?” Irina Vasilievna poked her head out of the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I’m going home. Thank you for the hospitality.”

“But why so early?”

Zhanna looked at her closely. Painted lips, surprised eyes, a caring tone.

“I have things to do at home.”

The taxi arrived ten minutes later. Zhanna got into the back seat and closed her eyes.

The dead weight is disposing of you on its own.

At home, Zhanna brewed strong tea and sat at the kitchen table. The apartment felt unusually quiet. Usually they returned in the evening, tired, had dinner, and went straight to bed.

But now it was Saturday, eleven in the morning, and she was alone.

The phone rang. Max.

“Zhan, did you get home okay?”

“I did.”

“What’s going on? Mom says you were acting weird.”

Weird. Zhanna smirked.

“Everything’s fine. How are your parents?”

“They’re fine… Listen, I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk.”

“All right.”

She hung up and looked around. Their apartment. They’d chosen the wallpaper together, bought the furniture together. Only the down payment had come from Max’s parents. So by their logic, the apartment wasn’t hers.

Zhanna stood up, went to the closet, and took out a folder with documents. Marriage certificate, apartment papers. Everything registered to both of them.

Another lie from the old hag.

On Monday she took a day off and went to a lawyer. A young woman of about thirty, in jeans and a sweater.

“Want to file for divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Do you anticipate property disputes?”

Zhanna thought.

“Possibly.”

“Then it will have to go through court. We’ll submit a petition; you’ll be summoned for a hearing. If your husband doesn’t agree, there will be several hearings.”

“And if he agrees?”

“It’ll go faster. A month and a half to two months and that’s it.”

Zhanna filled out the forms and paid the state fee. A strange feeling—as if she had dropped a heavy backpack.

That evening Max came at eight. Tired, annoyed.

“What a day… Mom’s been nagging me nonstop. Says you yelled at her.”

“I didn’t yell.”

“Then what? Why did you take off like that?”

Zhanna set a bowl of borscht in front of him.

“Max, do you love me?”

He choked.

“What’s with the questions?”

“I’m just curious. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. Fifteen years together.”

“That’s not an answer. You can live fifteen years out of habit.”

Max set down the spoon.

“Zhan, what is going on? For two days you’ve been… different.”

“Answer the question.”

“Well… I love you. So what?”

“What will you say if your parents suggest we get divorced?”

Max’s face changed. He lowered his eyes.

“That’s nonsense. Why would they?”

“And if they do?”

“They won’t.”

“Max, I’m asking—what will YOU say?”

A long pause. Max crumpled the napkin in his hands.

“Zhan, why talk like this? We’re fine.”

“‘Fine’ isn’t an answer.”

“I don’t know!” He pushed back from the table. “I’m tired of these questions. Two days ago everything was fine, and now… What happened?”

Zhanna stood as well.

“Nothing happened. I just realized something.”

“Realized what?”

“That I’ve been a fool for fifteen years.”

She went to the bedroom, took the folder with the documents from the closet, came back to the kitchen, and set the divorce petition on the table.

Max read it and went pale.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“On the contrary. For the first time in a long while I’m thinking clearly.”

“Because of what? Because of my mother? She didn’t mean anything by it!”

“I know. She didn’t mean anything by it. She just thinks I’m dead weight.”

Max froze.

“How did you—”

“I overheard your family strategy meeting. At night. In the kitchen.”

“Zhan, it’s not what you think…”

“What is it then?”

He was silent. He turned the petition in his hands and said nothing.

“Say something,” Zhanna sat down opposite him.

Max put the petition on the table.

“Mom really did talk about… kids. That there isn’t much time.”

“And did she also talk about dead weight?”

“Zhan, she’s old. She says stupid things sometimes.”

“And what did you say?”

Max rubbed his forehead.

“I… didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. As always.”

Zhanna stood and poured herself tea. Her hands weren’t shaking. Strange—she had expected hysterics, tears. Instead there was calm.

“For fifteen years I waited for you to finally put them in their place,” she said. “For you to tell your mother I’m your wife, not a temporary lodger.”

“They’re used to being in charge…”

“And you’re used to obeying. And you made me obey.”

Max sprang up.

“I didn’t make anyone obey! I just don’t like conflict.”

“Conflict?” Zhanna laughed. “It’s called defending your wife. But you preferred that I just endure.”

“So what do we do now? You can’t change the past.”

“Nothing needs doing. It’s already done.”

Max grabbed the petition.

“I won’t sign this!”

“You don’t have to. The court will grant the divorce.”

“Zhan, come to your senses! Where will you go? What will you do?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll do it without the three of you.”

He paced the kitchen, waving his arms.

“This is insane! To destroy a family over a silly old woman’s words!”

“Family?” Zhanna set down her cup. “What family, Max? Where do you see a family?”

“Well, we… we live together…”

“We live. Like roommates in a communal flat. You work, I work. We see each other in the evenings and watch TV. On weekends we go to your parents’, where I pretend to be grateful that they tolerate me.”

Max sat down.

“And what’s wrong with that? It’s a normal life.”

“Normal for you. I’m tired of being nobody.”

The phone rang. Irina Vasilievna.

“Don’t pick up,” Max begged.

Zhanna answered.

“Hello.”

“Zhannochka, dear! Is Maksimka home? I wanted to see how things are.”

“Things are fine. I’m divorcing your son.”

Silence. Then:

“What? What are you saying?”

“What you wanted to hear. I’m getting rid of myself for you.”

“Zhanna, I don’t understand…”

“You will. Say hi to Pyotr Semyonovich.”

