All Amazing Babies

— Are you deliberately trying to make my mother have a heart attack? Nicholas rasped, hurling the remote onto the table as if he were tossing away a red-hot coal that had scorched his palms.
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— Don’t be so dramatic, please, Elena replied indifferently, without looking up from the dishes. The water in the sink roiled, foam sliding down the plates like a shroud. Let her at least stop rummaging through my closets.

 

— She means well for you! Nicholas exploded, blocking the light spilling in from the window. She says your place is a mess, like a dorm. You’re a grown woman—you’ve got a family! And you live… like some seventeen-year-old girl, not a thirty-five-year-old mother.

— Because it’s my apartment, Kolya, Elena cut him off, turning off the tap and fixing her eyes on it. I can keep the tea under the table instead of on the mezzanine, if I want. Because that’s what’s convenient for me.

His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. He wearily rubbed his forehead, as if trying to wipe away a grimace of hopelessness.

— Here we go again—“mine,” “mine”… Do you even realize you’re not living alone?

— I realize it perfectly well, she said slowly, drying her hands on a towel. Especially when someone barges into the bathroom while I’m washing because “the faucet’s leaking.” Or when some stranger’s jars of sauerkraut appear in the fridge. Or when my documents aren’t where I left them.
She turned around. Her gaze was direct—tired and cold. Icy water seemed to slosh in her eyes.

— Tell me honestly, Kolya. Was it your idea to put the apartment in your name?
Family games

Nicholas bit his lip. He fell silent, like someone caught red-handed.

— Mom said it would be “the right thing for the family.” So that if something happens to me, the apartment doesn’t go anywhere.

— Doesn’t go anywhere? Elena twisted her mouth into a crooked smirk. I don’t have brothers or sisters. Legally it’s mine anyway. Even if I jumped off a roof tomorrow—it still wouldn’t become hers. Not your mom’s, Kolya. Sorry.

— She’s just worried. She’s older—she has experience. She cares…

— She’s in debt up to her ears, Elena cut in sharply. And I’ve figured that out already.

Silence fell—heavy, sticky, like tar. Nicholas recoiled and went to the window. He watched dark May leaves, like black sails, thrash in the wind.

— What are you even saying…

— You didn’t know? Or you pretended not to? Elena crossed her arms, forming an invisible barrier. Bailiffs brought a letter. Her microloan is in your name. You’re the guarantor. All neat—on paper. She wanted to do it quietly, dump it on you. But it didn’t work out. Now she needs the apartment. To sell it. Or to mortgage it. My home—to pawn it off! For her debts and her fantasies about “renovations” and “treatment.”

Nicholas hunched over as if he’d taken a punch to the gut.

— She said… helping the family…

— Family? This is her fourth “help.” Remember 2021? The scooter on credit. In your name. You paid for two years like a cursed man.

— I thought she’d changed…

— She has, Elena nodded. For the worse. Now she coats her words in syrup—until you sign a document. And then that’s it, Kolya. You’re in debt. And I’m without an apartment.

He turned around. His gray eyes darkened, grew heavy, as if filled with lead.

— But she’s my mother… You can’t just refuse her.

— And I can’t let myself be betrayed, Elena said quietly. This isn’t a marriage anymore, Kolya. It’s a deal. Where I’m the expendable part.

She went into the room. It smelled of new laminate—alien and cold, like a state-run hotel. The apartment where she’d rearranged furniture after her grandmother’s death was slowly, irreversibly becoming less and less like her home.

Elena sat on the couch. Picked up the remote. A bright TV show flickered on the screen—people laughing, waving spoons around. She saw nothing.

— You really thought I’d agree? Nicholas stood in the doorway like a lost ghost.

— I hoped you were an adult, she said tiredly, not turning around. Not a mama’s boy on a leash.

He slammed a cabinet door so hard the glass trembled.

— Enough! You have no right to humiliate me. You don’t know what it’s like—being stuck between you! You with your complaints, her with her debts!

— You’re wrong. I do know, Elena rose. I’m the bargaining chip, Kolya. You want to spend me in this little play.

— Lena…

— Leave.

— What?

— Go to your mother’s. Spend the night there. Think about where you plan to live. With me—in my apartment. Or with her—in a rental. I have nothing else to say to you.
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She walked past him as if past a stranger. He stayed at the threshold—confused and pathetic—staring into the mirror at his crushed reflection lost among someone else’s shoes.

And the door closed behind him softly, gently—like the apartment itself had said: “No. Enough.”

 

And then, in the quiet, came a muffled voice outside—full of desperation:

— Elena, open up. I know you’re home. Your bathroom light is on.

Margarita Vasilievna hammered the door with her palm—insistent and furious, as if she weren’t knocking but testing the limits of Elena’s patience. In the musty stairwell, the click of heels burst like angry sparks and boomed off the walls, as if the building itself—old and weary—were eavesdropping and sighing along.

— I didn’t give birth to my son so you could boss him around! The apartment must be in the husband’s name! The head of the family!

— Go home, Margarita Vasilievna, Elena’s voice came through the door, icy calm—too calm for the storm behind it. Nikolai and I have discussed everything. The apartment is mine. There’s nothing more to discuss.

— Oh, nothing?! The door shuddered from a furious yank but remained unyielding. Kolya will come back and the three of us will sort it out! You’re nobody here. A mistress isn’t decided by a piece of paper, but by experience and common sense!
Family games

— And you have debts, Elena cut in flatly. I’m aware of your financial problems.

A sinister silence fell outside the door. Then—a blow. Dry, distinct—like a seal stamping the end of an argument.

— Know this, her mother-in-law’s voice went hoarse with hatred, you’re nothing here. A little girl who got lucky by accident. This apartment isn’t your achievement. And if we help you keep it, you’ll be grateful. And if I tell Kolya how you behave—he’ll throw you out himself. A husband is support. Not furniture in your bedroom.

The door handle jerked again, but it seemed Margarita Vasilievna’s strength had finally left her.

— Leave, Margarita Vasilievna, Elena said coldly. Or I’ll call the police. Next time there won’t be a warning.

Silence. Only the sound of heels retreating down the stairs like a defeated enemy. In the stale air, a heavy trail of sharp perfume lingered, mixed with the smell of mothballs—like a sinister reminder of a war.

A couple of hours later Nikolai returned. He carried a plastic bag from Pyatyorochka as if nothing had happened—as if he really had only stepped out for milk.

— Did you call my mom? Elena looked up from the couch where she felt trapped.

— She came on her own. I was at her place… she was crying. Said you threw her out, yelled…

— Don’t lie, Elena snapped. I didn’t yell. She was the one pounding on the door. Is that what you want? For her to run things here?

— She’s desperate. Collectors are staking out her windows.

— Then let her pay. What do I have to do with it? This is my grandmother’s apartment. My memory. The only thing I have left. And she’s crawling in here with her debts—and you’re singing along.

— I can’t abandon her, Lena. I’m her son. You want me to choose?

— Yes. I do. Because she chose long ago—money. And who will you choose?**

He fell silent, burning her with his stare. In anger he flung the bag onto the table. A loaf slid out of its wrapper, tea spilled across the oilcloth tablecloth like an omen. Nikolai stepped toward Elena. His face went white; his eyes flared with a hostile fire.

— I’m tired. You’re always making demands. Mom’s an old person. She has blood pressure. And you act like a stranger. You don’t even try to talk to her like a human being!

— I talk to her exactly the way she deserves, Elena said. A manipulator. A predator. You’re her prey. And I’m an extra victim in her show.

— Who are you to decide?! Nikolai grabbed Elena’s arm roughly, squeezing until it hurt. You’re married. You have to consider more than just yourself!

— Let go, her voice sounded quiet, but unbreakably firm.

— You made my mother cry!
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— And she drove me to a notary, Elena replied calmly. I was there today. I rewrote my will. If something happens to me, the apartment goes to a fund for women who have suffered violence.

He went so pale it seemed all the blood drained from his face at once.

— You wouldn’t dare…

— Too late. I already did. Let her know: keep playing games—she’ll lose everything. Even the chance to “snatch a little piece.”**

He stepped back as if struck by an invisible blow.

— You… you’re insane…

— No. I finally got well. Cured of naivety. From today on everything will be different. I’m no longer obligated to be a victim. Not even for your mother in her “Magnit” perfume.**

Without another word she slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, and clicked the latch. Nikolai remained rooted in the middle of the kitchen amid the soggy loaf and scattered tea, as if he’d suddenly found himself in an endless line for some phantom justice—having completely forgotten why he’d joined it.

And behind the door, silence settled—heavy, like that bedroom where they would never again fall asleep in each other’s arms.

— Are you serious? Nikolai sat on the very edge of the couch, shoulders slumped, a kind of old-man resignation showing in his face as if life had dumped fifty years on him at once. To a fund? For women? Lena, are you saying that about me?

— About both of us, Kolya, Elena answered evenly, carefully drying the dishes. Violence isn’t only bruises and broken bones. It’s when you can’t breathe in your own home because you’re being methodically strangled with words, reproaches, guilt. When you wake up every morning feeling an unbearable weight. That’s violence too. And I want my apartment to help those who survive it—not your mother, who only pushes women into an even deeper abyss of humiliation.

— I don’t understand… Nikolai got up and went to the window. I’m not a bad person. I just don’t want my mom to die drowning in debt.

— Then sell your car. Or your share of your parents’ house. But why should my apartment become a life ring for her endless debts?

He lowered his head. Silent.

The next day Margarita Vasilievna tried again to force her way in. But now a brand-new sign greeted her on the door:

“NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY. VIDEO SURVEILLANCE IN PROGRESS.”

And a cheap camera, winking with a brazen red eye, scared off every uninvited guest. Even the mailman dropped letters into the box warily.

Margarita raged, but she no longer pounded the door—she called Nikolai fourteen times a day.

— What is it, son, are you completely under that… woman’s heel? That… that volunteer burned your brains out?

— She’s not a volunteer, Mom. She’s my wife.
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— Not anymore, Elena said quietly from behind him. I filed for divorce. Yesterday.

Nikolai flinched. Margarita fell silent on the other end of the line. Then, like a snake, she spat venom:

— Well then, congratulations. You know how to destroy families. Go on with your camera and sue like all these modern girls. Complainers…

— Better a complainer than your slave, Elena shot back firmly. And yes, I will sue. For everything. For illegal intrusions. For threats. For the way you’ve been teaching your son since infancy that a woman is automatically in debt.

A heavy silence followed. And then, unexpectedly, in a чужой, broken voice:

— You do understand… I’m completely alone now… I have nothing left…

— Not you, Elena answered calmly. Me. But I’m rebuilding now. Myself.

Two weeks passed.

Elena sat on the windowsill. Spring raged outside; the wind chased a light, rustling plastic bag with the “Magnit” logo along the pavement—and it felt like a sinister symbol. On her knees lay a neat folder: the divorce filing, the new will, receipts from the lawyer.
Family games

There were no tears left. She had cried them all out earlier. Now her soul held a ringing emptiness—but it was a bright emptiness, like a freshly whitewashed room from which a bulky Soviet wall unit had finally been hauled away. The air vibrated with freedom.

 

Her phone lit up: a message from her lawyer.

“The hearing is set for May 15. Documents accepted. Good luck, Elena Sergeyevna.”

She gave a faint smile. Luck wouldn’t hurt. But the most important thing was that now it was her life—hers alone. Without other people’s voices. Without other people’s decisions.

The doorbell rang.

Elena tensed and looked through the peephole. A young woman in a baseball cap stood there with a tablet in her hands.

— Hello. We’re conducting a survey among district residents. Would you like to take part in a support program for women going through divorce?

Elena flung the door open.

— Not only will I take part. I want to join the project’s council. I have experience. Bitter—but real.

The woman nodded encouragingly. And Elena, without looking back, stepped forward decisively—as if she were finally coming home. Home—for real.

Epilogue.

A couple of months later Elena случайно heard her former mother-in-law’s surname. On TV they ran a short segment: a пенсионерка had sunk into debt to a bank; neighbors complained about constant shouting and scandals. The camera caught, in the darkness of an entryway, an enraged woman in a housecoat brandishing an old broom at the reporter.

— I recognize you, Margarita Vasilievna, Elena whispered and turned off the television.

She put the kettle on, poured fragrant green tea into her favorite teapot—from a little shop near the notary. Sat on the windowsill. In silence. Without nagging calls. Without suffocating tears. Without endless чужие dramas.

She simply lived

I asked you to tell me when you were going to the doctor! Why didn’t you tell me?” Zinaida Fyodorovna’s voice cut into the apartment’s morning silence like a fire siren.

Ksenia froze in the entryway, handbag still in her hand. She had just come back from the women’s clinic, where she’d been registered for prenatal care. Third month. The very beginning—when nothing shows yet, but a new life is already taking shape inside. She’d planned to rest first, make some tea, and only then figure out how to tell her husband about the visit. But her mother-in-law, as always, appeared before anyone expected her.

Zinaida Fyodorovna stood in the middle of the corridor in her favorite gray suit, which made her look like a school principal from a Soviet film. In her hands she held the keys to the apartment—her own personal keys, which let her come in at any hour of the day or night. Her eyes, small and thorny, drilled into Ksenia with such indignation as if she’d done something unforgivable.

“Hello, Zinaida Fyodorovna,” Ksenia tried to speak calmly, though her heart had already started beating faster. “I had a routine checkup. Nothing special.”

“Nothing special?” Her mother-in-law stepped forward, and she carried the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something sour and unpleasant. “You’re carrying my grandchild and you call that ‘nothing special’? What did the doctor say? What tests did they order? Why do I have to hear about your trips to the clinic from a neighbor who saw you near the polyclinic?”

Ksenia felt a wave of irritation rising inside. She slowly took off her shoes, hung her handbag on the hook, and only then turned to her mother-in-law.

“The doctor said everything is fine. The tests are normal. I feel good.”

“Show me the test results.”

It wasn’t a question—it was an order. Zinaida Fyodorovna held out her hand, expecting medical documents to be placed into it immediately. Her posture, her tone—everything about her screamed that she had every right to demand and receive any information.

“They’re in my medical chart. At the clinic.”

“Don’t lie to me!” her mother-in-law’s voice jumped an octave. “They always give copies to take home! You’re hiding something! What’s wrong with the baby?”

At that moment the front door opened and Pavel walked in. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked imposing—yet the second he saw his mother, his shoulders sagged and the familiar fatigue appeared in his eyes.

“Mom? What are you doing here?”

“I came to check how your wife is doing, since she doesn’t think it necessary to keep me informed about her condition!” Zinaida Fyodorovna turned to her son, and her voice became plaintive, almost tearful. “Pasha, she went to the doctor and didn’t even warn me! And on top of that, she refuses to show me her test results!”

