All Amazing Babies

Granny Anya drank some sour milk, said her prayers, and got ready for bed. Her knees ached worse than usual today. The alcohol rub didn’t help, and she’d run out of ointment.

Ah, look what she’d come to. Her eyes barely saw, her back was twisted with pain, her knees throbbed. And when would God finally take her to Himself…

Her husband Vanya was there, her son Styopa, her parents… and she was left here alone, wasting away—sad and terribly lonely. No joy in life. An old dog in the kennel and Vasya the cat—that was her whole family…

Suddenly she heard the door creak. Again she’d forgotten to lock up for the night. Heavy footsteps sounded.

“Hand over the money, old woman!” someone shouted loudly. A man stepped into the room; his face was hard to make out.

“My boy, don’t shout like that. I’m not deaf. Not yet. Money, you say? There should be something left from my pension in the wallet—look there in the wardrobe, on the top shelf.”

The man stood like a post. Silent.

“Well, what are you standing for? Take the money if you came for it. Must be you’re really desperate, you wretch. Looks like you need it more than I do. I don’t need much—there’s bread, there’s groats, I’ll get by somehow… Are you hungry? Will you have some supper? I’ve got pink tomatoes—tasty ones, the neighbor treated me. I’d slice some salted pork, but I don’t have any. I don’t eat it—my blood pressure jumps.”

The man took the wallet, opened it, then put it back without taking anything.

“Granny… I won’t take your money. But I wouldn’t say no to something to eat…”

“What’s your name, at least? Let’s have a chat, since you’ve come in. Hardly anyone ever drops by—only my neighbor Klava and the postman. I’m bored and sad. Things really that bad for you, son?”

“Bad, gran… I just got out of prison. Nowhere to live, no parents. My ex-wife lives happily in the city—she doesn’t need me, and neither does my daughter. My name’s Viktor…”

Granny Anya got up from the bed and went to the fridge. She took out tomatoes, a piece of cheese, sliced bread, and poured sour milk.

“Here, Vitya—help yourself. Everything’s fresh. You say your child doesn’t need you? Well, you must’ve done some foolish things before—she’s hurt, that’s why. What did you do time for?”

“For a fight. I was drunk and I really messed up… My wife left me right away, remarried. Never even came once to visit… She sold our house—it was in her name. I’m homeless now. That’s what I’ve come to—going to rob old ladies…”

 

Viktor covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

“Cry, dear— it’ll be easier. When my son Styopa died, I cried for so long. Then he started coming to me in dreams, saying, ‘Mother, you’ve soaked me with your tears—stop, it’s damp here.’ And I stopped. What’s the use of crying now? My only hope is that I’ll see my loved ones soon, but God hasn’t arranged to take me yet. So I live as I can. I wait for my hour.

“I don’t need anything— the fence is crooked, the trees have grown wild, the garden’s all weeds, and I don’t even care. Who would I do it for? My name’s Anna, by the way. Granny Anya.”

Viktor wiped his face with his sleeve, sat at the table, and started eating the tomatoes greedily, salting them and biting into them, washing them down with sour milk.

“And if you want, stay the night here. There’s a spare cot. I feel you’re not a bad man—just a wounded soul. You need to settle in one place, find work. Work heals, you know. Life will get a meaning—you have to be useful to people. And don’t do evil, dear—you’ll have to answer for everything later…”

“Thank you, Granny Anya. My grandmother, by the way, was also named Anya. She was kind—baked delicious fish pies. And Easter cakes for Pascha.”

“I used to bake too. Now only memories are left. Life was hard, but we were happy. My old man was a good person, kind… and Styopa was the same. He limped—since childhood—but he never hurt anyone in his life. And he died saving a little girl. A truck was rushing at her—he saw it, threw her to the side, and he himself…”

“Wait—was he, by any chance, at the Vostochny state farm about thirty-five years ago? It’s not far from here.”

“He was, of course. His aunt lived there—he went there for the holidays.”

“Then he saved me, it turns out. I couldn’t swim well—I went into the river and couldn’t get back. I started choking, and some boy jumped in from the bank and pulled me out onto the shore. I remember his name was Stepan, and he limped on one leg.”

“That’s what I’m saying—Styopushka had a kind soul… It’s a pity he left so early—no family, no children… He lived a short life, but a worthy one.”

“You had a wonderful son! What a small world. My feet brought me to you—yes, with bad intentions, but clearly not for nothing. You know what? I’m in your debt. My debt is to help you. In memory of Stepan. I’ll fix the fence and cut back the trees. Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t do you any harm.”