 

She hung up. Max stared at her in horror.

“Why did you tell her?”

“Why hide it? Let her be happy.”

Half an hour later, Irina Vasilievna rushed in. She burst into the apartment without knocking.

“What is going on? Maksim, explain this instant!”

“Mom, not now…”

“Zhanna!” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “What are you up to? Have you lost your mind?”

Zhanna sat calmly at the table.

“On the contrary. I’ve come to my senses.”

“Over what? Did Maksim mistreat you?”

“Maksim ignored me. And you were planning to get rid of me.”

Irina Vasilievna flushed.

“Who told you that?”

“You did. Last night. In the kitchen.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“I wanted a drink of water. And I heard you calling me dead weight.”

The old woman glanced between them.

“Zhannochka, you misunderstood. I worry about Maksim—he’s unhappy…”

“Mom, that’s enough,” Max suddenly said.

She blinked.

“What do you mean, enough?”

“Enough lying. Yes, you wanted us to divorce. And yes, I listened and kept quiet. Like always.”

“Maksim!”

“And now Zhanna has decided for herself. And she did the right thing.”

Zhanna looked at her husband in surprise. For the first time in fifteen years he had told his mother the truth.

“But it’s too late,” she added.

Max nodded.

“I understand.”

Irina Vasilievna darted between them.

“You’re both crazy! Zhanna, I apologize if I said something wrong!”

“Thank you. But the decision is made.”

A month later the court finalized the divorce. The apartment was split in half; Zhanna sold her share to Max. The money was enough for a studio in another neighborhood.

The new apartment was small but bright. Zhanna put flowers on the windowsill and hung her pictures.

For the first time in many years she did what she wanted. She watched the films she liked. Ate when she wanted. No one criticized her choices.

Maxim called during the first weeks. He asked her to come back, promised to talk to his parents. Zhanna answered politely and briefly. Then the calls stopped.

Her friends were surprised: how could she leave a well-off husband? Zhanna’s explanation was simple—turns out money doesn’t replace respect.

At forty-one she started a new life. Without the mute father-in-law, without the snide mother-in-law, without the wishy-washy husband.

Hard? Yes. Lonely? Sometimes.

But for the first time in many years, Zhanna wasn’t dead weight—she was simply herself. And that was worth any difficulty.

A dense, airless quiet pressed against the apartment, saturated with incense and the fading sweetness of lilies. Marina sat hunched at the edge of the couch as if the silence itself weighed on her shoulders. The black dress clung and itched, a rough reminder of why the rooms felt so lifeless: she had buried her grandmother that morning—Eiroïda Anatolyevna, the last of Marina’s family.

Across from her, Andrey sprawled in an armchair, his presence a taunt. Tomorrow they would file for divorce. Not a single word of sympathy had crossed his lips. He only watched, restless and irritated, as though enduring a dull play and waiting for the curtain to finally drop.

Marina’s eyes fixed on the worn pattern of the carpet. Whatever thin glimmer of hope she had nursed for reconciliation guttered and died, leaving a clean, glacial emptiness.

“Well then—my condolences,” Andrey said at last, knifing into the hush with a lazy sneer. “You’re a real lady of means now, aren’t you? An heiress. I suppose your dear granny left you a fortune. Oh, no—how could I forget? The grand prize: that reeking antique ZiL. Congratulations. Pure luxury.”

 

The words sliced deep. Old scenes surged up—fights, accusations, slammed doors, tears. Her grandmother, with that rare, stern name—Eiroïda—had distrusted him from the first day. “He’s a grifter, Marina,” she would say flatly. “Hollow as a drum. He’ll strip you bare and disappear.” Andrey would curl his lip and mutter “old hag.” Marina had stood between them, pleading, smoothing, crying—convinced she could keep peace if only she tried hard enough. Only now did she admit it: her grandmother had seen him clearly from the start.“And about your ‘brilliant’ tomorrow,” Andrey went on, flicking lint from his expensive jacket, “don’t bother coming to work. You’re fired. Signed this morning. So, sweetheart, soon even that glorious ZiL will feel like a treasure. You’ll be digging in dumpsters. And you’ll thank me.”

That was the end—not just of the marriage, but of the life she had built around it. The last hope that he might show a trace of decency evaporated. In its place, something harder rooted and spread: cold, precise hatred.

Marina lifted her empty gaze to him and said nothing. There was nothing left to say. She stood, crossed to the bedroom, and took the bag she had already packed. Ignoring his sniggers, she closed her fingers around the key to her grandmother’s long-abandoned flat and walked out without looking back.

A chill wind met her on the street. Under a dim streetlamp she set down two heavy bags and stared up at a gray, nine-story block—the building of her childhood, where her parents had lived.

She hadn’t returned in years. After the car crash that killed her mother and father, her grandmother sold her own place and moved here to raise Marina. The walls held too much sorrow, and after Marina married Andrey, she avoided them, meeting her grandmother anywhere but here.

Now the building was the only harbor she had. Bitterness twisted through her as she pictured Eiroïda—her guardian, her mother and father combined, her constant ally. In these last years Marina had visited less and less, swallowed by her job at Andrey’s company and her frantic attempts to prop up the collapsing marriage. Shame stabbed sharp. The tears that had burned all day finally broke loose. She stood small beneath the lamp, shaking with silent sobs, one lonely figure in a vast, indifferent city.

“Auntie, need a hand?” a raw, childish voice asked. Marina startled. A boy of ten or so stood there in an oversized jacket and worn sneakers. Dirt streaked his face, but his eyes were startlingly clear. He nodded at the bags. “Heavy?”Marina scrubbed her face with her sleeve. His straightforward tone disarmed her.