Pavel looked at his wife, then at his mother. Ksenia could see the battle in his eyes. He was torn between wanting to protect his wife and being afraid to upset his mother. And, as always in situations like this, fear won.

“Ksyusha… just show Mom the tests. What’s the big deal? She’s worried.”

Those words hurt Ksenia more than any accusation from her mother-in-law. Her husband’s betrayal—his inability to stand on her side—made the pain almost physical.

“Pavel, those are my medical documents. I don’t have to show them to anyone.”

“Don’t have to?” Zinaida Fyodorovna threw up her hands. “You’re carrying a child of our family and you say you don’t have to? Do you even understand that if it weren’t for me, you’d still be wandering from one rented corner to another?”

There it was—the trump card her mother-in-law played at every convenient moment. The apartment. The very apartment they lived in had been bought by Zinaida Fyodorovna five years ago, when Pavel had just gotten married. She’d registered it in her son’s name, but kept the keys, and ever since then this place hadn’t been a home, but a gilded cage.

“Mom, don’t start with that,” Pavel tried to intervene, but his voice sounded uncertain.

“Why shouldn’t I? Let her know her place! I poured all my savings into this apartment so my son could live decently, and now she’s acting like she’s the boss here!”

 

Ksenia felt something inside her break. For three years she’d endured it. Three years of reproaches, demands, lectures. Three years of trying to build a relationship, to be a good daughter-in-law. But now, with a child growing inside her—now, when she needed support and understanding more than ever—her patience ran out.

“You know what, Zinaida Fyodorovna,” she said quietly, but there was steel in her voice. “You’re right. It’s your apartment. You paid for it. But there’s one tiny detail you keep forgetting.”

She paused, staring her mother-in-law straight in the eyes.

“For the last three years I have been paying all the utilities. I buy the groceries. I buy household supplies. I replaced all the plumbing when it broke down. I paid for the bathroom and kitchen renovations. I bought all the furniture in the bedroom and living room. If you add it up, in three years I’ve put at least as much into this apartment as you paid for it.”

Zinaida Fyodorovna’s face began to redden. She hadn’t expected pushback.

“How dare you count my money?”

“It’s not your money. It’s my money. Money I earned. While your son makes thirty thousand a month, I make eighty. And all that money goes into maintaining this apartment and our family.”

“Pasha!” her mother-in-law turned to her son. “Do you hear what she’s saying? She’s throwing money in your face!”

Pavel stood with his head lowered. He knew his wife was right. He knew she truly carried the entire financial burden. But admitting it in front of his mother would mean admitting his own inadequacy.

“Ksyush… why are you doing this…”

“Because I’m tired, Pasha. Tired of your mother treating me like a servant. Tired of her coming into our home without warning. Tired of having to report to her about my every step.”

“If you don’t like it, the door’s open!” Zinaida Fyodorovna shouted. “Leave! But the baby stays here! That’s my grandchild, and I won’t let you take him away!”

Those words were the last straw. Ksenia felt a surge of rage so strong her vision darkened for a moment. She took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm down. She couldn’t get upset. She couldn’t—for the baby.

“A child isn’t an object you can leave or take,” her voice trembled with restrained emotion. “And it’s certainly not your property.”

“We’ll see what the court says! I have money for the best lawyers! You’ll be left with nothing!”

“Mom, stop!” Pavel finally found the strength to intervene. “What are you saying? What court? She’s my wife—the mother of my child!”

“Your wife?” Zinaida Fyodorovna turned to her son as if he’d betrayed her. “She’s manipulating you! She got pregnant on purpose to tie you to her! I told you from the start she wasn’t your match!”

“I got pregnant on purpose?” Ksenia couldn’t take it anymore and laughed—a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. “Pavel and I tried for three years to have a child! Three years of treatment, tests, procedures! And you’re saying I got pregnant on purpose?”

She turned to her husband.

“Pavel, tell her. Tell your mother what we went through so we could have this baby.”

But Pavel was silent. He stood between the two women like a man caught between a hammer and an anvil, not knowing what to say. His silence said more than any words.

“You can’t even stand on my side now,” Ksenia shook her head. “Even now, when your mother is threatening to take my child away, you’re silent.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…” Zinaida Fyodorovna began, but Ksenia cut her off.

“No—you meant exactly that. You’ve always believed I’m unworthy of your son. That I’m after his money. Only there’s one problem—he doesn’t have any money. There’s only the apartment you bought, and you use it like a leash to keep us under control.”

She went to the closet in the entryway and pulled out a folder of documents. Her hands shook slightly, but her voice was firm.

“Here, Zinaida Fyodorovna. These are all the receipts and bills from the last three years. Utility payments, repairs, furniture, appliances. Total amount: two million three hundred thousand rubles. That’s what I invested in your apartment.”

She placed the folder on the small hallway table.

“And here’s something else. This is the lease agreement for an apartment I rented last week. One room, small—but mine. Where no one will walk in without knocking. Where I can carry and give birth to my child in peace.”

Pavel lifted his head; shock filled his eyes.

“You rented an apartment? When? Why?”

“When your mother came in again without warning and did an inspection of whether I was making you breakfast ‘correctly.’ That’s when I understood I can’t live like this anymore.”

“But… but you’re pregnant… How will you manage alone?”

“I won’t be alone,” Ksenia looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ll be with our child. The question is whether you’ll be with us.”

Silence fell. Zinaida Fyodorovna stood with her mouth open, unable to believe what was happening. Pavel stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.

“So what—this is an ultimatum?” he finally forced out.

“It’s a choice. Either you stay here, in this apartment, with your mother, and she controls your every step for the rest of your life. Or you come with me, and we build our family. A real family—where no one interferes in our life.”

 

“Pasha, don’t listen to her!” Zinaida Fyodorovna cut in. “She’s bluffing! Where will she go with a baby? She has nothing!”

“I have a job. I have money I’ve been saving. I have the strength to start over. And most importantly—I have self-respect, and it won’t let me endure humiliation anymore.”

Ksenia took her handbag and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Pavel stepped toward her.

“To my apartment. I’ll take my things tomorrow, when Zinaida Fyodorovna isn’t here. I don’t want to make any more scenes.”

“Wait!” He grabbed her hand. “Ksyush, wait. Let’s talk.”

“About what, Pasha? About how your mother will tell you what crib to buy? How she’ll decide what kindergarten we send the child to? How she’ll come every day and check whether I’m feeding him correctly?”

She gently freed her hand.

“I’m tired of fighting for my place in this family. Tired of proving I deserve respect. If you love me and our child, you know where to find us.”

“You’ll regret this!” Zinaida Fyodorovna shouted after her. “You’ll come crawling back on your knees!”

Ksenia stopped in the doorway and turned around.

“You know, Zinaida Fyodorovna, I’ve endured a lot from you. But today you crossed the line. You threatened to take my child away. A mother’s instinct is a powerful thing—it makes you protect your baby at any cost. Even at the cost of breaking with your husband.”

She shifted her gaze to Pavel.

“You have until tomorrow. Think about what matters more to you—your mother’s approval or your family.”

And she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Pavel stood in the entryway, staring at the closed door. His mind was chaos. On one side—his mother, who had cared for him all his life, who bought the apartment, who always claimed she wanted only what was best for him. On the other—his wife, whom he loved, who was carrying his child, who had just walked out of his life.

“Let her go then!” Zinaida Fyodorovna dropped into a chair. “We’ll see how she sings in a week. Alone, pregnant, with no support. She’ll come back.”

“Mom,” Pavel turned to her, exhaustion in his voice. “She won’t come back.”

“Oh, she’ll come back. Where else can she go?”

“She won’t come back because she’s strong. Stronger than me. She put up with your nitpicking, your control, your disrespect for three years. She endured it for me. And I… I couldn’t even stand up for her.”

“Pasha, what are you saying? I’m trying for you! I want everything to be good!”

“No, Mom. You want everything to be the way you think is right. You don’t ask what we want. You just decide for us.”

He walked into the living room and sat down on the couch—the very couch Ksenia had bought. He looked around. The TV—Ksenia. The curtains—Ksenia. The rug—Ksenia. Even the pictures on the walls were her choices. Without her, the apartment was just a set of walls.

“Pasha, don’t be ridiculous. She’s just manipulating you. Using the pregnancy to get her way.”

“Mom, she paid for everything for three years. Three years! And I didn’t even notice. I took it for granted. She worked ten hours a day, came home exhausted, but still made dinner, cleaned, did laundry. And what did I do? I sat and waited for her to do it all.”

“That’s a wife’s duty!”

“No, Mom. It’s not a duty. It’s what she did out of love. And I… I barely even said thank you.”

Pavel got up and went to the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a bag.

“What are you doing?” Zinaida Fyodorovna followed him.

“Packing.”

“Where to?”

“To my wife. To my family.”

“Pasha, don’t do something stupid! You don’t even know where she is! You don’t even have the address!”

“I’ll find it. She’s right—if I love her and our child, I’ll find them.”

“If you leave, don’t come back!” his mother’s voice shook with anger and hurt. “I’ll disown you!”

Pavel stopped and looked at her. There was sadness in his eyes—but resolve, too.

“Mom, I love you. I always have, and I always will. But I can’t be a little boy hiding behind your skirt anymore. I’m going to have a child. I have to become a father. A real father—not Mommy’s son.”

“She turned you against me!”

“No, Mom. She opened my eyes. To what I’ve become. To what I allowed you to do to my wife. To how I betrayed her every day I didn’t defend her.”

He zipped the bag and headed for the exit. At the door, he turned back.

 

“The apartment is yours. Live in it. Just not with us.”

And he left, leaving his mother alone in the large, empty apartment. Zinaida Fyodorovna stood in the middle of the living room, unable to believe what had happened. Her son—her boy, her Pasha—was gone. He chose that woman, not her.

She sat down on the couch and only then noticed how quiet the apartment had become. Before, she hadn’t noticed it—there was always some noise, movement, life. And now… now there was only silence.

The next day Pavel found Ksenia. She opened the door and looked at him for a long time as he stood on the threshold with a bag in his hand.

“You came,” she said simply.

“Forgive me. For everything. For being weak. For not protecting you. For letting my mother humiliate you.”

“Pasha…”

“Give me a chance. A chance to become the husband you deserve. The father our child will need.”

Ksenia was silent, looking at him. Then she stepped aside.

“Come in. Let’s talk.”

They talked for a long time that evening—about the past, about the future, about how they would build their life. Pavel told her about the conversation with his mother, about how she’d threatened to disown him.

“She’s your mother, Pasha. Your only one. Maybe it’s worth trying to mend things?”

“Maybe. But only on our terms. Only if she respects our boundaries. If she agrees we’re a separate family.”

“Do you think she will?”

“I don’t know. But if not—that’s her choice.”

Two months passed. Zinaida Fyodorovna still didn’t call. Pride wouldn’t let her make the first move. She sat in her big apartment, watched TV, and convinced herself she’d done the right thing. That they’d regret it. That they’d come crawling back.

But they didn’t. Pavel took a second job to help his wife. Ksenia went on maternity leave and prepared for the baby’s birth. They set up their small apartment, bought baby things, chose a name.

And only sometimes, in the evenings, Pavel looked at his phone and thought about his mother—about her being alone, about the grandchild she would soon have, whom she might never see. But then he looked at his wife, at her rounded belly, and understood: he had made the right choice. A choice in favor of his family.

And Zinaida Fyodorovna sat in an empty apartment and waited. Waited for a call that never came. Waited for her son to come to his senses and return. But deep down she already knew—he wouldn’t. She lost him the moment she decided her love gave her the right to control his life. And now all she could do was live with that choice.

“Are you suggesting I give away what I worked seven years for? Are you out of your mind?” Svetlana looked at her husband as if she were seeing him for the first time. In her eyes there was less anger than bewilderment.

Andrey drummed his fingers nervously on the tabletop. His patience was running out by the second.

“Svet, let’s not do hysterics. Your apartment is worth three times less than my parents’ house. It’s a reasonable trade. We’ll have our own house, you understand? A house!”

Svetlana laughed. The sound came out sharp, almost like a bark.

“You honestly don’t see the problem? I’m supposed to sell my apartment so your parents can move to Spain and buy a place there? And we’ll be paying off the loan on their house? A house they haven’t been able to sell for three years, by the way, because the price is inflated?”

 

Andrey winced as if from a toothache.

“They lowered the price by forty percent специально for us.”

“Oh, how generous!” Svetlana threw up her hands theatrically. “Let’s be honest: they want to dump a burden they can’t sell and, at the same time, solve their son’s housing problem. Your mother practically said it: ‘Andryusha, it’s such a great investment!’ And you nod along like one of those little bobblehead dolls.”

Their marriage had been held together by compromises. Svetlana, who’d grown up in a family where her father was rarely sober and her mother carried two children on her back, had learned to forgive a lot. Andrey understood: the daughter of an alcoholic can’t easily believe a man is capable of steadiness. Distrust is written into her DNA.

He let sharp phrases like “If you think I’ll stay with you just because there’s a stamp in my passport, you’re wrong” go in one ear and out the other. He didn’t notice how she tucked money away into an emergency stash. He didn’t take offense when Svetlana refused to merge their budgets. She had her own apartment, bought before she ever met him. Svetlana was the chief editor of an online publication, earned good money, but pinched pennies on everything.

Andrey, raised in a well-off family where money was never a problem, was surprised by her habits at first. Later he treated them with mild mockery. Her fears seemed ridiculous to him, but he tried to be patient.

Five years of marriage. Five years in which every step came hard. And now—another test.

Svetlana looked at her husband, remembering how it had started. She’d been at a book presentation when a tall man with a chiseled profile approached her. He spoke about literature with such passion that she didn’t notice how three hours flew by.

A month later Andrey admitted he worked at his father’s law firm. A well-provided boy raised in a greenhouse. Her complete opposite. The difference was obvious: he could easily spend her entire weekly grocery budget on one dinner at a restaurant, without a thought for tomorrow.

But he had something she valued more than money—reliability. He didn’t make empty promises, always showed up on time, always answered calls. After a string of men who would disappear for weeks and return with apologies and bouquets, Andrey felt like a miracle.

Now, staring at him across the kitchen table, Svetlana tried to understand: had she really been wrong?

“I’m not selling the apartment,” she repeated.

“That’s unreasonable,” Andrey pulled himself together; his voice was almost calm. “We’ll have a big house with land. Do you really prefer living in this box when there’s an alternative?”

“In the box I bought myself,” Svetlana corrected. “That belongs to me, not your parents. And where no one tells me how to arrange the furniture.”