“Stay with me, Vitya. God’s will in everything… Just promise you’ll never harm anyone again. You’ll live honestly and decently.”

“I promise, Granny Anya…”

Viktor came up to her and took her dry, wrinkled hand. She stroked his cheek.

“Unshaven… Just like my old man. He didn’t like shaving either. Tomorrow go buy yourself a razor, and a shirt and trousers. I’ll give you money. And look for work. We need men’s hands in the settlement.”

And so they began to live together. Viktor got a job as a general laborer, bought groceries, cooked. He cleaned himself up and looked quite decent—tall, broad-shouldered, with strong, sinewy hands. He fixed the fence, put the garden and vegetable patch in order.

“Granny Anya, let’s plant potatoes so we’ll have our own, and tomatoes, cucumbers, cabbage—everything will be ours! And I also want to add on a toilet and a bath—once I save up some money.”

“Thank you, dear. You should find yourself a woman too… Take a look at the saleswoman in the grocery store. A good woman—Vera. Lonely and respectable.”

“I know her. She’s nice. I like her, and I think she likes me too…”

“That’s wonderful, Vitya. Life’s getting better, look at that. You’ve blossomed, and I’m not lonely anymore. The neighbors whisper, saying I took in an ex-con. Let them talk. None of their business… Thank you, son, for everything…”

A few months later Viktor married Vera and brought her to live with Granny Anya—she insisted.

“The house will be full of life at least. I was wasting away here alone, and now it’s like I have a son and a daughter…”

They did repairs, and Granny Anya couldn’t be happier. They treated her with respect and honor.

“I live like a queen… They bought me new headscarves, little robes, medicine… I don’t have to cook or clean, every day is cheerful with you, and I even started watching TV series. You know, I’ve even stopped wanting to die. And soon Verочка will give birth—then it’ll be balm for my soul. I’ll rock the baby…”

Vera gave birth to a boy. Viktor decided to name him Stepan, in honor of Granny Anya’s son; his wife didn’t mind.

“Oh, my dears, you’ve moved me to tears. Styopa is the spitting image of his daddy—such a sturdy little fellow. God grant health to him and to you, my dear ones… Viktor, I made out my will in your name—there’s no one else…”

And truly, they became like family to her. She received so much warmth and care in the time she lived with them.

 

Granny Anya died quietly at night, in her sleep. Neighbors and acquaintances came to the funeral.

“Viktor, Vera, thank you for brightening her loneliness. Granny Anya’s eyes started shining with joy—before that they were dull—and she smiled lately. You could see she was happy,” the neighbor Klavdia thanked the couple through tears.

Viktor was grateful to Granny Anya all his life. She saved him in a hard moment, set him on the right path. And he believed his feet had not brought him to her house for nothing. Stepan—no other way—had decided to help from the other side: his mother, and Viktor too…

 

“I’m pregnant,” I said, and a smile spread across my face all by itself.

Kirill, standing by the window, froze. He didn’t even turn around, but in the glass I saw his shoulders tense.

I was waiting for a hug, joyful shouting—anything at all, but not that strange, rigid stillness.

“Me too,” Lena’s quiet voice sounded.

My sister stepped out of our bedroom. She was wearing Kirill’s T-shirt—the one I loved most, the one he slept in.

She pushed her hair back, and the gesture was so ordinary, so at-home, that for a second my head swam.

Flashes of memories I’d never paid much attention to flickered through my mind.

Kirill “at a meeting” late at night, and Lena dropping by “just to chat,” nervously checking her phone.

The two of them laughing at a joke only they understood, while I stood beside them feeling like an extra in my own celebration of life.

“You’ve got the key, right, Lena?” he’d asked when we went on vacation. “Please water the plants. There’s no one else I can trust.”

And I’d been happy, thinking what a close-knit family we were.

“What?” I asked again, though I’d heard everything perfectly. My voice sounded foreign—wooden.

“Anya, I’ll explain everything,” Kirill finally turned. His face was white as a hospital wall. “It’s not what you think. It’s… a mistake.”

Lena stared straight at me. There was no remorse in her eyes. Only exhaustion and some kind of angry, stubborn determination.

“It’s not a mistake,” she snapped, looking at Kirill. “Stop lying. At least now.”

He shot her a furious glance.

“Shut up!”