“No, I can—” Her voice snagged and failed.

He studied her a moment. “Why are you crying?” he asked—not nosy, simply factual. “Happy people don’t stand outside with suitcases and cry.”

Something in that plain sentence changed the angle of the world. No pity, no mockery in his gaze—just comprehension.

“I’m Seryozha,” he added.

“Marina,” she managed on a breath. Some of the tightness eased. “All right, Seryozha. Help me.”

He took one of the bags with a grunt, and together they entered the sour, damp stairwell that smelled of mold and cats.

The lock turned; the door creaked; silence breathed out at them. Furniture lay under white sheets, curtains drawn tight; the streetlight threaded pale dust with gold. The air smelled of paper and old air—a home asleep. Seryozha set down the bag, looked around like a veteran cleaner, and pronounced: “Yeah… We’ll need a week. If we work together.”

Marina’s mouth tugged into a ghost of a smile. His grounded tone sparked a small glow in the gloom. She looked at him—too thin, too young, so serious. She knew that once he finished helping, the night air would swallow him again.

“Listen, Seryozha,” she said, her voice firm. “It’s late. Stay here tonight. It’s too cold outside.”

He blinked, surprised, suspicion flickering and fading. He nodded.

They ate bread and cheese bought from the corner shop, and in the kitchen’s light he looked briefly like any ordinary child. He told his story without self-pity. His parents drank. A fire took the shack. They died. He lived. The orphanage tried to hold him; he slipped away.

“I won’t go back,” he said to his cup. “From the orphanage to prison—that’s what they say. A straight line. I’d rather the streets. At least then it’s up to you.”

“That’s not fate,” Marina said softly, feeling her own grief ease at the edge of his. “Neither an orphanage nor the pavement decides who you are. You do.”

He considered her. A thin, almost invisible thread stretched taut between them—fragile, but strong.Later she found clean sheets scented faintly of mothballs and made up the old couch. Seryozha curled into sleep in minutes—the first truly warm bed he’d had in who knew how long. Watching him, Marina felt a small, wondrous thought take shape: maybe her life wasn’t over.

Morning seeped through the curtains. Marina tiptoed to the kitchen, scribbled a note—“I’ll be back soon. Milk and bread in the fridge. Please stay inside.”—and slipped out.

Today was for the divorce.

The hearing was uglier than she’d imagined. Andrey spit insults, painting her as a parasite who’d ridden on his back. Marina said nothing. Hollowed out, used up. When she walked out with the decree, no relief followed. Only a dry, sour emptiness.

She drifted through the city, and his jeer about the fridge wouldn’t leave her alone.

That dented, scratched ZiL sat like a relic in the kitchen. Marina looked at it as if it were new. Seryozha ran his hands over the enamel, tapped the side.

“Ancient,” he breathed. “We had a newer one, and ours was junk. Does it run?”

“No,” Marina said, sinking into a chair. “Dead for years. Just… a keepsake.”

The next day they started a full scrub-down. Rags, buckets, brushes; wallpaper came away in frayed strips; windows brightened; dust fled. They talked and laughed and fell silent and started again, and somehow each hour rinsed a little of the ash from Marina’s chest. The boy’s chatter and the simple work scoured grief’s edges.

“When I grow up, I’ll be a train driver,” Seryozha said dreamily, scrubbing a sill. “I’ll go far. Places I’ve never seen.”

“That’s a beautiful plan,” Marina smiled. “You’ll need school to get there. Real school.”

He nodded, solemn. “If that’s what it takes, I will.”

His curiosity kept circling back to the ZiL. He paced around it like a cat around a closed door, peering, tapping, listening. Something bothered him.

“Look,” he called. “This side’s thin, like it should be. But here—it’s thick. Solid. Not right.”

Marina pressed her palm to the metal. He was right—one side felt denser. They leaned in, eyes level with the gasket. There—a seam, faint as a scar. Marina slid a knife under the edge and coaxed. The inner panel shifted. A hollow opened.

Inside lay neat bricks of dollars and euros. Velvet boxes nestled beside them—an emerald ring, a rope of pearls, diamond drops that flashed like ice. They went still, as if any word might break the spell. Wow,” they said together, almost soundless.

Marina sat hard on the floor as the sense of it crashed into place. Her grandmother’s dry warning—“Don’t toss old junk, girl; sometimes it’s worth more than your peacock of a husband”—and her insistence that Marina take this very fridge. Eiroïda Anatolyevna, who had survived repression, war, and collapses, had trusted no bank. She had hidden everything—past, hope, future—in the last place anyone would look: a refrigerator wall.

It wasn’t merely treasure. It was a plan. Her grandmother had known Andrey would leave Marina with nothing, and she’d built an exit—a chance to start over.

Tears came again, but softer now—thankful, relieved. Marina gathered Seryozha into a fierce hug.

“Seryozha,” she whispered, voice shaking, “now we’ll be all right. I can adopt you. We’ll buy a home. You’ll go to a good school. You’ll have what you deserve.”

He turned slowly. A deep, aching hope filled his eyes and nearly broke her heart.

“Really?” His voice was small. “You’d be my mom?”

“Really,” she said, steady as bedrock. “More than anything.”

Years slid by like a single breath. Marina adopted him officially; Sergei was his name on paper now as well as in life. With a share of the hidden wealth, they bought a bright apartment in a good neighborhood.

He proved brilliantly gifted. He devoured books, closed the gaps, leapt grades. A scholarship carried him into a top economics program.