“There you go again,” Andrey rolled his eyes.

“What’s wrong with what I’m saying? Your mother makes remarks every time, like she’s here for an inspection. She doesn’t like the curtains, the sofa ‘isn’t the right style.’ I stopped inviting them over, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“She’s just giving advice.”

“Oh yes—and it always sounds like orders. ‘Andryusha, why is Sveta cooking frozen vegetables? I’ll bring you fresh ones from the dacha.’ Thanks, but I’ll decide myself what to cook in my own home!”

“That’s just the way she communicates. You take everything too personally.”

“And you don’t react at all!” Svetlana raised her voice. “She controls every aspect of your life, and you let her. But I’m not you, Andrey. I’m not going to live the way your mother wants.”

Andrey went silent, gathering his thoughts.

“Fine. Let’s forget my parents for a minute. Look at it objectively. Your apartment is forty-five square meters. The house is one hundred fifty plus land. Even with the mortgage it’s a good deal.”

“It’s not about the deal,” Svetlana shook her head. “You don’t get it. This apartment is my insurance. I bought it by denying myself everything. It’s the only thing that belongs to me completely.”

“You talk like you’re preparing for a divorce,” Andrey frowned.

“I talk like that because I know life. My father drank away everything my mother had. Left us with nothing in a rented apartment. I swore I’d never end up in that situation.”

“I’m not your father.”

“And I don’t want to test that in practice.”

Dinner passed in heavy silence. Svetlana mechanically chewed her pasta without tasting it. Andrey stared at his phone, pointedly ignoring his wife.

That evening, while she washed dishes, the phone rang. Andrey answered, and by his tone Svetlana immediately understood—it was his mother. He went into the other room, but the thin walls didn’t hide the conversation.

“Yes, Mom… No, she still hasn’t agreed… I understand you need to settle it by the end of the month… Yes, I’m trying to explain…”

Svetlana slammed a plate down with a clatter. So that was it. His parents were in a hurry to sell—surely they’d already found options in Spain. And they were pressuring their son to solve the “stubborn wife” problem faster.

When Andrey came back into the kitchen, his face was set with determination.

“My parents are willing to lower the price another ten percent.”

“How generous,” Svetlana dried her hands on a towel. “You know what your problem is? You don’t understand what’s happening. They’re not doing us a favor. They’re solving their problems at our expense.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is. They can’t sell the house at market price. The real estate agent told them it’s overpriced by at least thirty percent. But admitting that would mean admitting they were wrong. Your parents don’t know how to admit they’re wrong, you know that?”

Andrey flinched as if she’d struck him.

“They’ve always supported us.”

“They supported you—on the condition you do what they want. That’s not support, it’s manipulation. Remember how your father forced you into law school when you wanted architecture? How they insisted the wedding be at a country club when we wanted a small ceremony?”

“That’s different…”

“No, it’s the same. They decide, and you obey. And now they decided we should buy their house, and I should give up my apartment.”

Andrey stood up abruptly.

“You know what? I’m not discussing this anymore. Either we make a decision about the house together, or…” He didn’t finish.

“Or what?” Svetlana asked.

He shook his head.

“Nothing. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

Andrey left for the bedroom, leaving Svetlana alone in the kitchen. She sat for a long time, staring out the window. In the glass she saw her own reflection—drawn, with hidden тревога in her eyes. “Or what?” pulsed in her head, not letting her rest.

The following week passed in tense silence. They spoke only when necessary, trading short phrases. Svetlana stayed late at work; Andrey came home late. Their shared dinner became a formality.

On Friday evening Andrey didn’t come home. He called around nine and said he’d stay at his parents’—there were important matters to discuss. Svetlana didn’t ask which ones. Something inside her cracked.

On Saturday morning she woke to the sound of the front door. Andrey returned, but not alone—with him was his father, Viktor Pavlovich. Svetlana threw on a robe and went into the hallway.

“Good morning,” her father-in-law greeted her dryly. “Hope we’re not слишком early.”

“No, it’s fine,” she replied, looking questioningly at her husband.

“Dad came to talk,” Andrey said. “We need to settle the house issue.”

They went to the kitchen. Svetlana silently put the kettle on, trying not to show how her hands trembled. “The decisive battle,” she thought as she took out cups.

Viktor Pavlovich cleared his throat, sat down, and folded his hands in front of him.

“Svetlana, let’s be frank. We found a great option in Spain, but we need to close the deal in the next two weeks. For that we have to sell the house.”

“I understand,” Svetlana nodded.

“We’re offering you very favorable terms. The price is down thirty percent from the original. That’s below market value.”

“Below by how much?” Svetlana asked.

Viktor Pavlovich hesitated.

“About ten percent.”

“So you admit you originally inflated the price by forty percent?”

Her father-in-law pressed his lips together.

“We simply wanted to find a good buyer.”

“And decided the best buyer was your son, who would make his wife sell her apartment for it?”

“Svetlana,” Andrey cut in, “let’s not обвинять.”

“I’m not accusing; I’m stating facts,” she said, turning back to her father-in-law. “Viktor Pavlovich, I’m not selling the apartment. That’s my final word.”

Her father-in-law’s face hardened.

“Then you won’t be able to buy the house. You simply don’t have that kind of money.”

“I understand that.”

“And you’re willing to deprive your husband of the chance to have his own house?” he raised his voice. “Because of some apartment?”

“Because of my financial independence,” Svetlana answered evenly. “Andrey knew what he was getting into when he married me. I always said I wouldn’t fully merge finances.”

“What an egoist you are!” Viktor Pavlovich exclaimed. “Andrey, are you really going to let her behave like this?”

Svetlana looked at her husband. He stared at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

“What do you say, Andrey?” she asked quietly.

 

He slowly lifted his head. In his gaze was a determination she hadn’t seen before.

“Dad, Sveta’s right. I’m not going to make her sell her apartment. And we’re not buying your house.”

Viktor Pavlovich turned purple.

“What do you mean, ‘we’re not buying’? And what about our Spain? We already paid a deposit for a house!”

“That’s your problem,” Andrey said firmly. “You’re adults. Deal with it yourselves.”

“Deal with it ourselves?” his father sneered. “And who gave you a job in the company? Who bought you a car? Who paid your rent until you got married?”

“Exactly,” Svetlana cut in. “All of it—hooks. Help with conditions attached.”

“You!” Viktor Pavlovich jabbed a finger at her. “This is all your fault! You turned my son against his parents!”

“No, Dad,” Andrey stepped between them. “It’s you who’s turning me against my wife. And I choose her.”

A heavy silence hung in the room.

“So that’s how it is,” Viktor Pavlovich finally said. “Then don’t count on my help anymore. Not at work, not… anywhere.”

“I’ll manage,” Andrey replied.

Viktor Pavlovich stood up.

“Come on, Alla!” he shouted toward the room where his wife had been examining the apartment. “There’s nothing for us to do here.”

“But I just—” she began, stepping into the hallway.

“Let’s go!” he barked.

They left, slamming the door loudly. Svetlana and Andrey stood in the middle of the kitchen, not looking at each other. The silence wrapped around them like fog.

“Are you really choosing me?” Svetlana finally asked.

Andrey was quiet for a long moment, then sighed heavily.

“I don’t have a choice. But I don’t know if it’s the right one.”

He went into the bedroom and shut the door. Svetlana stayed alone in the kitchen, feeling a strange emptiness inside. The victory tasted bitter.

On Monday Andrey came home from work earlier than usual. Without a word he walked into the kitchen, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself half a glass.

“What happened?” Svetlana asked, though she already guessed.

“I got demoted,” he took a big swallow. “Moved from legal to administrative. Now I’ll be handling хозяйственные matters. For a third less pay.”

“Your father?”

“Who else?” Andrey gave a bitter smile. “He said it’s a ‘temporary measure until I come to my senses.’”

“You can quit,” Svetlana suggested. “Find another job.”

“Where? With my experience? Without my father’s recommendations?” He shook his head. “It’s a family company. Everyone knows I’m the owner’s son. No one will take me on—they won’t want to ruin relations with him.”

Svetlana was silent. She felt guilty and, at the same time, a dull раздражение. Why should she feel guilty? She was protecting what was hers—that was all.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

“For what?” Andrey looked at her with tired eyes. “For defending your interests? You were right. They wanted to use us. And they’re still doing it.”

He finished the whiskey and set the glass down.

“I’ll stay at Kirill’s tonight,” he said, getting up. “I need to clear my head.”

“Andrey…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink or do something stupid. I just want to be alone.”

He left without waiting for an answer. Svetlana remained at the kitchen table, staring at the half-finished bottle of whiskey. For the first time in a long while, she felt like getting drunk.

Andrey came back two days later—haggard, but calm. In that time Svetlana had thought through everything, from divorce to fully giving in to her mother-in-law’s demands.

“I talked to Igor,” he said instead of hello.

“Which Igor?”

“My classmate. He works at Alfa-Pravo. They’re looking for a lawyer in corporate. The salary is lower than what I had, but… it’s a start.”

Svetlana stayed quiet, afraid to scare the moment away.

“I filed my resignation,” Andrey continued. “Dad was furious. Said I betrayed the family.”

“I’m sorry,” Svetlana said softly.

“I’m not,” Andrey smiled for the first time in a long time. “You know, I feel a strange relief. Like I’ve carried an impossible weight on my shoulders my whole life—and now I’ve dropped it.”

He went to the window and looked out at the street.

“I realized I always wanted their approval. I did what they considered right just to hear, ‘Good job, Andryusha.’ And even when I married you—a girl they didn’t approve of—part of me still hoped they’d accept it.”

Svetlana stepped closer, but didn’t dare touch him.

“And now?”

“Now I’m free,” he turned to her. “Starting from a blank page. I just don’t know whether you want to be part of this new beginning.”

Svetlana looked at her husband as if seeing him for the first time. Always the obedient son, used to submitting, he had suddenly become an independent man, ready to make hard decisions.

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“While I was at Kirill’s, I thought a lot. About us, about my parents, about all of it. And I understood one thing: you and I are too different.”

Svetlana felt her heart skip.

“You come from a family where everyone is for themselves,” Andrey went on. “You’re used to relying only on yourself—protecting what’s yours, trusting no one. I come from a family where decisions are made together, where individuality is subordinated to the common good. We see the world differently.”

“So what now?” she asked, barely audible.

“Now we need to decide: can we build something of our own, unlike your family and unlike mine. Something where we respect each other’s boundaries, but still act as one.”

He paused.

“Or maybe it’s better we separate before we hurt each other even more.”

Svetlana stared at him, unable to say a word. Memories flashed through her mind—five years of marriage, good and bad moments, fights and makeups. Five years of life.

“I don’t want to separate,” she finally said. “But I don’t know if I can change.”

“I don’t know if I can either,” Andrey answered honestly. “But I want to try. Only it has to be mutual.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Start over. Without my parents, without their influence and expectations. Just you and me.”

Svetlana thought. She had always been afraid to fully trust a man—open up, become vulnerable. But now, looking at Andrey, she saw someone who had gone against his family for her. Maybe he deserved that trust.

“I agree,” she said. “But I have a condition.”

“What?”

“The apartment stays mine. That’s not up for discussion.”

Andrey held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded.

“Okay. Your apartment is your insurance policy. I understand. But then I have a condition too.”

“I’m listening.”

“We start saving for our own house. Not my parents’ house, not your apartment—our shared home. And we put money aside for it together.”

Svetlana swallowed hard. Combining finances had always felt dangerous. But maybe it was time to рискнуть.

“I agree,” she said after a pause. “But only for the house. The rest stays separate for now.”

“Deal,” Andrey held out his hand like he was sealing a business agreement.

Svetlana shook it, feeling a strange mix of relief and тревога. It wasn’t a happy ending—more like an uncertain beginning of something new.

Six months later Andrey had settled into his new job. The salary was lower, but the ambitions were bigger. For the first time he felt he was achieving something on his own, without his father’s support.

He barely spoke to his parents. They tried to reach out a few times—especially his mother, who missed her son. But every conversation came down to one thing: “When will you come to your senses?” Andrey wasn’t ready for that kind of contact.

Svetlana rented out her apartment—to good, reliable people. The rent money went toward the mortgage on a new, small two-bedroom they bought together. Not luxurious, not in the center, but theirs—without parental interference.

One evening, as they sat in the kitchen discussing weekend plans, Andrey suddenly asked:

“Do you regret it?”

“What?”

“That it turned out this way. That we didn’t buy my parents’ house. That I fell out with my family.”

Svetlana thought for a moment.

“No,” she finally said. “I regret that you had to choose. But I don’t regret the result. And you?”

Andrey was quiet, then shook his head.

“Sometimes it’s hard. Especially when I think about Mom… But overall—no. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m living my own life, not the one they planned for me.”

He looked at Svetlana with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before.

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For not giving in. For making me see the truth.”

Svetlana smiled. She wasn’t sure their marriage would survive every test. She wasn’t sure they could build a real family unlike her childhood experience and unlike Andrey’s. The future was still foggy.

But right now, in this moment, she was glad she hadn’t sold the apartment.

 

An employee at a gas station found a box in the restroom. Inside lay a newborn baby girl and a note: “Take care of her.” The man couldn’t leave the child alone — his wife had dreamed of having children for many years, but doctors said they would never have their own.

The next day, the couple took the baby to the hospital to make sure she was alright. The doctors examined the girl and reported that she was healthy, born very recently, and that there were no birth records in the registry — as if she had come into the world out of nowhere.

The husband and wife named the child Anya and decided to raise her as their own. They felt as if fate had given them a second chance to become a family.

But a few days later, the police arrived at the gas station. Someone reported a missing newborn. An investigation began. The man honestly told where he found the girl and showed the note. The police took DNA samples and started searching for the biological parents.

 

Meanwhile, the family had already grown deeply attached to the baby. They were afraid to lose her. When the police found the real mother, it turned out she was a homeless underage girl who left the child because she couldn’t care for her. Learning that the girl was in safe hands and growing up in a loving family, she tearfully thanked them and signed an official relinquishment.

A few months later, Anya became a full part of the family — she was officially adopted. She grew up surrounded by love and care, and her arrival marked the beginning of a new life for those who had long stopped believing in their family happiness.

Years passed. Anya grew as if she had always been part of this family. Her father taught her to ride a bicycle and read fairy tales before bedtime. Her mother baked pies, braided her hair, and hugged her so tightly it seemed she wanted to protect her from the whole world with those arms.

The girl knew little about her past — only that she was once “found” and loved very much.

When she turned ten, a letter came to the house with no return address. Inside the envelope was a short note:

“Thank you for raising my daughter. I often think about her. Forgive me for not being able to stay close. With love — Mom.”