I looked from my husband to my sister. At the man I’d spent five years building a future with, and the woman I’d shared childhood secrets with.

They were two meters away, but it felt like a chasm separated us.

And in that chasm all my “we” drowned—our plans, our tenderness, our future nursery.

“A mistake, huh,” I repeated, my lips twisting into a smirk. “So the two of you are having a mistake? Or does each of you get your own?”

Kirill stepped toward me, hands outstretched.

“Anyutka, sweetheart, let’s talk. Just not now. Lena, leave.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” my sister answered calmly, folding her arms. “We’re having a baby. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist again.”

I backed away from Kirill until my spine hit the cold hallway wall.

“Out,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Out. Both of you.”

They didn’t leave. My word—so heavy just five minutes ago—turned into an empty sound.

“Anya, don’t act rashly,” Kirill began in that conciliatory tone I hated. The tone he used when he wanted me to “be understanding.”

“You’re a smart woman. We’re both adults. Yes, I’m guilty. But right now we need to think not about emotions, but about the children. About our children.”

He stressed the last word, trying to tie us together again, to create the illusion of a shared future.

“What ‘our’ children are you talking about?” I asked venomously. “The one who’ll grow up with a single mother, or the one your mistress will give birth to?”

Lena flinched and let out a quiet sob.

“Don’t call me that. You don’t know anything.”

“Really?” I turned to her. Cold fury pushed the shock aside. “Then enlighten me. What am I supposed to know? That you slept with my husband in my bed? Isn’t that enough?”

“It wasn’t like that!” her voice grew stronger. “We love each other. It’s not just an affair.”

Kirill grabbed his head.

“Lena, I asked you!”

“And I’m tired of staying silent!” she shouted. “Tired of being a secret, a mistake that needs fixing!”

“Anya, you always got everything. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? I was always in second place. Just ‘Anya’s sister.’”

Her monologue was soaked in old resentment so deeply that I was stunned. She wasn’t defending herself. She was accusing me.

I remembered how, in childhood, Mom always said: “Anyutka is the smart one, Lenochka is the pretty one. To each her own.” It seemed Lena had never made peace with that “own.”

“So you decided to take what’s mine?” I asked quietly.

 

“I took what belonged to no one!” she snapped. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just didn’t want to see it.”

I looked at Kirill. He avoided my eyes. And in that moment I understood Lena was telling the truth—not about love, no. But about the fact that he’d allowed her to believe it. He’d complained to her about me, building a corrupt bond fed by his weakness and her envy.

“Fine,” I said, and my calm made them both tense. “Let’s say so. What are you proposing? The three of us living together? Or will you make a schedule?”

Kirill lifted his head.

“Stop it. That’s not constructive. I’m suggesting… we live separately for now. I’ll rent Lena an apartment. I’ll help both of you. We need time to think things through.”

He spoke as if he were discussing a business project—splitting assets, managing risk.

“So you want me to sit here, pregnant, and wait while you ‘think’ about which of your pregnant women you’re coming back to?” I laughed. It came out ugly, grating.

“Anya, you’re making it complicated.”

“No, Kirill. You simplified it to the limit. Down to something animal. Leave. And take her with you. You’ll pick up your things later—when I’m not home.”

I took out my phone and dialed.

“Hello, security? There are strangers in my apartment. Yes, they refuse to leave.”

Lena looked at me with hatred. Kirill stared in disbelief. He hadn’t expected this from me. He was used to “good girl Anya,” who would always understand and forgive. But that girl had just died.

Of course my call was a bluff. Our complex didn’t have any security service—just a sleepy concierge. But they didn’t know that. The word “security” sobered Kirill immediately.

“You’ll regret this, Anya,” he hissed, grabbing Lena by the hand. “You’re throwing a pregnant woman out of the house. Your own sister.”

“I’m throwing my husband’s mistress out of the house,” I corrected, looking him straight in the eyes. “And you are simply a traitor.”

When the door slammed behind them, I slid down the wall onto the floor. But there were no tears. Only scorched emptiness and adrenaline ringing in my ears.

The next day, hell began.

First my boss called.

“Anya, hi. Listen, your husband called… Kirill. He’s very worried about your condition. Says that with the pregnancy you… well… have unstable behavior.”

I went cold.

“What else did he say?”

“Well, he asked us to give you leave. To take care of you. Said you might not be entirely… competent when making decisions.”

I understood everything. He hadn’t just left. He’d started systematically destroying me, painting me as insane. He hit the sorest spot—my job, my reputation, my independence.