Marina rebuilt herself, too—finished another degree, launched a modest consulting firm that grew sure and steady. What had looked like wreckage acquired shape again—purpose, warmth.

Nearly a decade later, a tall young man straightened his tie in the mirror. Sergei, poised to graduate at the top of his class.

“Mama, how do I look?” he asked.

“Perfect,” Marina said, pride crinkling her eyes. “Just—don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’m not vain, I’m accurate,” he winked. “By the way, Professor Lev called again. Why’d you tell him no? He’s good. You like him.”

Lev Igorevich—their neighbor, kind and quiet, a brilliant professor—had been courting Marina with patient respect.

 

“Today, something more important,” she said, waving him off. “My son is graduating. Come on—we’ll be late.”

The auditorium thrummed—parents, faculty, recruiters scanning the rows. In the fifth row, Marina sat with her heart swelling.

Then her breath hitched. On stage among the company reps, she recognized Andrey. Older, heavier, the same smug curve to his mouth. Her heart stumbled and then found a cool, even beat. No fear. Only a distant, clinical interest.

When it was his turn, he took the podium as the head of a booming finance firm and preached about careers and prestige and limitless doors.

“We hire only the best,” he declared. “Every door will open.”

Then the master of ceremonies called the top graduate: Sergei. Calm, composed, he crossed to the microphone. The room stilled.

“Honored professors, friends, guests,” he began, voice clear. “We step into a new life today. I want to tell you how I got here. Once, I was a homeless kid.”

A ripple moved through the hall. Marina held her breath; she hadn’t asked what he planned to say.

He told them—about a woman thrown out by her husband that very day, stripped of money, work, and hope, who found a starving boy and chose him. He named no names, but his eyes never left Andrey’s pale face.

“That man told her she’d eat from trash,” Sergei said, each word precise. “In a way, he was right. In the world’s trash, she found me. And I want to thank him. Thank you, Mr. Andreyev, for your cruelty. Without it, my mother and I would never have met. And I would not be who I am.”

Silence hit, hard and total—then fractured into a swelling roar. All eyes swung to Andrey, flushing red, anger and humiliation squaring his jaw.

“That’s why,” Sergei finished, “I say this publicly: I will never work for a man of that character. And I suggest my peers think carefully before binding their futures to his firm. Thank you.”

He stepped away to thunder that started hesitant and rose to a storm. In minutes, the glossy shell of Andrey’s reputation cracked. Sergei found Marina in the crowd, and they held each other, laughing and weeping, and walked out together without a backward glance.

“Mama,” he said in the cloakroom, handing her coat, “call Lev Igorevich.”

Marina studied the man her boy had become—tall, steady, kind. Love and certainty shone in his eyes. For the first time in years, happiness felt simple.

She took out her phone and smiled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll say yes to dinner.”

The commuter train was slowly approaching the familiar platform, and Anna pressed her forehead to the carriage’s cold windowpane. She hadn’t been to this town in five years. Five years of building a career in the capital, working twelve-hour days, saving on everything—even the coffee from the vending machine. Every kopek went into her dream fund: her own apartment. She was so close—just a little more, six months, and the down payment would be ready.

And now this. A phone call in the middle of the workday, her mother crying on the line and saying incoherent things about debt collectors, threats, and being unable to pay. Anna took an unscheduled leave and got on the first commuter train.

The house she grew up in met her with the smell of cabbage soup and anxious faces. Her mother, who seemed to have aged ten years in the interim, flitted around the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron over and over. Her father sat at the table staring at a single point. And on the couch, as serene as ever, lay her younger sister Lena, flipping through a bridal magazine.

“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother rushed to her, “thank goodness you came. We’re completely tangled up in these debts…”

“What debts?” Anna sat down across from her father. “Explain properly what happened.”

Her father sighed heavily and pulled a thick folder of documents from a drawer.

“It started three years ago. Lena got a job at a beauty salon. The pay was small, but she said it was temporary—until she found a suitable husband.”

“Dad, don’t start on the husband thing again!” Lena protested without looking up from the magazine. “I just want to live beautifully, not like you—denying yourselves everything your whole lives.”

“Go on,” Anna nodded to her father.

“Lena got a credit card. Then another one. She said the minimum payments were nothing—just a couple thousand a month. At first we didn’t worry. Then she started asking us to help with the payments. A thousand here, two thousand there. We thought—our daughter’s young, inexperienced; we’ll help.”“And you started taking out loans?”

“First a consumer loan,” her mother cut in. “A small one, to pay off Lena’s cards. And then…” She waved her hand helplessly.

Lena finally set the magazine aside and sat up.

“Listen, Anya, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not that much money. You’ve got savings—you were always bragging about how frugal you are.”

“How much?” Anna asked quietly.

Her father silently handed her a list. Anna skimmed the numbers, and the blood drained from her face. The total debt was even greater than what she’d saved for the apartment.

“Have you lost your minds?”

“It all piled up gradually,” her father said defensively. “We covered one loan with another, the interest kept growing…”

“And what was Lena doing all this time—wasn’t she working?”

“I was working,” the younger sister interjected. “But you know what salaries are like here. At the salon I made thirty thousand. Try living on that! Then I got a job at a clothing store—forty there, but the schedule was awful, I quit after a month. Then a café…”

“And how many jobs did you go through in three years?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Maybe ten. I can’t work where I don’t like it!”

Anna felt anger start to simmer inside her.

“And what did you live on? Dad’s pension and Mom’s shopgirl wages?”