Until then, Anya did not know about the letter’s existence. Her parents decided to wait until she was older and could understand the whole truth.

When Anya became a teenager, questions began: why she looked different from her parents, why there were two birth dates in the documents. One evening, her mom and dad sat down next to her and told her everything — honestly, gently, and with love.

Anya cried, but not out of sorrow — out of gratitude. She understood: she was not abandoned, she was saved. And her real family was not those who gave her life, but those who stayed by her side till the end.

This story became a source of strength for her. Growing up, she dreamed of helping other children who found themselves in difficult life situations. As an adult, she chose to become a social worker and helped families find each other.

She knew from her own experience: sometimes a real miracle comes in a simple cardboard box with a note: “Take care of her.”

Years later, Anya, now a confident woman, stood by the window of the child assistance center she had created in her hometown. A sign on the facade read: “A Chance for Family.” This center became her main life’s work.

Every child who entered was greeted by her warm smile:

“You are not alone. Everything will definitely be okay.”

One day, a young frightened woman came to the center, holding a small child. She lowered her eyes and whispered:

“I… don’t know what to do. I can’t leave her, but I can’t raise her myself either.”

Anya sat beside her, took her hand, and shared her story — how once a girl left a child in a box, and how that act, born of despair and love, became the beginning of something greater.

“You have a choice,” Anya said softly. “And you are not alone. We will be here.”

The young woman burst into tears. But these were not tears of fear or despair — they were the release of pain finally finding relief. Anya hugged her, just as her adoptive mother once did, giving warmth in the hardest moments.

Later, back home, Anya took out the same note from an old box:

“Take care of her.”

Carefully placing it next to a photo of her parents — the people who once dared to believe in a miracle — Anya whispered:

“I’m doing everything I can. Every day.”

A few months later, the young woman who came to the center with her child made a decision: she was ready to fight for her future and for her daughter’s future. With Anya’s support, she found a job, began studying, and gradually found herself. Anya became not just a mentor but a true friend.

She increasingly noticed how events repeated, but differently — not through suffering and escape, but through strength, mutual help, and love.

The “Chance for Family” center kept growing: programs for foster families appeared, consultations for pregnant women, psychological support groups. People came from all over the region, knowing they would be welcomed without judgment.

One day, an elderly woman came to the center. In her hands was a worn old envelope, her voice trembling:

“Are you… are you Anya?”

Anya nodded.

 

“I… I was the woman who left you. I came to the gas station when I learned you were alive, that you were loved. I wrote you a letter. All these years, I prayed for your happiness. Forgive me…”

Anya looked at her for a long time, saying nothing. Then she slowly approached and hugged the woman.

“I forgave you many years ago,” she whispered. “Because of you, I wasn’t left in the dark. You gave me life. I’m grateful.”

They sat together for a long time, holding hands. Two lives, two stories, two paths — joined in silence and acceptance.

That night, Anya wrote in her diary:

“Now I understand why everything happened the way it did. I am the link between fear and hope, between loss and love. Though my story began in a cardboard box on a cold floor, it led me to warmth — the warmth I can now share with others.”

Years passed. Now a mature woman with the first gray hair at her temple, Anya stood before a hall full of people. It was the anniversary evening of the “Chance for Family” center. Over the years, hundreds of children found shelter, dozens of women found support, and families found new faith in the future.

Anya took the stage:

“I want to tell you a story. About a girl found in a cardboard box with a note: ‘Take care of her.’ She was not forgotten. She was saved. And then she got a family. That girl is me.”

The hall fell silent. Anya looked into the eyes of those gathered — parents, children, volunteers. Among them — the woman who gave her life, now with a kind look and a heart filled with peace. Nearby — her adoptive parents, aged but still proud of their daughter.

“I believe that every person has a chance. Even if their path begins with pain and loss. Love is a choice. And every time we choose it, we change someone’s destiny.”

The applause didn’t stop. People stood up, hugged, some cried, others smiled through tears.

That evening, Anya returned home tired but happy. She looked into her adoptive mother’s room and kissed her forehead. She whispered:

“We always knew you were not just our daughter. You are a light for others.”

Anya took out the same note again, faded by time:

“Take care of her.”

She gently placed it back in the box and quietly said:

“Thank you. We all did it.”

This story is not only about how she was found. It is a story about how she found herself — and helped others find themselves.

So what exactly are you trying to tell me? That I should give up my apartment so you and your mommy can keep diving into scams together?”

“Come on, don’t get so worked up, Sasha, it’s my MOM… She didn’t mean any harm…”

“And who am I then, Maksim?! Some random passerby?!”

Alexandra stormed into the apartment like a tornado. Keys jingled in her bag, her phone was buzzing annoyingly, and there was a smear of chewing gum on her heel—everything as usual. Only the air already felt… off.

In the kitchen, as always, ruled Galina Pavlovna. Forever in a housecoat, forever with a look of reproach.

She turned around, wiping her hands on a checkered towel.

 

“Why are you so late? You could’ve come earlier, dinner’s gone cold.”

“Am I a schoolgirl now? Do I live by a timetable?” Alexandra muttered, throwing her bag onto a chair.

Maxim was sitting at the table, poking at his buckwheat like it was radioactive. He looked like a man who knows thunder is about to strike. And it’s going to hurt.

“Sasha…” he drawled, not meeting her eyes, “so, there’s this thing…”

“Maxim, did you lose your job again? Or did you forget to pay the internet bill? What is it this time?”

“No, it’s not that… Well… Mom’s apartment…” Maxim hunched his shoulders as if trying to pull his head into them.

Galina Pavlovna immediately hissed:

“What do you mean ‘Mom’s apartment’? It’s not ‘Mom’s’, it’s mine! And I’m an adult, I decide myself where to invest!”

Alexandra turned sharply.

“Wait. What did you do?”

“Well, there was this webinar… very respectable people… They were showing charts, talking about ‘return index’ and ‘multiple growth’…”

“And you, an ‘adult’, took out a loan against your apartment because of some indexes?!” Alexandra was almost shouting now. “Galina Pavlovna, do you even have a head on your shoulders?”

“They promised guaranteed income! Ten percent a month!”

“Oh, what is that, magic? Money out of thin air?” Alexandra laughed nervously, like someone whose nervous tic had just been prescribed for life. “Do you at least understand that they’re scammers?”

Maxim cut in gloomily:

“All the documents are legit. It’s just that right now they’re having ‘technical problems’. And their accounts got frozen…”

Alexandra pushed her chair back sharply.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I want to hear everything. The whole story. No ‘well, sort of’. Start talking. Now.”

Galina Pavlovna straightened up. The manner of a prosecutor at an interrogation.

“I took out a loan secured by the apartment. Five million.”

“Five?!” Alexandra grabbed her head. “You’ve lost your mind!”

“Don’t you yell at me! I wanted what’s best for everyone! We could’ve bought new cars for all of us! Maxim could’ve started his own business!”

“Maxim can’t even put his socks together in pairs, and you wanted him to have a business!” Alexandra turned to her husband. “You knew?”

“Well… yeah. But I thought it was a small amount…”

“A small amount?! This is your HOME! Where are you going to live when the bank takes the apartment?”

And then came the most disgusting proposal of the evening.

“We were thinking… maybe you could sell your apartment. It’s sitting empty anyway. We’d pay off the loan. Then we’d earn more. We’d pay you back, for sure!”

“Let me get this straight.” Alexandra sat down. “You want me to SELL MY apartment, bought with MY money, to cover your brilliant stunt?”

“It’s for the family, Sasha,” Maxim said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You know… We’re family…”

“And when was the last time you did anything for this family, Maxim? You only take out the trash when I threaten you with a frying pan!” Her voice was shaking with rage.

Galina Pavlovna gave her a long measuring look.

“Stop with the hysterics. I never liked you from day one. It’s always ‘mine’, ‘I won’t share’, ‘I earned it myself’. You’re greedy, Sasha. That’s not how a woman should be.”

“And how should a woman be? Mortgage her apartment and play the victim?” Alexandra jumped up. “You live in my place, you eat at my expense, you use up my electricity, you wash all your stuff in my machine… And you still dare pressure me?”

“Your apartment is sheer luck, not something you earned,” her mother-in-law snapped. “Who would even marry you with your character?”

Alexandra froze.

There it was, the real face. Without the mask of the “sweet mother of Maxim.”

“I’m done,” she said quietly. “You’re moving out tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, ‘moving out’?!” Galina shrieked. “I have court in a month, they’re going to evict me!”

“That’s not my problem. You had a chance. You blew it. Now it’s over.”

Maxim jumped up:

“Wait! Sasha, you can’t do this! She’s my mother! She’ll end up on the street! You’re not a monster, are you?”

“And you’re not a child, Maxim. Grow up at least once in your life.”

“So you want me to choose between you?”

“I want you to finally understand that actions have consequences. Good luck with your mom.”

She grabbed her bag and rushed to the door as if an army of debt collectors were chasing her.

Behind her she heard a shriek:

“Oh, that’s how it is?! So some stranger means more to you than family?!”

Alexandra stopped on the threshold and turned around.

“I’m not a stranger. I’m the only person in this ‘family’ who actually built anything with her own hands. And now—yes, I am a stranger. Thanks to you.”

The door slammed. All that was left in the hallway was silence and the smell of a cooling dinner.

Four days passed.

Four days of silence, like before an earthquake. No calls, no messages, no knocking at the door—as if their little family had just evaporated. Only Alexandra knew: that silence was fake. Before the storm, it’s always sunny. And then everything goes to hell.

On the fifth day, Maxim showed up.

No call, no warning. He was just standing at the door with two bags from Pyaterochka, as if they’d randomly met by the dumpsters and decided to have some tea.

“Open up,” he said, knocking with his palm on the door. “Don’t be scared, I come in peace.”

Alexandra opened. In pajamas, a face mask on, bunny-ear slippers on her feet. Hideous and furious—the perfect image of a divorced fury.

“What do you want?” Her voice was icy.

“I missed you…” Maxim coughed and quickly added, “And anyway, we need to talk. Like adults.”

“Seriously? You suddenly became an adult?”

“Sash, come on…” He shrugged. “I don’t want everything to just fall apart like this.”

“If you don’t want things to fall apart, don’t shove your mother into scams, don’t live off someone else, and don’t try to solve problems at my expense.”

He stepped into the apartment as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t kicked him out. As if their life were a chain of bad jokes and now it was time for the punchline.

“I was thinking… We could take a break. Just for a while. I’ll stay with Mom. You stay here. And then, maybe, we’ll figure things out somehow.”

“Do you get your lines from TV shows?” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “You’re already living with your mom. And it’s not a ‘break’, it’s permanent.”

Maxim sat down on the edge of the couch. That’s what he always did—sat down and waited for things to sort themselves out.

“Listen. I… I talked to a lawyer. About Mom’s debt and apartment.”

“And what, did he also suggest a ‘break’?” Sasha asked sarcastically.

“He said… that if Mom doesn’t cover the debt within two months, she’ll be evicted. And she can’t get a new loan—her pension’s too small, and the apartment is already collateral.”

“What a tragedy,” she said dryly. “I’m about to shed a tear.”

“Sasha… She’s old. She’s starting to lose it. She doesn’t sleep at night. Thinks people are climbing in through the window.”

“Maybe they are. The ones she promised ten percent a month to.”

“You don’t understand…” Maxim suddenly jumped up. “Her whole life was for us! For me!”

“Her whole life was about control. About making sure you never learned to take responsibility for yourself!” Alexandra’s voice shook. “And now you both want me to pay for your upbringing!”

 

“We’re just asking for help. For a while.”

“And I’m just refusing. Forever.”

“So that’s how you treat your family…” he muttered, looking away.

“You’re not my family. You turned into furniture in your mother’s house. And I’m not moving in there.”

“I thought we were a team, Sasha.”

“And who do you captain with? Your mom? You even sort your socks by color with her!”

“Don’t exaggerate!” he squealed. “I don’t deserve this!”

“And I do?!” Alexandra stepped closer. “Do I deserve to have you try to take my apartment under the guise of ‘helping the family’? To be called greedy? For you to stand there and say nothing while your mother humiliates me?”

He stayed silent. Because there was nothing to say.

She opened the wardrobe, took a folder with papers, and tossed it onto the table.

“Here. Divorce papers. Sign.”

“You’ve gone crazy. You said you loved me…”

“Love isn’t a lifelong mortgage. And it’s definitely not a marriage with a bonus mother-in-law attached.”

Maxim took the papers and stood up. His shoulders sagged. His face went pale. He left without even slamming the door.

Alexandra sat down. Her hands were shaking. Not from fear—from adrenaline. That was it. Full stop.

A couple of hours later, a text came:

“I’ll pick up my things on the weekend. Mom’s in the hospital for now—blood pressure. We’ll figure out what to do with the debts later.”

She didn’t reply. There was nothing to “figure out.”

The next day, Alexandra changed the locks.

The locksmith—a bearded guy in blue overalls—remarked philosophically:

“You know, it’s usually women who change locks. After their ‘other half’ goes off to the left.”

“My other half went to the right. To his mommy,” she replied darkly.

“Well, that’s exactly where they all belong.”

Later that evening she sat with a glass of wine and her laptop. A friend had written to her:

“Sasha, you’re insane. In a good way. Maybe we should just take off somewhere? Italy? I found cheap tickets for September.”

And suddenly everything went quiet inside. Calm. As if everything had finally settled into place.

Alexandra took a slow sip of wine and answered:

“Book them. I’m in. And when I’m back, maybe I’ll change my last name too. I’m sick to death of all these Pavlovnas.”

Alexandra never thought she’d see Galina Pavlovna in a suit and holding a folder of documents. But there they were, sitting in the courthouse corridor. Wooden benches, gray walls, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke in the coats. As if someone had specifically ordered the setting: “divorce with a touch of Soviet melodrama.”

Maxim sat nearby. In a wrinkled shirt, clutching a plastic file folder, his eyes darting. Between him and his mother hung a heavy silence. No “Mommy”, no “Sonny.” Sasha thought: looks like they’re having fun without me too…

Galina Pavlovna was silent. No—that’s wrong—temporarily not speaking. She’d been storing it up for too long. And as soon as the bailiff called them into the courtroom, she started:

“This is all your fault. You destroyed the family! Threw my son out on the street!”

“I didn’t bring him from the maternity ward. He’s an adult. He could try understanding that at least once,” Alexandra replied calmly.

“You predator. You lured him in, grabbed the apartment, and now you want a quick divorce. Well, no, I’m going to tell them everything!”