An hour later a courier delivered a letter from his lawyer. A thick envelope full of legal terms boiled down to one thing: he was filing for division of property. And he wasn’t demanding half.

He wanted the entire apartment, claiming it had been bought with his personal funds before the marriage, and my contribution to the renovations was “insignificant.”

But the last page was the most terrifying. He petitioned for a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation for me.

To determine whether I could be an “adequate mother” for our unborn child.

There it was—the bottom. He was going to take not just my apartment. He was going to take my child. My child. Use my pregnancy, my vulnerability, as a weapon against me.

Something inside snapped. The very thread that connected me to the old Anya—understanding, forgiving, “good.”

He thought I’d break. That I’d cry, beg, accept his terms. He forgot. He forgot everything.

He forgot who sat with him at night when he was just starting his business, proofreading contracts. He forgot who kept his “gray” accounting in a notebook because there was no money for a real accountant.

He forgot that I knew all his schemes, all his offshore accounts, all his “tax optimizations.”

I had been his shadow, his faithful squire. And he decided the squire was unarmed.

I walked to the safe we’d bought together “for important documents.” My hands didn’t shake. I entered the code only he and I knew.

Inside, under a stack of our marriage certificates and the apartment papers, lay a thin folder. A folder he’d asked me to “just keep” a couple of years earlier.

“It’s insurance, Anyutka,” he’d said then. “Just in case. Let it stay with you—you’re the most reliable one I have.”

He was so sure of my blind loyalty, of my ignorance, that he made that fatal mistake. He put the weapon in my hands himself.

I took out my phone. But I didn’t call a lawyer. I dialed an old university friend who now worked in economic investigations.

“Hi, Stas. I’ve got a very interesting story for you. About a very successful businessman.”

The effect of my call wasn’t immediate. Stas explained that an anonymous tip was only grounds to start a check. The process would be long. But the machine started turning.

The first few months were torture. Kirill pressed from every side. His lawyers buried me in lawsuits.

He called our mutual friends, telling them I’d gone crazy from hormones. But I held on. I knew I had a trump card—and I simply waited.

He took the first hit six months later: a tax audit. Official and ruthless.

They froze his main accounts “pending clarification.” He called me. I didn’t answer.

Lena tried to reach me too. She sent pathetic messages: “He left me. I have no money. Help me, you’re my sister.” I read them and deleted them.

The collapse wasn’t fast—it was excruciating. Like slow poison. One by one, partners began turning away from him.

The reputation he valued so much started to crack. He tried to sell the business, but no one wanted a “toxic” asset.

He called me the day his card was declined at an expensive restaurant.

“What have you done, you idiot?!” he hissed into the phone. “You’re destroying my life!”

“No, Kirill,” I answered calmly, sorting through baby clothes I’d bought the day before. “I just turned on the lights. The cockroaches scattered on their own.”

He threatened and screamed that he would ruin me. But his voice no longer had that former certainty. Only fear. He understood I wasn’t playing by his rules anymore.

He lost the property division case. My lawyer proved the apartment had been bought with marital funds, and his “personal money” had actually been siphoned from his own company.

His bid for custody was dismissed after details of the tax investigation surfaced. He became unreliable in the court’s eyes.

In the end he lost everything—his business, his money, his status. He received a massive fine and a three-year suspended sentence with a ban on holding managerial positions.

For a man like him, it was worse than prison.

Two years passed.

I sat in a cozy café, watching my son Misha concentrate as he tried to build a tower of blocks.

Beside me sat Andrey—the man I met at a class for new parents.

 

Calm, dependable, with kind eyes. He didn’t try to replace Misha’s father; he simply loved both of us.

Suddenly my phone vibrated. An unknown number. I answered.

“Anya? It’s Lena.”

I stayed silent, not knowing what to say.

“I… I just wanted to say… I’m sorry,” her voice trembled. “I was such a fool. I envied you my whole life. Your ease, your strength. I thought that if I took him, I’d become you. But I became no one.”

“How are you?” I asked evenly.

“We’re… okay. I named my daughter Nadya. Kirill… he didn’t even come to the hospital to pick us up. He didn’t have time for us. He tried to borrow my last money and disappeared.”

I looked at my son, who finally placed the last block and clapped happily. Andrey smiled and gently touched my hand.

“Len,” I said. “If you need help… for Nadya… you can count on me.”

She sobbed into the phone.