“Lena kept saying she’d be getting married soon,” her mother said timidly. “She has lots of admirers…”

“Admirers!” Anna exploded. “In three years not a single serious man! But a mountain of debt!”

“Why are you so mean?” Lena pouted. “Are you jealous that I have a personal life and you only have work?”

Anna took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“Fine. Tell me exactly what’s happening now. What threats, what deadlines?”

For the next hour she carefully studied the documents, called the banks, and clarified details. The picture was bleak. Her parents had truly driven themselves into a debt pit they could no longer climb out of alone. Debt collectors called daily, threatening to seize property.

“What exactly did you buy with this money?” Anna asked when she finished with yet another bank.

“Lena needed a car,” her father began. “Not new—used—but on credit…”

“Why does she need a car?!”

“Well, she wanted to be like everyone else,” her mother defended her. “Everyone has one, and she was walking everywhere!”

“Then it needed repairs. We bought it with mileage,” her father went on. “A new phone, she bought furniture for her room…”

“With that kind of money?!”

“Anya, look how beautiful it turned out!” Lena exclaimed and pulled her sister toward her room.

Anna stared, dazed, around Lena’s bedroom. A huge canopy bed, a vanity like a Hollywood star’s, a wall-to-wall sliding-door wardrobe, a flat-screen TV, an air conditioner—everything in rosy-gold tones.

“It’s like a palace!” Lena said proudly. “And I needed decent clothes, too. I had nothing to wear in front of people. Mom also bought herself a fur coat…”

 

“A fur coat?”

“A mink one,” her mother whispered. “Lena said it was shameful to go around in an old coat…”

“And we bought Dad a suit, and me some jewelry, and new dishes for the house, and a refrigerator, and a washing machine…”

Anna went back to the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair. Everything she saw around her had been bought on credit. Expensive appliances, furniture—even the curtains looked pricey.

“So you were basically burning through life on borrowed money,” she stated.

“We thought Lena would get married,” her father said quietly. “She had several serious suitors…”

Yes, she did!” Lena confirmed. “There was Andrey, a company director. Only he turned out to be married. And Sergey—he has a business, but he moved to Moscow. And Mikhail…”

“What about Mikhail?”

“Well, he was okay, but he had a one-room apartment. I can’t live in a one-room place! And then it turned out it was mortgaged, too.”

Anna closed her eyes. She herself was renting a one-room apartment and dreamed of having her own—even if it meant a mortgage.

“Lena, you’re twenty-five. It’s time you earned your own living.”

“Why?” her sister asked in sincere surprise. “I’m going to get married. Normal men provide for their wives.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I will. I’m pretty and young. And look at you—always working, a gray mouse. That’s why you’re alone.”

Anna felt her fists clench.

“Fine. What do you plan to do about the debts?”

“We were thinking…” her mother said, stumbling over the words, “maybe you could help? You have the money, you’ve been saving for so many years…”

“Anya,” Lena cut in, “come on, what does it cost you? You live alone anyway, no kids. Why do you need an apartment? I, on the other hand, need to start a family.”

“So you want me to give you all my savings?”

“Not give—help the family,” her father corrected. “We’re not strangers.”

Anna stood and paced the kitchen. Numbers flashed through her head. Her savings were almost the entire amount of the debt. She’d be left with a hundred thousand. Everything she’d earned over five years would go to covering Lena’s whims.

“What about my apartment?”

“You’ll save up again,” Lena said lightly. “You’re good at making money. And I don’t have time, I need to get married.”

“No time? No time for what?”

“Well, I can’t work until I’m forty! I need to marry while I’m still young and pretty. After thirty it’ll be too late.”

“So I’m supposed to work till I’m old to pay for your entertainments?”

“What entertainments?” Lena objected. “These are necessities! How can I be without a car? Without nice clothes? You understand yourself…”

“I understand that you’re used to living at someone else’s expense!”

“Kids, don’t fight,” their mother intervened. “We’re a family. Anya, sweetie, we know we’re asking a lot, but we have no other way out. The collectors are threatening…”

“And what, did you think loans don’t have to be repaid?”

“We thought somehow…” her father said, flustered. “Lena promised she’d get married…”

Anna sat back down and pulled out her phone.

“All right. Let me call the banks and see what can be done, what options there are.”

She spent the next two hours negotiating. It turned out they could restructure the debt, stretching out the payments over a longer term, but the monthly payments would still be about fifty thousand rubles. With a combined family income of eighty thousand, that meant near-starvation.

“There’s another option,” she said after the last call. “We need to sell everything that was bought on credit. The car, the furniture, the appliances. That will cover about half the debt. The rest we stretch over five years in small payments.”

“What do you mean, sell?” Lena was horrified. “My car? My furniture? We’ll lose so much that way!”

“And what do you propose?”

“You should give us the money!” Lena suddenly said sharply. “We’re relatives! Or are you too stingy for your family?”

“I don’t owe anyone anything,” Anna replied coolly.

“You do!” her father burst out unexpectedly. “We raised you, fed you, clothed you, sent you to university! And now, when we need help, you turn your back!”

Anna looked at her parents. At these people who had allowed their younger daughter to live off them, who had plunged into debt for her whims, and who now demanded that their elder daughter pay for their irresponsibility.

“You raised me—that was your duty. I got an education and I work, I support myself. And she—” Anna nodded at Lena, “what has she been doing all these years?”

 

“She was looking for a husband!” her mother exclaimed. “That’s not easy either!”

“Does husband-hunting cost this much money?”