“Please do. Tell them how you mortgaged your own apartment to get into a pyramid scheme. I think the judge will be very interested,” Alexandra said with a fake polite smile.

The judge turned out to be a dry woman of about fifty with a face that said, “I have grandkids, let’s not turn this into a circus.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked over the paperwork.

“Well then, citizens Pavlov. Getting a divorce, are we?”

“Yes,” Sasha said calmly.

“No!” Galina suddenly shouted.

The judge even adjusted her glasses.

“Excuse me, and you are?”

“His mother! I’m his mother! I object to this divorce!”

The judge tapped her pen on the desk.

“No one asked you, ma’am. This is a civil case between the spouses.”

“She destroyed our family! She refused to help when we were in trouble!” Galina’s voice was shaking with rage. “She even kicked my son out!”

“Your son left of his own accord,” Sasha said evenly. “He chose his mother over his family.”

“I didn’t choose you,” Maxim suddenly said. Quiet, but clear. “I just… didn’t know what the right thing to do was.”

The judge glanced at him, squinting a little.

“So both of you agree to the divorce?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

And that was it. Five minutes—and their entire “family fortress” burst like a cheap plastic shopping bag. Alexandra didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As soon as they left the courtroom, Galina pounced on her and hissed fast and venomous, her voice dripping poison:

“I’ll destroy you. You think it all ends just like that? I’ll prove in court you owe us! You’re part of our family whether you like it or not!”

Alexandra laughed. A real laugh, from the gut.

“You’re judging me as an ex-daughter-in-law. But now I’m just a random woman. To you. And to your son. Live with that.”

“You… you’ll regret this!” Galina hissed, clutching at her heart.

“Oh, I already regret something. That I put up with you for three years.”

Maxim had been standing off to the side the whole time. No voice, no opinion—like always. Galina whispered something into his ear, but he only shrugged.

And walked away.

Alexandra walked away too. She stepped outside, inhaled the air. Cold, alive—as if the whole city was saying: so, girl, you’re free now?

The next morning at the airport she felt no anxiety, no doubt. Only lightness.

“Rome, get ready. I don’t have a mother-in-law anymore. Or a husband. There’s just me. And I’m, you know, not half bad…” she thought, tossing her suitcase onto the belt.

And for the first time in a long while—she smiled.

My husband was standing in the hallway. His tie was undone. His face was red from the cold. Or from that conversation with his boss. I don’t know.

“I got promoted!”

I turned away from the stove. The pasta was boiling. Foam was creeping over the edge of the pot. I really should have turned it off. But I just stood there. Looking at him.

“That’s great, Seryozha…”

 

“Now I’ll definitely divorce you,” he cut me off. “I need a wife that fits my status.”

The pasta boiled over. I turned off the stove.

I didn’t understand right away. Or rather, I understood immediately, but I refused to accept it. My brain wouldn’t put the words together into meaning. “Promoted” is a good word. “Divorce” is a bad one. How can they be in the same sentence?

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

He walked into the living room. I heard the TV click on. The news. The usual evening news about the dollar exchange rate and the weather in the capital.

He sat down to watch TV as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Seven years. Seven years we’d been together. Eight, if you count the year before the wedding. Back when he was still a “promising young manager,” and I was a “girl with a promising appearance.” That’s how he introduced me to his friends. He was joking. I laughed.

Now he’s the head of a department. And me… Who am I? A wife who doesn’t match his status.

I sat down at the table. Sat down and thought: what am I going to do? Cry? Scream? Smash dishes? That would be logical. That’s what they do in movies. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to understand.

Understand—when? When did I stop measuring up?

A year ago at the office party he introduced me simply as, “This is Lena.” Without “my wife.” Back then I thought: he just forgot. He was nervous. He had a speech to give. About the quarterly figures.

Six months ago he started staying late. “The project’s on fire,” he would say. He came home at midnight. He smelled of… perfume. Women’s perfume. I kept quiet. I thought: the project. Nastya works there, after all. She’s forever bathing in Chanel.

A month ago he stopped kissing me goodnight. He just turned toward the wall. I lay there, staring at the ceiling.

“Are you going to have dinner?” I shouted into the living room.

“I’ve eaten.”

Of course he had. Somewhere. With someone. Someone who suited his status.

I got up. Went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. An ordinary face. Not a beauty, but not… either. Light brown hair. Grey eyes. Thirty-one years old. Little wrinkles had already appeared around my eyes. Shallow ones. Mom used to say they were “from smiling.” I hadn’t smiled in a long time.

I took off my sweater. Old. Covered in pills. When was the last time I bought myself something new? I couldn’t remember.

Last week Sergey brought home a bag. A suit. Grey, with a fine pinstripe. Fifty thousand. He spun in front of the mirror for an hour. Kept asking, “Does it look good?”

“It does,” I told him.

And I hadn’t bought anything for myself for… how long? Six months?

I went back to the kitchen. The pasta had stuck together. It lay in the colander in an ugly lump. I took a fork, twirled some, tasted it standing over the sink. Cold. Tasteless.

My phone buzzed. Mom: “How are you, sunshine?”

I stared at the screen. Wondering what to answer. “Hi, Mom. Serezha got promoted. He decided to divorce me. He’s looking for a better wife”?

I typed: “Everything’s great. Kisses.”

She sent back an emoji. A heart. I started crying.

Not loudly. Quietly. The tears just ran down my face. I didn’t wipe them away. Let them. I stood there crying over the sink and the cold pasta.

Sergey came out of the living room. Looked at me. Didn’t come over.

“Don’t make a scene,” he said. “I thought you were reasonable.”

Reasonable. Yes. I’m reasonable. I understand everything. He wants a woman who… Who what? Wears stilettos to corporate parties? Speaks English? Knows the difference between a martini and a mojito? Doesn’t confuse Gucci with Versace?

I’m a village girl. My parents are teachers. I grew up in a two-room Khrushchyovka. Finished college by correspondence. Worked as a sales clerk. Then a cashier. Then…

Then I got married. Serezha brought me into his apartment…

I quit everything. He said, “Why do you need that job? I’ll provide.” And he did. He gave me money for groceries. For utilities. Sometimes for little things.

And now I’d turned into a housewife who doesn’t suit his status.

“I’m leaving,” I said suddenly.

He turned around.

“What?”

“I’ll leave. On my own… I’m going to leave.”

He smirked:

“Where to? To your mom? Back to that little Khrushchyovka?”

“Somewhere.”

“And what will you live on? You don’t have a job. No money. Nothing.”

He was right. I had nothing. For seven years I had invested in him. In his career. In his comfort. Ironed his shirts. Cooked his meals. Listened to his stories about office intrigue. Supported him. And what did I get in return?

“I have a degree,” I said.

“A correspondence degree in human resources management?” He laughed. “Lena, you can’t even put together a proper résumé.”

I stayed silent.

He walked past me into the bedroom. A minute later he came back with a pillow and a throw.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning. Rationally.”

The door closed behind him.

I stood in the kitchen, looking at the clock. Ten p.m. Tomorrow he’d go to work. To his new office. His new position. His new life.

Without me. And me…?

I opened the laptop. The old one. He’d bought himself a new one last year and given me this one. “Use it, I was going to throw it out anyway.”

I opened a job-search site. Stared at the search bar for a long time. What can I do? Cook. Clean. Listen. Wait. Those aren’t professions.

I closed the laptop. Started thinking… Looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack there. A tiny one. I had never noticed it before.

I wonder how long it’s been there?

Or did it appear just today? The way a crack had appeared in my life. No, not a crack—a full-on fracture…

And then I thought: what if…

What if this is a chance? Not an end. A beginning.

I got up. Washed my face with cold water. Looked in the mirror again.

Thirty-one. Not seventy. Not eighty. Thirty-one. You can start over.

You can… You have to.

I went back to the laptop. Opened it. Typed into the search bar: “Job. No experience. Urgent.” There were lots of listings. So many. I started reading.

Somewhere behind the wall Sergey was watching TV. Laughing at a comedy. His life went on as usual. Everything was fine for him.

And me? I had a laptop screen. A blinking cursor. And a strange feeling in my chest. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Hope? Maybe.

I smiled. For the first time in a long while.

The morning began with the smell of coffee.

Not mine. His. Sergey was standing at the coffee machine. In his new suit. Pressed. I hadn’t ironed it yesterday. So he’d done it himself…

“Morning,” he said.

I didn’t answer. Walked past him into the bathroom. Closed the door. Looked at myself.

I’d slept four hours. My eyes were red. My face creased. But inside—something had changed. I didn’t know exactly what. But it had.

I remembered the night before. The job site. I had sent off three applications right away. Front-of-house at a café. Assistant accountant. Sales assistant in a children’s store.

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Elena? This is the café Happiness. You applied for a job yesterday. Can you come in for an interview today?” My heart started pounding.

“Yes. I can. What time?”

“Is two okay?”

“That works.”

I hung up. Looked at my reflection. Smiled.

The first step.

When I came out of the bathroom, Sergey was finishing his coffee. Staring at his phone. Not looking up.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “We can do everything in a civilized way. I don’t want any drama. You’ll get a settlement. Small, of course. But enough to get you started.”

“What settlement?” I asked.

“Well… a hundred thousand. That’s enough to rent an apartment for a couple of months. Find a job.”

One hundred thousand. For seven years.

Fourteen thousand a year.

I laughed. I didn’t even know why. I just laughed.

“What’s so funny?” He finally looked at me.

“Nothing. Everything.” I shrugged. “You know what, Serezha, keep your hundred thousand. I don’t need it. Benefactor. You’ve completely lost your conscience.”

“You have nowhere to go.”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

He shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

He grabbed his briefcase. The leather one I’d given him for his birthday two years ago. Back then he’d said, “Was it expensive? You shouldn’t have splurged.” But he was glowing.

The door slammed.

I was alone. I sat down at the table. Poured myself some tea. Looked around the kitchen. An ordinary kitchen. White cabinets. A fridge covered in magnets from our trips. We didn’t travel often. He didn’t like vacations. “Work is more important,” he used to say.

There was a photo on the fridge. Our wedding. We’re both young. Happy. He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.

When did that end? When did I become nothing to him?

My phone buzzed again.

Mom: “Sunshine, how did you sleep?”

I typed: “Mom. Can I come stay with you? Just for a bit. I’ll explain later.”

The reply came a second later: “Of course! You can always come. What happened?!”

“I’ll tell you later. Love you.”

I got up. Went to the bedroom. Opened the wardrobe. I didn’t have many things. Two sweaters. Three pairs of jeans. A dress I hadn’t worn in three years. Underwear. That’s it.

His clothes took up three-quarters of the closet. Suits. Shirts. Ties. All neatly arranged. I always kept everything tidy.

I took a bag. A big sports bag. Started packing my things. Toiletry bag. Hair dryer. The book I hadn’t finished. A photo of my parents. A notebook with old notes. Everything fit into one bag.

Seven years of life. One bag.

I walked through the apartment. The living room. The hallway. The bathroom. My traces were everywhere. The curtains I’d picked out. The picture on the wall—I brought it from a flea market. The mat by the door—I embroidered it myself.

And what will be left of me here? Nothing. He’ll throw everything out. Renovate. Bring in a new wife. One that suits his status.

She’ll sleep in this bed. Cook on this stove. Hang her own curtains.

And nothing will remind him of me.

Strangely, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… empty.

I closed the door.

Walked down the stairs. Went outside.

It was freezing. Minus fifteen. The snow creaked under my feet. I walked toward the metro. The bag was heavy. But walking felt easy.

The subway car was crowded. I stood by the door, looking out the window. Outside was the darkness of the tunnel. Now and then the lights of stations flashed by.

Next to me sat a girl. Young. About twenty-five. Beautiful. In an expensive coat. She was talking on the phone:

“No, Mom, I’m not going to marry him. He’s nice, but I don’t love him. I don’t want to repeat your mistake. Remember how you said, ‘The main thing is that he provides’? And then cried at night for twenty years?”

I turned away. Twenty years. And I only had seven. I’m in time. It’s not too late yet.

The café Happiness turned out to be small. In an old neighborhood. Windows dusted with snow. Inside it was warm. It smelled of coffee.

Behind the counter stood a woman of about forty-five. Plump. With a kind face.

“Elena?”

“Yes.”

“Come in. I’m Irina. The owner.”

We sat down at a table. She poured some coffee and pushed the cup toward me.

“You don’t have any work experience, did I get that right?”

“Yes. I haven’t worked for seven years. I was… married.”

“Was?”

“I left yesterday.”

Irina nodded.

“I understand. I went through the same thing. Fifteen years ago. He left me for his secretary. I was left with two kids. Not a penny to my name. I wanted to die.”

She smiled:

 

“But here I am. I’m alive. I opened a café. The kids grew up. Everything’s fine.”

“Will you hire me?” I asked. “I’ll work hard. I’ll learn everything. Honestly.”

Irina looked me in the eyes. For a long moment. Then held out her hand:

“You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. The salary isn’t big yet. But meals are on me. And you keep the tips.”

I shook her hand.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. We women have to help each other.”

I left the café and sat down on a bench outside.

My phone buzzed.

Sergey: “Where are you?”

I looked at the message. Thought for a bit.

I wrote back: “Doesn’t matter.”

He was typing for a long time. Then came:

“Seriously? You really left?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“To a new life.”

He didn’t write again.

I got up. Walked back toward the metro. Toward Mom. To that same Khrushchyovka. Where it’ll be cramped. Where the furniture is old. Where Mom will sigh, “Oh, sunshine, how could this happen?!”

But where it will be warm.

And where I’m not a nobody. Not a wife who doesn’t match someone’s status. Just Lena. Thirty-one years old. With my whole life ahead of me.

The snow was falling in big flakes. Landing on my shoulders. Melting. I walked on. Without looking back.

For the first time in seven years, I wasn’t thinking about my husband… And you know what? It felt like freedom.

 I stared at my phone for a long time. Alexey was calling for the third time that evening, but I didn’t pick up. The time on the screen read half past ten. Before, at that hour, I’d already be washing the dinner dishes, wiping down the table, hanging up the laundry. Now I was sitting on the couch with a cup of tea gone cold, thinking about how everything had changed in the space of just three weeks.

And it all started that same evening.

I came running home from work around eight, quickly tossed my bag onto a chair, and pulled the cutlets out of the fridge—the ones I’d cooked that morning. Alexey walked into the kitchen just as I set a frying pan on the stove.

“So where’s dinner, Ira?” he said calmly, but I immediately heard the tension in his voice.

“I’m heating it up. Five minutes and it’ll be ready.”

He went over to the table and ran a finger across the countertop.

“Dust. Dust everywhere again. Do you even clean at all?”