“You really… could?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But my door will always be open for my niece. And you and I… maybe someday.”

I hung up. Forgiveness wasn’t fireworks that freed you from the past.

It was a quiet decision—a decision not to drag a heavy burden of resentment into my new, happy life.

The memory of betrayal became part of me, like a scar that no longer hurts, but reminds you that you survived.

I was no longer a “good girl.” I was a woman who had learned to protect herself. And I liked that version of me much more

 

“I definitely wouldn’t marry a man like that!” rang out a clear, bright child’s voice in the silence—surprisingly confident for someone so young.

Marina flinched and turned sharply. In front of her stood a little girl—about six, with a long fair braid, a worn jacket, and eyes that held a strange, beyond-her-years clarity.

The bride in a snow-white dress, rustling with every step, froze at the entrance to the restaurant. Inside, guests, music, a three-tier cake, and the groom—Artyom—were waiting. But the child’s words pierced the hush like a thunderclap.

“Sorry… what did you say?” Marina asked again, trying to smile, though something inside her gave a little jolt, like an alarm bell.

The girl shrugged.
“He’s mean. I saw him yesterday. He pushed my mom.”

Marina frowned. Her heart started pounding. She crouched to be at the girl’s level.
“What’s his name?”

“Artyom. He came to our place yesterday. He yelled. Mom cried after.” The girl wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I thought he was just an acquaintance, and then I saw—he’s your groom…”

Marina walked into the restaurant as if through a dense fog. Everything around her—chandeliers, smiles, camera flashes—felt distant, not her own.

Artyom came up quickly, flashing a dazzling smile.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Tell me…” Her voice trembled. “Were you with a woman and a child yesterday?”

Artyom froze. For a moment something flickered in his eyes—fear? guilt?—but then he scowled.
“What nonsense is this? Of course not! Is this a joke? Have you lost it on a day like this?”

“The girl had a braid. She said you pushed her mother. That you came by yesterday.”

“Kids get all sorts of ideas!” he snapped. “You didn’t actually believe her, did you?”

Marina looked at him, and for the first time she saw—not a groom, but a stranger. Strong, self-assured, in an expensive suit… with cold in his eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” she said quietly, took off her veil, and headed for the exit.

The girl was waiting in the same spot.

“Will you show me where you live?”

She nodded silently.

It was only a few blocks away. The girl ran ahead; Marina followed, holding up the hem of her dress. They turned into a courtyard—old, with a rusty slide and broken windows on the third floor.

“This is us. Mom’s home.”

Marina climbed the creaking stairs behind her. The girl opened the door with a key.

The room was cold. A young woman sat on the floor by the radiator, hugging a notebook. She looked up.

“I… don’t know who you are,” she whispered.

“I’m Marina. Today I was supposed to marry Artyom.”

The woman went pale and pulled her daughter closer.
“He… didn’t say he was getting married.”

“Did he push you yesterday?”

“Yes. When I said I didn’t want this anymore. We were together for two years. He promised he’d divorce and start a new life. But then everything changed. He started shouting, forbade me to work. And yesterday he came drunk. He wanted to take Polina. He said, ‘You’re nobody. But she’s mine. I can do whatever I want with her.’”

Marina sat down on the edge of the rug. Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry, but inside there was only emptiness.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Who would listen to me? I have no job, no support. And he’s rich, influential.”

The girl pressed herself quietly to her mother.
“Mom, she’s nice…”

That evening Marina didn’t return to the wedding hotel but to her own apartment. It was quiet there. Only the cat curled up purring in her lap.

Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing: first her friend, then her mother, then Artyom himself.

She didn’t answer.

Then she opened her messenger. His message:
“You made a spectacle of me! You’ll regret this!”

She simply tapped “Block.”

A month passed. Life slowly found a new rhythm. Marina started working at a center that helped women in difficult situations. And one day she saw that same mother there again—Natalia.

Now Natalia was learning to sew, taking part in fairs, and her daughter Polina wore a bright ribbon and no longer hid behind her mother’s back.

“Thank you,” Natalia said one day. “You saved us without even knowing it.”

Marina only smiled.

One evening, as they were walking in the park, Polina suddenly took her hand.
“I told you all that because you were beautiful but very sad. And I got scared that you would start crying too, like Mom.”

Marina squeezed her little hand.
“Thank you, Polina. Because of you, I got out too.”

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

The real tears came later—when she was alone.