“Anya, enough!” Lena exploded. “Do you think you’re the only smart one? I have a right to be happy too! And if I need money for a beautiful life, why shouldn’t the family help?”

“Because it isn’t your money!”

“Whose, then? Yours? You earned it by working like a horse and forgetting your personal life. And what good did it do you? You’re alone and miserable, but rich. I’ll be happy in marriage, and the money will come.”

“Come from where?”

“My husband will earn it! Normal men provide for the family!”

“And while there’s no husband—I’m supposed to provide for you?”

“Who else?” her father interjected. “We’ve got no one but you! Can’t you see—we’re desperate! They’re threatening us!”

Anna felt everything inside her begin to boil. These people weren’t asking—they were demanding. Demanding her money, her dream, her future.

“You know what,” she said, standing up, “I’ll think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about!” Lena snapped. “Either you help the family, or you’re not our sister!”

“Or our daughter,” her father added.

Anna silently went to her old room, which her parents hadn’t dared to redo. Everything was as before—writing desk, narrow bed, shelves with textbooks. Modest and simple.

She lay down and closed her eyes. Five years of austerity. Five years of denying herself every small joy. Five years of dreaming about a home of her own. And all of it—just to pay for Lena’s outfits and amusements?

Maybe she should help? After all, they were family. And if the collectors took it to court, her parents might be left without a roof over their heads.

But then her dream of an apartment would be postponed another five years. Maybe more—who knew if her parents and Lena wouldn’t take on new debts once they saw their eldest daughter was willing to pay?

Anna got up and went to the window. Children were playing in the courtyard. Somewhere out there, in the capital, stood her future apartment. A one-room place on the outskirts, but hers. And for it she was ready to work another five years.

She returned to the kitchen. The family sat waiting for her decision.

“Well?” Lena asked impatiently.

“I will not pay your debts,” Anna said firmly.

“What do you mean you won’t?” her mother couldn’t believe it.

“Exactly that. You’re adults. You got yourselves into this—get yourselves out.”

“But how will we manage without your help?” her father clutched at his heart.

“Sell everything you bought on credit. Let Lena go to work—not for peanuts at a salon, but a proper job. She can make decent money as a courier with her car. Or sell the car and get an office job.”

“I’m not going to be a courier!” Lena protested. “And I’m not selling the car!”

“Then you’ll stay in debt.”

“Anya,” her mother pleaded, “we’re perishing here! Don’t you feel sorry for your parents?”

“I do. But not enough to give up my whole life to pay for Lena’s whims.”

“So you’re an egoist!” Lena shouted. “You don’t care about family!”

“You’re the egoist,” Anna replied calmly. “You lived off others for five years, racked up debts, dragged our parents into them, and now you want me to pay for everything.”

“Who else then? You have money!”

“I have money that I earned for my own goals.”

“What goals? An apartment?” Lena scoffed. “You’re thirty, living alone like an old maid! What do you need an apartment for—to sit in it by yourself?”

“Lena!” their mother scolded.

“What, ‘Lena’? Let her hear the truth! She thinks if she buys an apartment, happiness will fall from the sky? Who would even want a gray mouse like her!”

Anna felt something unpleasant and icy rise within her. Not anger—worse. Cold contempt.

“And you’re the beauty and the brains, I suppose?” she asked quietly. “In five years you didn’t find a single decent man, couldn’t last at dozens of jobs, dragged our parents into debt—and that’s success?”

“I’ll find someone,” Lena snapped.

“You will. Just not someone who’ll pay your debts. Any decent man would run from a wife like that in a month.”

“He’d run from you! I’m the pretty one!”

“Beauty without brains or conscience is a cheap commodity.”

Lena leapt to her feet.

“How dare you! Mom, do you hear what she’s saying?”

“Children, calm down,” their mother said weakly. “Anya, maybe not all the money, but at least some of it?”

“Not a kopek,” Anna cut off.

“Then we’re finished,” her father whispered.

“Nothing of the sort. You’ll sell your things, restructure the remaining debt, Lena will get a job—and in a few years you’ll pay it off.”

“And if we don’t?”

“That’s your problem.”

“But you could help!” her mother persisted. “Don’t you really pity us?”

Anna looked at her closely. At this woman who had seen her eldest daughter off to the capital in tears five years ago, and who now demanded she hand over all her savings to the younger sister.

“I’m sorry you let Lena turn into an egotist and a freeloader. I’m sorry you went into debt for her whims. But I’m not going to pay for your mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Lena flared. “What’s wrong with wanting to live beautifully?”

“What’s wrong is living at someone else’s expense, not working, and demanding that others solve your problems.”

“I did work!”

“You worked for months and spent for years.”

“So what? Money isn’t the most important thing in life!”

“Then why are you demanding mine?”

Lena fell silent, thrown off balance.

“Anya,” her father said quietly, “we thought you would help. You’re our daughter.”

“I am your daughter. But I am not obligated to pay for your foolishness.”

“And if we have nowhere to go?”

“You’ll sell the apartment and buy a smaller one. Lena will get a job. Mom, Dad, you’re not that old—you can pick up extra work.”

“Sell the apartment?” her mother gasped. “But this is our home!”

“And the debts are your debts.”

 

“So you’re abandoning us!” Lena cried. “Some daughter you are!”

Anna stood and picked up her bag.

“Where are you going?” her mother asked in fright.

“To the station. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning.”

“Wait!” her parents rushed toward her. “Let’s talk it over again!”

“There’s nothing to discuss. My decision is final.”

“Anya, at least half!” her mother begged.