I didn’t answer. I turned the cutlets over. My hands were shaking—whether from exhaustion or hurt, I didn’t know.

“I’m tired, Lyosha. I work now.”

“That’s not your job—to work!” he raised his voice, and I flinched. “Why do you need that job if the house is dirty, dinner isn’t ready, and I’m sitting here like an idiot waiting?”

God, how much longer could this go on? I’d explained it a hundred times—we didn’t have enough money. Or did he think a manicure once every three months was normal?

“We need money,” I said quietly. “Your salary isn’t even enough for decent groceries.”

“Then you need to be more economical! Other wives manage, but you…”

He fell silent and turned to the window. I switched off the stove, put a plate in front of him, then sat down across from him, feeling everything inside me tighten into a hard knot.

“Listen,” Alexey looked at me. “Let’s live separately for a while. I need time to rethink everything.”

“What?” I didn’t understand right away.

“We’ll take a break from each other. A friend suggested it—said it worked for him and his wife, things got better later. I’ll move in with Mom for a while, and you can think about how you want to live дальше.”

He stood up without even touching the food and left the kitchen. I stayed sitting there, staring at the plate of cutlets. There was a lump in my throat; it was hard to breathe.

He’s leaving. Just like that—he’s simply taking and leaving.

An hour later, Alexey packed a bag and left. The apartment was mine—it had come from my grandmother—so he was the one who had to go. I walked him to the door, tried to say something, but he only waved a hand.

“We’ll talk.”

The door slammed shut. I stood in the hallway and listened to the silence. Our apartment hadn’t been this quiet in a long time. No snoring from the bedroom, no grumbling, no reproaches.

For the first two days I cried. I couldn’t stop—crying at work in the bathroom, crying at home in the kitchen, crying before sleep. What would I do alone? How would I cope? I called my mother; she came over and stroked my head like I was little.

 

“Sweetheart, maybe it’s for the best,” she said softly, wiping my tears. “Look at you. You’ve worked yourself into the ground.”

She pulled some money from her bag and pressed it into my hand.

“For getting your hair colored. Don’t skimp on yourself, Ira.”

I looked at the bills and felt something stir inside me. Anger? Resentment? I didn’t know. But I suddenly thought: she was right—when was the last time I’d thought about myself?

On the third day Tanya called. My friend from school. Her voice was bright, almost cheerful.

“Ira, stop moping! Get dressed—an hour from now I’m expecting you. We’re going dancing!”

“Dancing, Tanya? I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s exactly why you need to go! I’m not letting you turn into a vegetable. Get dressed and come out!”

I tried to refuse, but all I managed were weak excuses. Tanya didn’t listen.

“Done. I’m waiting!”

I looked at myself in the mirror. Messy hair, an old house sweater, a face swollen from tears. God—what do I look like?

I pulled on jeans, found a light blouse in the closet. Put on some makeup—my hands shook, mascara smeared. I wiped it off and tried again. It came out… more or less.

The dance studio was in the next district, in the basement of an old building. Tanya dragged me by the hand while I resisted.

“Tanya, I can’t dance.”

“You’ll learn there—don’t worry!”

The room was small, with huge mirrors along the walls. It smelled of sweat and cheap air freshener. The floors squeaked underfoot. There were about fifteen women—different ages, all cheerful, chatting with each other.

They turned on music. The instructor showed the moves; everyone copied her. I stood in the corner feeling like I was made of wood. My body wouldn’t obey, my feet got tangled. What am I doing here? Why?

I looked at myself in the mirror—and suddenly I saw it. Not a tired housewife. Not a beaten-down wife. Just a woman trying to move to music. And on my face was a smile. Uncertain, embarrassed—but a smile.

“There!” Tanya bounced up to me. “Look at you, красавица!”

I laughed. For the first time in days—I laughed for real. And I felt something loosen inside me, as if the tight rope that had been binding me for all those years had finally slackened a little.

I feel good. For the first time, I just feel good.

The next day Alexey called. I was at work and answered.

“How are you?” His voice was dry, businesslike.

“Fine.”

“The utility bill came—send me half.”

“Okay.”

A pause. I could hear him breathing into the phone.

“You cleaned up at least?”

There it was. Starting again.

“Alexey, what difference does it make to you?”

“What do you mean what difference? It’s our apartment.”

“My apartment,” I said, more firmly than I meant to.

He exhaled раздражённо.

“That’s exactly the problem, Ira. You’ve completely gotten out of hand.”

I hung up. Just like that—I pressed the red button and put the phone down on the desk. My hands weren’t shaking. Inside, it was calm.

I’m not going to оправдываться anymore. I won’t.

At home it was quiet. I made coffee and sat by the window. In a vase on the table there was a hyacinth—completely dried out; I kept forgetting to throw it away. This time I got up, tossed the dead flower, poured fresh water into the vase. Tomorrow I’d buy new flowers.

Tanya called every day—inviting me for walks, to the movies, to dance class. I started going—at first forcing myself, then with genuine interest. At work they noticed I’d become more active. My boss called me in.

“Irina, we’re thinking of promoting you. The salary will be higher, but there will be more responsibility. Are you interested?”

I nodded, not believing my ears.

“Yes.”

I’ll manage. I can do it.

Two weeks later Tanya and I bought cheap seaside vouchers—just a week. I hesitated for a long time: was it okay to spend money on myself? But then I thought—why not?

The sea was warm, the wind salty. We lay on the beach, ate ice cream, talked until night. Tanya took photos of me on her phone.

“Look at you! You’re glowing!”

I took the phone and looked at the picture. A tanned face, tousled hair, a wide smile. Is that really me?

“You’re like a TV heroine after a divorce,” Tanya laughed. “Found yourself!”

“I really did,” I said quietly.

When I got back home, Alexey called again. This time he went straight to the point.

“Let’s meet. Talk.”

“About what?”

“What do you mean about what? About us. We need to decide what we’re doing next.”

I agreed. We set a meeting at the café “Dumplings and Coffee”—our old place where we used to go often.

I came first. Ordered coffee and sat by the window. The bell above the door jingled—Alexey came in. He looked tired, drawn. He sat down across from me and nodded to the waitress.

“Dumplings for me, please.”

We were silent for a minute. I sipped my coffee in small gulps and looked out the window. He turned his phone over in his hands.

“Listen, Ira… it’s impossible at my mom’s. She meddles in everything I do, nags me morning to night. I’m exhausted.”

And I wasn’t exhausted when you nagged me?

“I’m sorry,” I said evenly.

“So what? Have you come to your senses? Will you quit that job? We’ll go back to a normal life?”

I looked at him. At his уверенное face, his привычная posture—leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. He didn’t even doubt I’d agree.

“Alexey, I don’t want to come back.”

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I realized we’re better off divorcing. We don’t suit each other.”

“What?!” He straightened up. “Are you serious?!”

“Completely.”

His face turned red.

“You’ve changed, Ira. I don’t recognize you.”

“And I’ve recognized myself for the first time,” I said calmly.

He stood up abruptly, almost knocking the chair over.

“Fine—have it your way! You’ll regret this!”

He turned and walked out. The bell above the door jingled. The waitress came up to me.

“That’ll be five hundred thirty rubles.”

I silently took out the money. He didn’t even pay for his order. As always.

At home I pulled an old suitcase from the closet. I packed Alexey’s things—shirts, jeans, razor, books. Neatly arranged everything, closed the suitcase, carried it into the hallway.

Let him take it whenever he wants.

I went back to the kitchen. Yesterday I’d bought fresh flowers—chrysanthemums, yellow and white. I put them in the vase and poured water. The kettle was coming to a boil—I brewed my favorite tea, the one Alexey couldn’t stand. He said it smelled like grass.

I sat by the window with my cup. Opened the window—fresh air rushed in, smelling of rain and fallen leaves. It was early October; the trees were turning yellow.

I’m free. For the first time in so many years, I can do what I want.

My phone vibrated. A message from Tanya: “So? How did it go?”

I typed back: “I’m getting a divorce. And I feel amazing.”

Almost instantly, a reply came: “Then we have to celebrate! Tomorrow evening!”

I smiled. Finished my tea, washed the cup. Looked around the apartment—my apartment, my things, my life. No one will grumble about dust. No one will demand dinner on time. No one will tell me I have to stay at home.

I’m going to live for myself. Finally.

The next morning I woke up to sunlight. I got up, stretched. Made coffee, took yogurt from the fridge. Turned on music—loud, the way I never could before because it “bothered” Alexey.

The phone rang. Alexey.

“I’ll come get my things tonight.”

“Okay. The suitcase is in the hallway.”

“Ira… maybe you’ll still think it over?”

 

“No, Lyosha. I’ve already decided everything.”

He was quiet.

“Well… do what you want.”

He hung up.

I turned on the shower, undressed. Looked at myself in the mirror. An ordinary woman of forty-two. Not young, not old. A little plump, hair streaked with gray. But in my eyes—there was a sparkle. A living, real sparkle.

I like the woman in the mirror.

After my shower I put on jeans and a new blouse I’d bought last week. Bright blue. Alexey used to say blue didn’t suit me. I like it.

I got ready for work. By the door I saw the suitcase with my husband’s things. Soon he’d take it, and that would be that. This chapter would be closed.

Outside it was a warm autumn day. Leaves rustled under my feet. I walked to the bus stop thinking that tonight I’d meet Tanya. Then on Saturday—dance class again. Next month I want to sign up for some online courses for extra income—I’ve dreamed of it for ages.

I have so many plans. And all of them are for me.

At work my boss praised me for a project. My coworkers invited me to lunch. I agreed—before, I always refused, rushing home to cook dinner.

Now I don’t have to rush anywhere.

That evening, when I came home, the suitcase in the hallway was gone. Alexey had picked up his things while I was out. Probably on purpose, so we wouldn’t meet.

And good. It’s easier that way.

I took off my shoes and went into the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Walked to the window—the chrysanthemums stood in the vase, fresh and bright. Outside, it was slowly getting dark; lights were coming on in the neighboring buildings.

My phone vibrated. Tanya: “Come out already—I’m waiting by the entrance!”

I grabbed my jacket and bag. Glanced at the mirror in the hallway—fixed my hair, put on lipstick. Not bad. Perfectly decent.

I ran outside. Tanya stood by the car, waving.

“Finally! Let’s go celebrate your freedom!”

I got into the car and shut the door.

“Let’s go.”

Tanya turned on music, and the car pulled away. I watched the houses, trees, people slide past the window. Inside, it was warm and calm.

I’ll manage. I already am. And I feel good—so good, like I haven’t felt in a long time.

The spotlight glare hit me straight in the face. The hall held about three hundred people. I stood on the stage, wrapping up a case presentation—how, in six months, we took a regional chain into the top tier.

In the third row, someone suddenly sat up straight.

Kira.

 

She stared at me as if I’d materialized out of thin air. Her face went white. Her mouth fell slightly open.

I paused. Smiled.

“Thank you for your attention. Questions—afterward.”

Applause. I stepped off the stage.

Six years ago, I worked as a sales clerk in a bookshop on the outskirts of town. Ten-hour shifts, almost no customers, a miserable paycheck. But I liked it—quiet, the smell of paper, the chance to read.

At first I read whatever. Then I stumbled onto a shelf of business books: Marketing Without a Budget, The Psychology of Selling, How to Launch a Project from Scratch. I read and felt something waking up inside me.

I started a notebook. I wrote down goals: “Become self-employed. Find clients. Open a company. Buy an apartment downtown.”

At home I kept quiet. My husband Misha would come back, eat, collapse on the couch. We didn’t fight—we just lived side by side like roommates in a shared flat.

And then his sister would show up.

Kira appeared without calling. She’d burst in with shopping bags, in a suit and high heels. A manager at a construction firm. She considered herself successful. Me—nobody.

“Mishenka, how are you?”

She’d kiss her brother as if he’d just come back from a wrestling match.

“Fine, Kir.”

“And you, Vera—still in your little shop?”

She said it like she was talking about a dumpster.

“Yes.”

“Haven’t you thought about something serious? My brother deserves a wife with a career, not a girl behind a counter.”

Misha stayed silent. Nodded. Poured her tea.

I sliced bread and stared at the knife.

One day Kira came in without warning. Sat at the kitchen table scrolling her phone. My notebook was lying there—I’d forgotten to put it away.

She saw it. Picked it up. Opened it. Read it out loud, laughing:

“‘Register as self-employed. Start my own business.’ Mish, did you hear? Vera’s a businesswoman now!”

Misha came out, looked at the notebook, and smirked.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to dream.”

Not “good for you.” Not “give it a try.” “It doesn’t hurt to dream.”

Kira snapped the notebook shut and tossed it back onto the table.

“Verochka, let’s be realistic. Business takes education, connections, money. You don’t have any of that.”

I took the notebook and went into the other room. After that, I showed it to no one.

A month later I registered anyway. I found an ad—one café was looking for someone to run their social media. I wrote them, sent samples. They hired me.

Misha found out by accident—he saw a transfer notification.

“You’re doing something else too?”

“I’m moonlighting. Running social media.”

“Seriously?”

He frowned.

“You sure that’s normal? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Vera, I don’t want you embarrassing yourself. What if it doesn’t work and everyone finds out?”

“Embarrassing yourself.” Not “taking a risk.” Not “trying.”

That’s when I understood: he was on his sister’s side. He always had been.

I left six months later. Not after a scandal—just because I realized I didn’t exist there anymore.

By then I had three clients. I worked at night. Misha watched shows; I sat at the laptop. We didn’t talk.

One day he said:

“That’s enough of the internet. You’re exhausted. Quit it—focus on a real job.”

“This is a real job.”

“Vera, don’t be ridiculous. You’re sitting up all night for pennies. Kira’s right—you’re wasting your time. And mine too.”

“Kira’s right.”

I stood up, went into the room, pulled out a bag, and started packing.

“What are you doing? Offended?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just not here.”

He went quiet. Then:

“You’re making a mistake. You still won’t manage on your own.”

I closed the door. I didn’t look back.

I rented a room in a communal apartment. Twelve square meters, shared kitchen, linoleum. I worked even more—bookshop by day, orders by night. Four hours of sleep.

But something new appeared inside me. Anger. Cold, quiet. It didn’t burn—it pushed.

Eight months later, I quit. I had so many clients I couldn’t keep up. I registered an LLC. I hired a designer—we worked on commission, sitting in a tiny rented room, drinking instant coffee, building presentations till morning.

I understood the main thing: you don’t sell a service—you sell a solution. People don’t come for “texts.” They come because they want their business to start working.

A year later we rented an office. Tiny, secondhand furniture. But with a sign: “Marketing Agency.” Mine.