Marina closed the door, took off her coat, sank to the floor in the entryway, and finally allowed herself to cry—to sob, to let go. The pain wasn’t only that Artyom had turned out to be a liar. It was deeper—an ache that she had never truly been wanted. Not in childhood, not in youth, not now. All her life she had tried to be “right”—pretty, smart, agreeable, the “perfect wife.”

But who was she—really?

She sat down at the table and wrote a letter—not to anyone else. To herself:

“You deserve more. You are not a thing. You should be loved not for your looks, but for who you are. You don’t have to keep quiet to be accepted. You don’t have to endure for the sake of being ‘nice.’ You are a person. Alive, real, feeling. You have the right to be happy. To be weak. To be yourself. And to have the right to choose.”

The next morning she woke up different, as if she’d shed an old, tight skin. She went to the hairdresser and, for the first time, didn’t ask, “Does this look good on me?” She simply said, “Do what I want.”

And the world around her felt different. The air—softer. The sun—warmer. She began to hear herself.

Natalia and Polina became her family. They came over—at first for tea, then to read books, watch movies, and make crafts together.

One day Marina fell asleep in an armchair. When she woke, a child’s blanket had been carefully laid over her, and beside her lay a paper flower. Polina whispered softly:
“You’re ours now.”

And Marina cried—without shame, without holding back

.

Life gradually found a new rhythm. Marina began hosting meetings for women in difficult circumstances—women who had once been as she was. She helped with paperwork, looked for housing, supported them in finding work.

And in each of them—tired, frightened, shoulders slumped—she recognized a reflection of her former self.

And she said quietly but firmly:
“I know how much it hurts. But let’s start with the most important thing—with you. With your ‘I.’”

Six months later she happened to see Artyom—in a café on the corner, at a table with a new girlfriend. He laughed loudly, stroked her hand in a showy way, as if to prove to the world everything was fine.

He didn’t notice her.

She looked at him—not with pain, not with resentment, but with mild surprise. Like an old photograph where everything has faded and the faces are no longer recognizable. Like a stranger. And suddenly she understood: he could no longer hurt her—neither her heart nor her life. His shadow no longer lay across her path.

And Polina…

Polina now left her notes more and more often—on magnets on the fridge.

“You’re the kindest!”
“I want to be like you!”
“Mom smiles every day now.”

And one day, on Marina’s birthday, the girl came with a big box. Inside was a homemade cake decorated with jelly candies and a card with crooked letters:

“You became a bride—but not to that man.
You became the bride of our family.
We chose you ourselves.”

Marina hugged them both tightly—Natalia and Polina.
And for the first time, she truly felt she was home.
Not in a fancy house, not in a wedding dress, not under applause.
Just—home.
In a heart that is warm. Where you are awaited. Where you are loved not for the image, not for success, not for appearance—
but simply for being you.

Eight years passed.

Polina grew up—from a skinny, shy girl with frightened eyes into a strong, bright young woman. The same eyes, but now they shone not with suffering, but with faith, courage, and dreams. She entered a teacher-training college. Her goal was simple:
“So that no child ever feels alone. So that everyone knows—they are valued.”

By then, Marina was no longer just helping—she had opened her own center. Small and warm, in an old house with wooden windows and gentle light. There were children’s toys, books, cozy armchairs with throws. And most importantly—the light was always on. Not the electric kind, but the human kind. Women came here who had lost their homes, their hope, themselves. And here they were truly welcomed.

Natalia changed too. She completed accounting courses, found a job, rented a bright apartment. Once quiet, afraid of her own shadow, now she could calmly say:
“No. That’s not part of my job. I have boundaries.”

They became a family. Not by blood—by choice. By heart.

And then, on a warm spring day, Marina stood by a big window, her forehead resting against the glass. Down in the garden, girls were decorating a floral arch. The air smelled of lilacs; soft music played; women laughed.

Today was a wedding.

But not hers.

Today Polina was getting married.

Marina had spent a long time choosing a dress. Not white—that was the bride’s day. But light, soft, with a gentle sheen. The dress she once couldn’t wear. And now—she could.

When the music started, everyone stood. Polina walked slowly, in a long white dress, with a wreath of fresh flowers. And beside her—not a father, not a relative, but Marina. They walked hand in hand.

All the while they moved down the path strewn with petals, Polina didn’t take her eyes off her. And when they reached the altar, she turned and whispered:
“You are my family. You saved me. Mom gave me life, and you taught me how to live.”