“You won’t get a single ruble from me!” Anna said sharply, turning to them. “You got yourselves into debt—you’ll pay it back yourselves! I am not going to support you!”

She reached the door and looked back.

“And don’t call me anymore. Ever. Live by your own wits.”

The door slammed behind her so hard the windowpanes rattled.

On the stairwell, Anna stopped and leaned against the wall. Her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding wildly. For the first time in her life, she had spoken to her own family this harshly.

And for the first time, she felt truly free.

The commuter train carried her back to the capital—to her job, to her rented one-room apartment, to her dream of a home of her own. Five years ago she’d left this place a frightened girl afraid of living on her own. Now she was returning as a grown woman who knew how to defend her interests and her dreams.

In six months she would submit her mortgage application. Then she would move into her own apartment. And no one—not her parents, not her sister, not anyone—would be able to take away her right to her own life.

As for what would happen to her family—that was their choice now. Adults must answer for the decisions they make.

“Katya, where’s my blue tie?” Dmitry shouted from the bedroom.

Ekaterina stood over the stove, stirring oatmeal that had already turned thick and listless. Seven years of marriage, and every morning played like a looped reel: he sprinted toward money and importance; she hovered between the kettle and the washing machine.

“In the closet, second shelf!” she called.

“I don’t see it! Katya, where is it?”

She exhaled, wiped her hands on a towel, and went to rescue him from the second shelf. As she reached for his suit, her fingers slipped into the pocket of yesterday’s jacket and brushed something cold. A key. Ordinary, stamped metal—only it wasn’t theirs.

“Dim, what’s this from?” She held it up.He turned, hesitated a heartbeat, then recovered with a bark. “Go back to the kitchen! Don’t dig through my things. It’s for the new archive at the office.”

He didn’t expect what would follow.

At breakfast he never left his phone alone. He pecked out messages, smirked at the screen, even stifled a couple of giggles.

“Who’s texting?” Katya asked, mild as milk.

“Colleagues. Project chatter,” he said without looking up.

But on the glass she glimpsed blush-pink hearts and fluttering emojis, none of which had ever belonged to the Progress corporate style guide.I’ll be late tonight. Presentation, then dinner with partners. Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner with partners on a Saturday?”

“Business never sleeps, dear.”

He brushed a perfunctory kiss against her cheek and left a trail of an unfamiliar, expensive cologne.

Katya stacked plates into the sink and sat with a cup of coffee gone cold. Seven years earlier, she’d graduated top of her class in economics, started at a bank, and was climbing rung by rung. Then she married.

“Why do you need that job?” Dmitry had coaxed. “I’ll provide. Take care of the home. We’ll have kids soon—you won’t have time for a career.”

There were still no children. Meanwhile, Katya knew every TV schedule and every neighborhood discount by heart.

Today something clicked. A stranger’s key. Doodled hearts. New perfume. “Business” dinners on weekends. She needed the truth—and she knew how to find it.

She opened her laptop and typed: Horizont Business Center vacancies. That was Dmitry’s tower—seventh floor—Progress, the IT firm with the brisk logo and even brisker deadlines.

Listings flickered by. There: “Clean Office” hiring evening staff for Horizont.

Her pulse leaped. Cleaners came in when the day crowd left. But someone always stayed—managers who “worked late,” who “had meetings,” who smelled like someone else’s perfume.

Katya dialed.

“Hello, I’m calling about the cleaning job at Horizont…”

The next morning, she sat across from the team lead, Nina Vasilyevna, in a cramped office that smelled of bleach and bureaucracy.

“Do you have cleaning experience?” Nina asked.

“I’ve been cleaning at home for seven years,” Katya said truthfully.

“Why Horizont? We’ve got posts closer to your building.”

Katya was ready. “The schedule suits. I’m… getting divorced. My husband will be home with the child at that time.”Nina’s face softened. “I understand, dear. Divorce is hard. We’ll take you. Just register the paperwork under… what did we have free? Valentina. Valentina Petrova.”

Three days later, Ekaterina Kovalyova became Valentina Petrova, cleaner at the Horizont Business Center. She received a gray uniform, a caddy of supplies, and the first rule:

“We are invisible,” Nina said. “If employees are working late, don’t distract them. Quiet. Careful. Unseen. Seventh floor: Progress. Office plaque reads, ‘D. A. Kovalyov, Development Manager.’”

“Nina Vasilyevna, could I take the seventh?” Katya asked evenly. “Fewer offices. I’m still learning.”

“Of course, dear. Lyuda’s drowning up there.”

That evening, at eight, mop in hand, Katya stood outside her husband’s door. The workday was long over. Voices murmured inside.The game began.

Two weeks of “invisibility” stripped the varnish from everything. Dmitry wasn’t staying late for deliverables; he was staying for Alina Kramer, a marketer with a perfect blowout and a laugh that rang down the hall.

 

The key in his jacket wasn’t for an archive. It opened Alina’s one-room flat in a brand-new building with mirrored elevators.

“Dim, I’m tired of this secrecy,” Alina sighed while Katya mopped in the neighboring office, eyes on the metal’s dull shine as if it were a mirror. “When can we be together openly?”

“Soon, sweetheart. My lawyer says we have to prepare the paperwork right. Otherwise I lose half the apartment in the divorce.”Katya clenched her jaw. So it wasn’t just cheating—he was plotting to carve up her life on the way out.

And then it got worse. One night she knocked a stack of reports off Dmitry’s desk. Papers skittered over the floor like startled fish. She crouched to gather them and saw notes in the margins—numbers, adjustments, arrows. With her economics brain, the pattern snapped into focus: internal reports, plans, budgets, road maps.