Three years after that—twenty people on the team, major clients, federal brands. I bought an apartment downtown—panoramic windows, a river view. Then a car—a black convertible.

Not because I dreamed of it. Just because I could.

Misha wrote once—three years later: “Heard things are going well for you. How are you?” I didn’t answer.

Kira stayed somewhere back there, in the past. Along with that kitchen and the word “little shop.”

They started inviting me to conferences—first as a listener, then as a speaker. I presented cases, shared experience.

And today—main stage at the regional business forum. I’m talking about a failed project we salvaged. About how we convinced a client to trust us.

And I see her. Third row. With a notebook, but she isn’t writing. She’s staring at me. Face white.

I finish. Applause. I step off the stage.

People came up—asked for contacts, offered projects. I handed out business cards, nodded, smiled.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kira by the wall. Waiting.

When everyone had dispersed, she stepped up to me. Her smile was stretched too tight.

“Vera? Is that really you?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect it. You’ve changed so much. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

I stayed silent. Looked at her calmly. She wore a gray business suit.

Only it was old and worn. Her face looked tired.

“Listen… I’ve wanted to get in touch for a long time. I just didn’t know how to find you. You left so abruptly back then. Misha, by the way, asked about you.”

“Really?”

 

“Anyway, never mind. Vera, I have something. Something serious. We’re looking for a contractor—we need a marketer. Urgently. Management isn’t happy, I’m responsible for the project, and I need someone reliable. I immediately thought of you.”

She spoke quickly, stumbling over her words. Her hands kept worrying the strap of her bag.

“You see, the budget isn’t huge, but it’s a good project. And I thought—well, we’re practically family. Maybe you could give us a discount? Like… for relatives?”

I took out my phone, opened our price list, and held the screen out to her.

“Our terms. Standard contract—this amount. No discounts.”

Kira looked at it and went even paler.

“Are you serious? That much?”

“Yes. Market rate.”

“But we—”

I put my phone away and met her eyes.

“Or try doing it yourselves. People say it’s not hard—just take and start. The main thing is not to embarrass yourself in front of management.”

A pause. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her face flushed.

I added quietly:

“And about family. We’re strangers.”

I turned and headed for the exit.

I stopped by a window in the corridor. Twentieth floor, the city below lit up.

Behind me—footsteps. Fast, sharp.

“Vera, wait!”

Kira. Face red, breathing ragged.

“Why are you like this? I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought we’d come to a normal agreement.”

“We did. I named the price.”

“It’s not about the money!”

Her voice cracked; she glanced around and lowered it.

“It’s just… you’ve changed so much. You used to be different.”

“How?”

“Simpler. Quieter. Normal.”

“You mean ‘convenient,’ right?”

Silence. Then:

“You know, Misha was right. You’ve become tough. Cold. You used to be good.”

“And now I don’t let people wipe their feet on me.”

Kira clenched her fists.

“You think you’re better now? Because you’ve got money and a car? You’re the same. Just with swagger.”

I stepped closer and looked her straight in the eye.

“Maybe. But I was on stage. And you came asking for a discount. Feel the difference?”

She turned and walked away without looking back.

A month later, a former coworker from the bookshop called:

“Vera, you won’t believe who I saw. Remember Kira? She got a job here. As a sales clerk. In that same shop.”

I said nothing.

“Got fired, she says. The project failed, they pinned it all on her. Now she’s behind the counter. Snaps at customers, tells everyone, ‘It’s temporary.’ Yeah, sure—temporary.”

I hung up and went to the window in my office.

Justice exists. It just doesn’t come right away.

That evening at home I opened a desk drawer and took out that notebook—the same one.

I flipped through the pages. Everything crossed off. Everything done.

The last entry read: “Prove that I can.”

I picked up a pen and crossed it out.

No need to prove anything to anyone anymore.

I closed the notebook and put it back. Not to throw away—to keep as a reminder of that girl from the bookshop. She made it.

The next day I was driving back from a client meeting. Stopped at a red light.

Across the street, by a bus stop—Kira. In an old jacket, a bag over her shoulder. Waiting for the bus.

She lifted her head. Our eyes met.

I didn’t look away. I just watched.

She looked away first.

The light turned green. I drove on.

That evening I checked my email. New inquiries, client messages, offers.

One was without a subject. Sender: Misha.

“Hi. Heard you’re doing really well. Kira told me. I’m glad. Truly. Sorry if anything wasn’t right. Maybe we could meet? Talk.”

I read it. Closed the email.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t delete it. Just left it there—let it hang. Some people wake up too late.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I stood by the window—my apartment dark, only city lights beyond the glass.

 

I thought about the path. About the bookshop, about that kitchen where Kira read my notebook out loud. About Misha saying, “You still won’t manage on your own.”

I did.

Not for them. For myself.

And now I’m standing here, in my apartment, in my life. With no past on my shoulders. No notebook full of proof. No anger.

I’m just living. Moving on.“You?! That can’t be!” — my ex sister-in-law went pale when she saw what I’d become five years later

“You’re not a wife — you’re a burden! Move out tomorrow!” Igor declared.
And there it was. It had always hung in the air like dusty, nasty smog, but hearing it out loud—well, you know, it’s like getting slapped. A sharp one. In the cold.
Natasha stood in the middle of their living room—the living room where, three years ago, she’d glued up that stupid wallpaper, where she’d scrubbed tile for hours so Tamara Petrovna, her mother-in-law, wouldn’t find a single speck of dust. She was holding a plate of dinner. Dinner she’d cooked while Igor, her husband, decided she was nothing more than extra luggage that needed tossing off the platform.
“Say that again, please,” Natasha’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible. That’s how it goes when your inner world collapses: silence on the outside, catastrophe on the inside.
Igor—this three-year-old child in the suit of a thirty-year-old man—puffed himself up importantly like a turkey. He didn’t even look her in the eyes, just prodded his steak—cooked by her—with his fork.
“What’s there to repeat?” he mumbled. “Mom decided. We talked. The apartment, you see, is needed for him. My brother’s getting married. And you… you’ll manage somewhere for now.”
Manage somewhere. As if she were an old pair of skis on the balcony—no big loss to toss out.
“This apartment is ours, Igor. We’ve lived here for three years!” At last Natasha felt her cheeks burn. Rage—pure, unfiltered—began forcing its way through the layers of hurt.
“Ours? Wake up, Natasha! It’s Mom’s!” Igor rolled his eyes theatrically, like he was talking to a stupid schoolgirl. “She sold her dacha to make the down payment. That’s her money. And you—what did you put in? You sat on maternity leave, then worked that penny job. A burden, I’m telling you. For me and for Mom.”
Hear that? A burden. She’d shelved her red diploma so she could first give him a son, then carry a household that turned out not to belong to her at all. And now—a burden.
Igor came over, took her plate, set it in the sink. He did it with such brisk carelessness, like he wasn’t breaking her life—just moving a vase.
“I already told Mom everything. She’s coming tomorrow—you’ll hand over the keys. And you know…” He paused. “…you need to move out. Tomorrow.”
Something like an internal hazard light clicked on inside Natasha. The fear disappeared; only a cold, burning resentment remained. And suddenly she remembered—by accident, absurdly. Five minutes before this conversation, she’d been digging through old papers looking for their son’s vaccination certificate and stumbled on that folder.
“Do you remember,” Natasha stepped back, away from his fake confidence, “when we took out that mortgage?”
“Yeah, I remember, so what?” Igor clearly didn’t like where this was going.
“Do you remember you had to fly off on an urgent business trip? And you asked me to go to the notary and sign the papers so we’d make it in time?”
He nodded, tense now.
“Well. Back then, to get better loan terms…” Natasha hesitated, pulling details back into focus—remembering what the manager had said. “To get ‘Young Family’ status and qualify for some program, you asked for me to be listed as the sole owner until you could re-register everything later. And the very first—the biggest—her payment, Tamara Petrovna’s down payment, was made when the documents named me as the first and only owner.”
Igor laughed. Loudly. Nervously.
“Are you out of your mind?! That was ages ago! What nonsense! That was Mom’s dacha! Mom’s money!”
“The money—yes. But the down payment was recorded as mine—because I had, remember, received a small but official inheritance from my grandmother? The bank begged to see at least some funds in my name. You put in your mother’s money, but it was оформлено as if it were mine. Temporarily. You said so yourself.”
Silence thickened in the air like concrete. Igor went white. Natasha, not knowing where the strength came from, pulled out a single sheet miraculously preserved—a copy of the first agreement with the bank.
She tossed it onto the table, right over the half-eaten steak.
“Check it. Title owner: Natalya Smirnova. Date of the down payment: after the registration.”
And then, like thunder out of a clear sky, her phone chimed with an incoming message. From her friend—a lawyer. Just a few words: “The transfer documents are at the notary’s—everything’s ready. Call me.”
Natasha looked at Igor. He was reading the paper; his lips moved, his eyes darted. Panic. Pure, unclouded panic. He had just kicked the “burden” out of his life—without knowing that an hour earlier that “burden” had legally re-registered the apartment in her own name…
“You’re the one moving out tomorrow, Igor,” Natasha whispered.
Morning came not with sunshine, but with the heavy, stifling smell of an approaching storm.
Natasha hadn’t slept. She sat in the kitchen drinking cold tea, staring at a stack of documents. No tears—just frozen determination. When bitterness hits boiling point, it stops being hot. It becomes steel.
Igor woke up late—rumpled, guilty, but still puffed-up. He was clearly expecting Natasha to fall at his feet, cry, and apologize for daring to contradict him.
“Well? Packed your things?” he spat instead of “good morning.” His voice grated like rusted iron.
“I’m packing,” Natasha nodded. “Yours.”
The doorbell rang. It was her. Tamara Petrovna, his mother. She walked in like a queen receiving petitions, dressed in her best coat, wearing a victorious smirk, already ready to savor the humiliation of the “burden daughter-in-law.”
“So, what do we have here?” Tamara Petrovna didn’t say hello—she went straight to business. She sized Natasha up with contempt. “I’ve come, so to speak, to collect the keys to my property. And don’t forget, girl—everything I ever gave you is mine. Spoons, forks, the tea set. I’m not your patron, you know.”

Igor, catching the scent of his mother’s authority, immediately clung to her like a puppy.
“Mom, I told her. She’s moving out this morning.”
“Good, son. Otherwise you’ll never get her out later.” The mother-in-law stepped up to Natasha and held out an empty hand. “The keys. And don’t let your foot—”
Natasha didn’t move. Slowly—very slowly—she placed the folder of documents in front of Tamara Petrovna. Across the folder, in big letters: CERTIFICATE OF OWNERSHIP. Smirnova N.I.
“You’re mistaken, Tamara Petrovna,” Natasha’s voice was ice. “This is my property.”
Her mother-in-law froze. Igor went even paler than the day before.
“W-what are you talking about?!” Tamara Petrovna snatched the folder, her fingers shaking as she hunted for the trick. “This is our apartment! My dacha sold for the down payment!”
“The dacha is yours, the money is yours,” Natasha nodded. “But on paper, to get those very favorable credit terms you value so much, Igor оформил the down payment as my contribution. And six months ago, while I was the sole title owner under the old agreement, I used my right and re-registered everything in my name—to protect myself from family fraud. My lawyer advised it.”
Tamara Petrovna choked. Her face turned the color of beet salad.
“Fraud?! I’ll— I’ll call the police! I’ll sue you!”
“Call them,” Natasha shrugged, feeling an indescribable freedom for the first time in her life. “But first, read this little document.”
She slid another sheet toward her. A contract. An interest-free loan agreement.
“Your down payment, Tamara Petrovna,” Natasha continued, “was оформлен by Igor as mine—I already said that. But six months ago I received my grandmother’s inheritance. And as a conscientious borrower”—Natasha emphasized every word—“I am returning that loan to you. With interest. Clean, legal money.”
Igor had tried to throw her out of an apartment bought with her own honestly acquired means. Here it was—the karmic boomerang.
“HERE’S YOUR MONEY!” Natasha flung a thick envelope onto the coffee table—stuffed with bundles of cash. Tamara Petrovna blinked, stunned. “Cash—so there can be no claims. Your dacha, your money. That’s it. Now you are nobody here. And I am the sole owner.”
Tamara Petrovna clutched her chest. Igor stood silent. He stared at the envelope, then at his mother, then at Natasha. He understood. He’d tried to evict a wife who had just become the legal owner of their home.
“And now, Igor,” Natasha looked at her husband, “I’m not a burden. I’m the owner. And you know what? You’re moving out. You. By three o’clock, so I can call a locksmith to change the locks.”
Child care tips

Tamara Petrovna didn’t call the police. Greed beat anger. She grabbed the envelope—her “loan”—and shot out of the apartment like a champagne cork. The slam of the door made the dishes ring.
Igor stayed. He stood in the living room where only yesterday he’d announced, with such self-importance, that she was a “burden.” He was pathetic—the humiliating sight of a mask slipping, revealing only emptiness and fear underneath.
“Natalya, listen—this is… this is a mistake! I didn’t know! Mom set me up!” he started whining, switching on his “poor son-victim” mode.
“A mistake, Igor?” Natasha went to the window. Down below in the parking lot stood the locksmith she’d called. “The mistake is that I married you. What’s happening now—you moving out—is justice.”
“Where am I supposed to go?!” His voice cracked into hysteria.
“To the same place Tamara Petrovna’s going tomorrow,” Natasha replied flatly. “I called your brother, Andrey. I told him everything—how you and your mother planned to toss me aside for his wedding. He didn’t appreciate your ‘nobility.’ You know what he said?” Natasha turned, her eyes flashing with cold fire. “He said: ‘Let Mom and Igor reap what they’ve sown. My marriage won’t start with a lie.’”
A blow. A second blow.
Andrey—the very person they were supposedly “freeing” the apartment for—refused their help. He saw it for what it was: not care, but nastiness. And there they were: Igor and his mother. Together. Homeless. Without allies. Because money and manipulation can’t buy human relationships.
At three o’clock Natasha stood in the doorway. Behind her—the locksmith. In front of her—Igor, dragging a travel bag. A small one, because she’d thrown most of his things into the hall so she wouldn’t waste time packing.
“I’ll come to see my son,” he whispered, staring at her new, unfamiliar eyes.
“We’ll see. Through the courts. And only when I decide,” Natasha answered. “I won’t be your burden anymore, Igor. But you? You’re not the хозяин here.”
She closed the door behind him. No screaming. No tears.
All the following week, their “shared” chat—no longer shared—flickered with messages about Igor and Tamara Petrovna looking for a place to live. Some distant relatives took them in, begrudgingly—where the mother-in-law couldn’t bark orders, and where Igor, deprived of his mother’s shield, turned into a perpetually irritated, broken man. Their relationship, built on power over Natasha, began to crumble, because the power was gone. Left alone with their spite and helplessness, they started eating each other alive.
And Natasha? She stood in the kitchen—her kitchen. Outside the window, snow fell softly. She watched the streetlights shimmer and held her sleeping son close.
For the first time in years, she felt not fear, but peace. She wasn’t enduring, serving, owing. She was living.
Natasha picked up her phone and texted the lawyer: “Thank you. Now I want to file for divorce and child support.”
She didn’t need to hide anymore. She didn’t need to earn approval anymore. She’d fought for her fortress.
Igor, who’d thrown her out with “Move out tomorrow!”, had no idea that the next day she would throw him out of her life—for good.
Family games

Unblock the card, we’re at the checkout with a full cart!” my husband shouted—after promising his mom and sister a banquet on my dime. I answered with a line that made the cashier call security.