Marina wanted to answer but couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat. Only tears ran down her cheeks.
But they weren’t tears of pain.
They were tears of release. Tears of healing.

After the wedding, as dusk settled, Marina stepped out into the garden. The air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and fresh cake. Someone was dancing, someone hugging their children; in the corner a guitar played softly.

Suddenly a quiet voice sounded behind her.
“May I sit?”

She turned. In front of her stood a man of about fifty, gray at the temples, with kind, slightly tired eyes. He was holding a cup of tea.
“I’m the groom’s father,” he smiled. “And you—you’re Polina’s mom?”

Marina smiled gently in return.
“Not exactly. More like… a mother by fate.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“You know… that’s even more important.”

They talked for a long time—about books, about losses, about how to survive loneliness. He had been widowed two years earlier. He understood what it meant to start from scratch when it feels like the world has stopped.

And suddenly Marina felt calm. Not anxious. Not wary. Just—well.

When he left, she remained standing under an old cherry tree, gazing up at the clear evening sky.

The stars were just coming out—like drops of light on dark watercolor.

And in the quiet she whispered:
“Thank you, fate.
Thank you for that little girl with the braid by the restaurant.
For the tears that taught me to value things.
For the falls after which I learned to rise.
And—for the meeting.
Not back then.
But right on time.”

A wooden hand-carved sign now hung above the center’s entrance:

“A home where you can begin again.”

And every time new women with children came here, Marina looked at them and remembered that day.
That voice.
Those words:

“I wouldn’t marry a man like that!”

One child’s cry—honest, sincere, like a heartbeat—changed not just a wedding.
It changed everything.

And now she knew:
Sometimes the simplest word, spoken by a small heart, becomes a beacon in the darkest night.
And it leads you not just toward the light—
but home.
Toward love.
Toward yourself.

 

Galina Petrovna stepped over the threshold of our apartment like she owned the place, and I realized—what I’d feared most was starting.

“Darya, pack your things,” my mother-in-law said, not bothering with a greeting. “You’re moving back in with us. We’re selling this apartment.”

I froze with a cup of coffee in my hand. Artyom, my husband, stood beside his mother, avoiding my eyes.

“Excuse me, what?” I set the cup down, trying to stay calm. “This is our apartment. We’ve been paying the mortgage for three years.”

My mother-in-law smirked and pulled some documents from her bag.

“The apartment is registered in Artyom’s name. And Artyom is my son. And he agrees with my decision. Right, son?”

Artyom nodded, still not looking at me. I felt the ground give way beneath my feet.

“Artyom, what is she talking about?” I stepped closer to him. “We talked about this! This apartment is our home!”

“Mom’s right,” he said quietly. “It’ll be better for us to live together. Why pay a mortgage when my parents have a huge house?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Three years earlier, when we’d just gotten married, I’d clearly stated my position—living separately from our parents. Artyom agreed. We took out a mortgage; I paid half my salary toward the payments and built our little nest. And now this?

“Galina Petrovna,” I turned to my mother-in-law, “this is a family matter. Artyom and I will decide it ourselves.”

“It’s already decided!” she snapped. “Artyom told me everything. About how you refuse to have children until the mortgage is paid off. About how you forbid him from helping us with renovations. About how you turn him against his own mother!”

“I’m not turning him against anyone!” I protested. “I just want us to have our own life!”

“Your own life?” she stepped closer. “Girl, you married my son. Now his family is your family. And you will live by our rules!”

“No, I won’t!” I straightened up. “Artyom, tell her! Explain that we had an agreement!”

But Artyom stayed silent. He stood with his head lowered like a schoolboy being scolded by a strict teacher.

“See?” Galina Petrovna said triumphantly. “My son understands that family is sacred. And you, daughter-in-law, need to learn that!”

She said “daughter-in-law” with such contempt that my chest tightened with hurt.

“I’m not moving anywhere,” I said firmly. “And we’re not selling the apartment.”

“That’s not for you to decide!” my mother-in-law raised her voice. “The apartment is in Artyom’s name!”

“But I pay half the mortgage! I have every receipt and payment record!”

“So what?” Galina Petrovna shrugged. “You paid for living here. Like rent. Artyom, confirm it!”

I looked at my husband in horror. Was he really going to say that?

“Yes, Mom’s right,” Artyom whispered.

Something broke inside me in that moment. The person I trusted—the person I loved—had betrayed me. And not just betrayed me: he’d planned it all in advance with his mother.