A second phone—the work one—lit up. “Irina S.”

No one was around. Katya opened the chat.

“Dima, I need data on the Northern project. I’ll transfer the usual amount.”“Ira, the info’s gone up. 50k per package.”

“Agreed. Hurry. Presentation Tuesday.”

Her hands went ice-cold. Irina Somova—deputy director at Vector, Progress’s main competitor. Dmitry was selling trade secrets like they were grocery coupons.

Katya photographed the messages, the annotated documents, everything. At home, she spread the evidence on the table. The scope staggered her: half a million rubles’ worth of leaks, at least.

“How’s work?” she asked at dinner.

“Fine. Promising new project,” Dmitry said, not lifting his eyes. Promising—already priced and delivered to Vector.She could have gone straight to HR, straight to a lawyer. But Katya wanted the whole ledger balanced: truth, consequences, and closure. Tomorrow was Progress’s corporate celebration. Dmitry had preened all week—new suit, rehearsed toast, big plans to shine.

“Dim, what will you tell colleagues about me?” Alina had asked yesterday.

“What’s there to say? I’m getting divorced. We’ll be official soon.”

“What if your wife shows up?”

“She won’t. She’s shy at these things. Says she feels awkward around my colleagues.”

Katya smiled in the dark of the corridor where she stood, anonymous in her gray uniform. He had no idea his “shy” wife had been haunting his hallways for days.

On party day, she reported to work as usual. But the uniform stayed folded in her bag beside a black cocktail dress. In her folder—every receipt of his double betrayal.

At seven sharp, while the conference hall filled with applause and canapés, she changed in the staff washroom, freshened her makeup, shook her hair free.

Through the glass doors she spotted Dmitry in his new suit, tilting flirtation like champagne toward Alina. On stage, General Director Pavel Romanovich praised quarterly achievements.

Time.

“Excuse me,” Katya said as she stepped into the room. “May I have a moment?”

Conversations stalled mid-sparkle. Dmitry turned and turned to stone.

“I’m Ekaterina Kovalyova, your employee’s wife,” she said, voice steady. “For the last two weeks, I’ve worked here as a cleaner under the name Valentina Petrova.”

“What are you doing here?!” Dmitry hissed, lunging.

“I was gathering proof—of your affairs, and of something worse.” The room held its breath.

“Pavel Romanovich,” she continued, offering the folder, “your manager is selling confidential information to Vector.”

“That’s slander!” Dmitry shouted. “She’s just angry about the affair!”

“Transfer amounts. Screenshots of chats. Photos of documents with your handwriting,” Katya said, not raising her voice. “Everything’s documented.”

The director paged through the evidence. With each sheet, his face cooled by one degree.

“And these,” Katya added, sliding out another set, “are photos of… extracurricular use of office premises.”

Alina’s hand flew to her mouth. She emitted a strangled sound and fled.

“Dmitry Kovalyov,” the director said at last, voice like a closed door, “you’re fired. And you will answer to the law. Security.”

As they escorted Dmitry out, silence settled like ash. Pavel Romanovich approached Katya.

“Thank you. We’ve been chasing this leak for six months.”

“I only wanted the truth about my husband,” she said. “I found more than I planned.”

“Do you have a degree?”

“Economics. I haven’t worked in the field for seven years.”

“We need a security analyst—someone who can see what others miss,” he said, considering her. “Interested?”

Katya smiled. “Very.”

A month after the scandal, her life had new edges and light. She was a security analyst at Progress now, earning triple what Dmitry had made. She came home tired in the clean way—mind stretched, hands steady.

Dmitry vanished from her orbit. After his dismissal, recruitment agencies blacklisted him. Alina lasted a week before disappearing from his life as well.

At the hearing, Katya felt composed. Dmitry hunched in a corner, unshaven, shirt crumpled, gaze sliding away from hers.

“The court rules,” the judge intoned, “to dissolve the marriage. By mutual settlement, the apartment is divided equally.”

Two months later, Katya celebrated a housewarming in her own two-room place. She sold her half of the old three-room and bought a bright, sane apartment in a good district where the windows opened on trees instead of excuses.

 

Work felt like oxygen. She designed a new info-security protocol and shut down several espionage attempts before they took their first breath.

Six months on, Progress hired a new IT director—Andrey Volkov, freshly moved from Moscow. Divorced. Raising a school-age son. They kept landing on the same projects. He treated her like a professional—no condescension, no doubt.

“Katya, do you know any good schools for my boy?” he asked one evening.

“Sure. Walk after work? I’ll show you a few.” That’s how their friendship began—two adults who valued honesty and understood the price of betrayal.

A year later, in a cold, bright metro station, she ran into Dmitry. He’d lost weight, and not the healthy kind. He worked at a car wash, lived in a rented room.

“Katya… how are you?” he started.

“Good. And you?”

“Hard. I can’t find anything better. Maybe we could try again? I’ve really changed…”

She studied him. He had changed—into someone small and sorry.

“No,” she said gently. “I have a different life now. And the main rule in it is to respect myself.”

That evening, over tea, she told Andrey about the meeting.

“Do you feel sorry for him?” he asked.

“I feel sorry for the woman who spent seven years thinking she was just a housewife,” Katya said. “He got what he earned.”

Andrey took her hand. “Good thing that woman found the strength to change everything.”

Outside, snow made the world quiet. Inside, warmth climbed the walls of a room where laughter came easily and no one lied. Katya was finally home—somewhere she was valued, and where she valued herself.