 

His sister was already picking out a fur coat and his mother was choosing caviar, confident I’d pay for everything. But when my husband tapped the card, the terminal flashed a message that made their faces fall.

Veronica unlocked the door with her own key and immediately tripped over sneakers—size 37, covered in rhinestones, filthy. Lara’s. Beside them were Stas’s scuffed boots, size 45.

The apartment didn’t smell like tangerines and pine the way it should on December 27—it reeked of cheap cigarettes (even though Veronica had asked a hundred times not to smoke on the balcony; the stench still seeped into the rooms) and something burnt.

She walked into the hallway. On the coat rack, draped right over her beige cashmere coat, hung a bulky, toxic-pink fur coat. Lara, her husband’s sister, considered herself a style icon.

Loud laughter poured out of the kitchen.

“Well, Stasik, you’re something else!” Lara’s shrill voice squealed. “You actually said that to her? ‘Quiet, woman’?”

 “You bet!” Stas boomed. “Am I the man of the house or what? I said we’re going luxury, so we’re going. I already booked it. ‘Park Hotel,’ five stars, all that. We’ll take Mom, you too… We’ll party, basically!”

Veronica froze in the doorway. She was head of logistics at a major transportation company. The last month had been brutal: trucks stuck in snowdrifts, drivers going on benders, clients having meltdowns. She’d been sleeping five hours a night, eating on the run—trying to close out the year and get the bonus they’d planned to…

They’d planned, in fact, to pay down the mortgage. The apartment was premarital—Veronica’s—but she’d taken the mortgage on a studio “for the future baby” she and Stas were supposedly planning.

Although lately Veronica kept thinking she already had one child. Bearded, thirty-six years old, almost a hundred kilos.
Children’s story books

She walked into the kitchen.

A picture in oils: Stas sat at the head of the table, sprawled like a pasha. In front of him stood a half-empty bottle of cognac (from Veronica’s stash—a gift from partners) and a plate of cold cuts. Lara sat opposite, poking a fork into a jar of olives.

“Oh, you’re here!” Stas didn’t even stand. “Hi, sweetheart. We’re making plans—why the sour face? Smile, it’s the holidays!”

Veronica silently set her bag on a chair.

“Hi, Lara. Hi, Stas. What plans? What ‘Park Hotel’? We agreed—quiet at home, saving money.”

Stas waved a hand.

“Oh, enough with your accounting boredom! ‘Saving, saving’… You only live once! I decided: we’re going. Me, you, Mom, and Lar’—I already put the booking in.”

“With what money?” Veronica asked.

“With mine!” Stas thumped his chest. “I’m a man! I earned it!”

“Earned it?” Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Where, exactly?”

Lara snorted.

“Ugh, Veronica, how rude. Stasik hustles, he tries. He showed me charts—he’s an investor! And you’re always putting him down. You don’t inspire a man, that’s why he doesn’t grow.”

Veronica looked at her sister-in-law—at the audacity in her eyes and the cookie crumbs falling onto the clean tablecloth.

“Lara,” she said very calmly, “our ‘investor’ is Stas, but I’m the one paying the mortgage—and buying the food in the fridge. So let’s talk inspiration later. Stas, show me the booking.”

Reluctantly, Stas unlocked his phone and shoved it in her face.

“Park Hotel Solnechny,” a suite with a jacuzzi and two standard rooms. Total due: 120,000 rubles. Pay on check-in.

“See?” he said proudly. “I thought it all through. You got your bonus—we’ll pay from that, and I’ll pay you back in January. Cross my heart.”

Veronica didn’t scream or smash plates. She just smiled—a polite, pleasant smile.

“Oh, well, if you’ll pay it back… Then sure, great idea, Stas. Let’s party.”

Stas beamed.

“There you go! I told you, Lar’! She’s a smart woman—she understands everything. Pour it, Veronica! To success!”

Veronica poured herself water from the filter.

“To success,” she said. “And to unexpected surprises.”

She downed it in one gulp. The water was cold—like her plan.

 

The morning of December 28 began with her husband’s voice. He was in the bathroom, running water for cover, but the door wasn’t fully closed and he was on speakerphone.

“Stop whining, Lar’!” Stas sounded confident and condescending. “I said I’d buy it, so I will. Veronica was nice yesterday—I worked her over. She’s a sucker in real life, only knows how to count her trucks. I’ll spin her some story about the car—parts, transmission acting up. Then I’ll transfer it to your card and you’ll buy your boots.”

“And Mom?” Lara’s squeaky voice came through the speaker. “Mom wanted black caviar! And those perfumes—the twenty-thousand ones!”

“We’ll buy the caviar and the perfume—because I’m a man! I’m the head of this house, I decide where the money goes. Veronica’s card limit is huge, she won’t even notice. Alright, okay, kiss you. Get ready—shopping tomorrow!”

Veronica lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

“A sucker,” huh. “Worked her over.”

She took her phone and opened her banking app.

She had two accounts: her main payroll account and an additional one linked to the card Stas carried. He always kept it on him “for household needs.” The spending limit was 100,000 rubles. Veronica had trusted her husband—until this morning.

She tapped “Card settings.”

Purchase limit: 500 rubles per day.
Cash withdrawal limit: 0 rubles.
Online transfers: Disabled.
Notifications: Only to my phone.

And tapped “Save.”

Then she brewed coffee and drank it while looking out at the gray Moscow winter.

Stas came out of the bathroom, smelling like her expensive shower gel.

“Oh, you’re up, little fish!” He kissed the top of her head. “Listen, I need to swing by the service shop today—something’s knocking in the car, probably the transmission. Transfer fifty thousand to my card, yeah? For diagnostics and parts.”

Veronica turned to him.

“Stas,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “my app is frozen. Some big outage—can’t transfer anything, can’t withdraw anything.”

Stas tensed.

“What do you mean? And what about… the service shop?”

“Well, you’ve got my extra card. Pay with that. Or…” she paused, “…pay with your own.”

His eyes darted.

“Uh… yeah, I’ll use that one then. Okay, I’m off! Tons to do!”

He grabbed his jacket and bolted. Veronica knew he wasn’t going to a service shop—he was going to his mom and sister to promise them the moon.

“Run, Forrest, run,” she whispered. “The finish line’s close.”

December 29 was a “test drive.”

That evening Stas came home angry.

“Listen, what the hell is wrong with the card?” he started right from the doorway. “I tried to get gas and it said ‘Declined’! I had to put in my last five liters! Like an idiot!”

Veronica sat on the couch with her laptop.

“I told you—bank issues, technical work before New Year’s. They’re swapping servers. Support said it might glitch for three days.”

“Three days?!” Stas went pale. “And what about… gifts? We were going to the mall tomorrow with Mom and Lar’!”

“Well, the card works,” Veronica lied without blinking. “Big purchases just might not go through right away. Try splitting it into smaller amounts. Or…” she smiled, “…pull out your secret stash.”

“Fine, we’ll push through. Tomorrow everything will work, I can feel my luck turning.”

December 30.

Veronica was at work. She deliberately didn’t take the day off, saying she had year-end reports.

At 2:00 PM her phone pinged.

Purchase attempt: L’Etoile, 24,500 rubles — declined, limit exceeded.
A minute later—again.

Purchase attempt: Snezhnaya Koroleva, 89,000 rubles — declined.
And again.

Purchase attempt: Globus hypermarket, 15,600 rubles — declined.

Veronica stared at the screen, sipping tea, and laughed—picturing the scene.

At the mall:
Stas stood at the grocery checkout. Behind him his mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, hovered over a cart packed with delicacies: smoked sturgeon, three jars of caviar, pineapples, expensive champagne. Beside her whined Lara, who had just struck out with the fur coat and perfume.

“At least we’ll buy food!” Lara hissed. “Stas, you promised! What was that humiliation in the clothing store?! ‘The card got demagnetized’! You embarrassed me in front of the saleswomen!”

“Quiet!” Stas hissed, wiping sweat off his forehead. “It’ll work. It’s just the terminals glitching.”

The cashier—a heavyset woman in a New Year’s cap—scanned the last item.

“That’ll be fifteen thousand six hundred rubles. Card or cash?”

“Card,” Stas said confidently and tapped the plastic.

The terminal thought for a moment, then emitted an ugly beep.

“Declined. Insufficient funds.”

“Try again!” Stas squealed. “There’s money on it!”

“Sir, the terminal says: ‘Limit exceeded.’ What is this—some kind of kids’ card?”
Children’s story books

The line behind them began to grumble.

“Hey! My dumplings are melting!”
“How much longer?!”
“Ma’am, control your son, let him pay cash!”

Tamara Ilyinichna flushed in blotches.

“Stasik, what is happening? You said Veronica approved this!”

“She did!” Stas yelled. “It’s her… She pressed something!”

He grabbed his phone and called his wife.

Veronica answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“You!” Stas roared so loudly the line went quiet. “What did you do to the card?! We’re at the checkout! Mom’s with a cart, I can’t pay! You humiliated me!”

“Stas?” Veronica’s voice was calm. “Don’t yell. I’m in a meeting.”

“What meeting?! Turn the card on! Now! I have to pay for food and gifts!”

“Stasik, I can’t turn anything on. The bank blocked suspicious activity. They said there were too many attempts to flush money down the toilet.”

“What?!”

“That. You’re an investor—spend your own. My card is for my needs. Oh, and by the way, I bought myself an all-holidays spa package. So there’s no money left on the card. Happy New Year!”

And she hung up.

Stas stood with the phone in his hand, listening to the beeps.

The cashier looked at him with half pity, half contempt.

“Sir, cancel the transaction?”

“Cancel,” Stas whispered.

“Cancellation! Return items to the shelves!” the cashier shouted.

Lara snatched a bag from his hand—inside was a single chocolate bar she’d bought with her own spare coins.

“You’re such trash, Stasik,” she said loudly. “Some investor. Mom, let’s go—I’ll call a taxi.”

“And me?” Stas asked.

“You can walk.”

That evening Veronica sat at home. She didn’t go to the spa—she’d lied to Stas. She sat in the clean apartment, drank wine, and waited. At 8:00 PM the door opened.

Stas walked in, followed by Tamara Ilyinichna and Lara. They were furious, hungry, and empty-handed.

“There she is!” the mother-in-law shrieked, pointing at Veronica. “Sitting there! Drinking! Katya—ugh, Veronica! Have you no shame?! You left the family without a holiday! We spent half the day being humiliated in stores!”
Family games

Veronica set her glass down. Stood up.

“Good evening, Tamara Ilyinichna. Hi, Lara. And what are you doing here? I didn’t invite guests.”

 

“This is my son’s home!” the mother-in-law declared.

“Your son’s home?” Veronica laughed. “Interesting.”

She walked to the dresser and pulled out a folder.

“You know, I work in logistics—I love numbers. Here, Tamara Ilyinichna, take a look.”

She handed her a printed table with graphs.

“What is this?” the mother-in-law squinted.

“This is the financial report for LLC ‘Stas’s Family.’ See the line ‘Stas’s income for 2024’? See that number?”

“Zero?” Lara said, peering over her shoulder.

“Bingo—zero. And here’s ‘Stas’s expenses’—from my card. See it? Six hundred forty-two thousand rubles.”

“How much?!” the mother-in-law clutched her chest.

“Six hundred forty-two: for beer, for your gifts (which he gave you pretending they were from him), for gas, for Lara’s little wants.”

Veronica snatched the sheet back from the stunned woman.

“Your son is a kept man, Tamara Ilyinichna. A common parasite—and I’ve disinfected. Shop’s closed.”

Stas stood in the corner, red as a boiled crayfish.

“Veronica… why in front of Mom? We could’ve worked it out ourselves…”

“We did work it out, Stas. Your suitcase is by the door—I packed it an hour ago.”

“What suitcase?” he went pale. “You’re kicking me out? Before New Year’s?”

“Exactly. You wanted to be a man? Be one—rent a place, feed your mom. Just not on my dime. Keys on the table.”

Stas tried to play for pity.

“I’ve got nowhere to go! Mom, tell her!”

“My son…” his mother mumbled. “But we… the couch is broken and it’s cramped…”

“See?!” Stas spread his hands. “Veronica, come on, let’s talk! I’ll get a job! After the holidays!”

“No, Stas. You’ll get a job right now. Loader or courier—those pay well these days. This isn’t a shelter.”

Veronica opened the door wide.

“Out. All three of you.”

Lara tried to push past her.

“I just need the bathroom! And I’ll grab my perfume—I left it here last time!”

Veronica blocked her.

“Bathroom’s at McDonald’s. And the perfume…” she nodded at the shelf where a Chanel bottle stood. “That’s my perfume. Yours is in Mom’s bag—right there.”

They left noisily. The mother-in-law screamed that Veronica would “end up alone.” Lara squealed that “her brother will find a younger one.” Stas trudged out last, dragging the suitcase and sniffling.

When the door clicked shut, Veronica locked it with two deadbolts and the chain.

December 31. 11:55 PM.

She sat in an armchair in reindeer pajamas, a plate of sandwiches with red caviar on her knees.

The Christmas tree blinked its lights. On TV, Zhenya Lukashin was flying to Leningrad for the hundredth time.

Her phone pinged.

A message from Stas:

“Nika, forgive me, I’m an idiot. We’re at Mom’s, there’s nothing to eat, Lara’s hysterical. Can I come back? I’ll work it all off!”

Veronica smiled.

She tapped “Block contact.”

Then she opened champagne—the pop of the cork совпided with the first chime of the Kremlin bells.

“Happy New Year, Veronica,” she told herself. “New happiness—and a new, clean budget.”

Behind the wall, the neighbors shouted “Hurray!” And Veronica just stretched her legs out and closed her eyes.