“Wonderful,” I said, picking up my phone. “Then I’m calling my lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” my mother-in-law laughed. “And what will you tell him? That you voluntarily paid to live in your husband’s home? No one forced you!”

“I’ll tell him I invested money into marital property. And I’ll demand compensation.”

“Marital property?” Galina Petrovna pulled out another document. “And here’s the prenup you signed. Remember?”

With trembling hands I took the paper. Yes—three years ago, Artyom had asked me to sign a marriage contract. He said it was a formality, that his mother insisted, but it meant nothing. I hadn’t read it carefully back then—I trusted him.

Now, scanning the document, I understood my mistake. In black and white it said that any property acquired during the marriage in one spouse’s name remained that spouse’s personal property.

“Do you get it now?” my mother-in-law said, settling onto the sofa like a queen on a throne. “You’re nobody here. A temporary tenant. And if my son decided you’re moving in with us—then that’s how it will be!”

I looked at Artyom. He still stood there without lifting his eyes.

“Why?” I asked him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Mom’s right,” he mumbled. “We’ll be better off living together. And we’ll save money.”

“Money?” I couldn’t suppress a bitter smirk. “For three years I gave up half my salary, denied myself everything—and for what? So your mother could come in and claim our apartment?”

“Not ours—mine,” Artyom corrected, looking me in the eyes for the first time. “The apartment is registered to me!”

 

And then I understood: the man in front of me wasn’t the one I’d married. Or maybe I just hadn’t seen his real face behind the mask of a loving fiancé.

“I’m giving you a week to pack,” Galina Petrovna said, standing up. “By next Monday you’d better have the apartment cleared. The realtor will come Wednesday for an appraisal.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

“Then Artyom will file for divorce, and you’ll leave with nothing,” she smiled. “But if you move in with us and behave like a good daughter-in-law, maybe I’ll allow you to stay married.”

She headed for the door; Artyom followed.

“Artyom!” I called after him. “Are you really going to let her treat me this way?”

He turned back, and I didn’t see a trace of doubt in his eyes.

“Mom always knows what’s best,” he said—and walked out.

I was left alone. I sat down on the floor in the middle of the living room and tried to process what was happening. My mother-in-law had trapped me. The prenup stripped me of rights to the apartment even though I’d honestly paid for it. My husband turned out to be a mama’s boy, incapable of making independent decisions.

But I wasn’t going to give up.

The first thing I did was call my friend Olga—she worked as a lawyer.

“Olya, I need help,” I said, trying not to cry. “Urgently.”

“What happened?” she asked, alarmed.

I briefly explained everything. Olga was silent for a long time, then sighed.

“A prenup is serious. But do you have all the documents proving your mortgage payments?”

“Yes. I kept everything.”

“Great. Come to me right now. We’ll see what can be done.”

I gathered every document and went to Olga’s. She carefully reviewed the papers—the contract, the receipts, the bank statements.

“You know,” she said at last, “there’s one point here. You weren’t paying just to live there. You were making mortgage payments. That’s documented. We can try to prove you contributed to repaying the loan, which means you’re entitled to compensation.”

“But the prenup…”

“A prenup can’t contradict the law. If we prove you didn’t just live in the apartment but participated in paying off the mortgage, the court may side with you.”

A flicker of hope rose inside me.

“And one more thing,” Olga continued. “If Artyom and his mother are forcing you to move, that can be classified as psychological pressure—especially considering your mother-in-law is effectively kicking you out of your home.”

The next day I met Artyom again. He came to the apartment to grab his things—apparently he’d decided to stay with his parents until I moved out.

“Artyom, let’s talk calmly,” I said. “Why are you doing this? We were happy!”

“We were,” he agreed. “Until you started distancing yourself from my family. Mom says you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Your mom is wrong! I just wanted us to have our own life!”

“But family is the most important thing!” Artyom raised his voice. “Mom raised me, sacrificed everything! And you want me to abandon her!”

“I don’t want you to abandon her! I want you to be an independent adult man—not an eternal mama’s boy!”

Artyom flushed with anger.

“How dare you talk about my mother like that!”

“I’m talking about you, not her! Though there’s plenty to say about her too. Your mother is a manipulator! She uses you—controls your every step!”

“Enough!” Artyom grabbed his bag. “Mom was right! You’re toxic! You’re trying to destroy our family!”

“Our family was destroyed by your mother and her need to control everything!” I shouted after him, but he was already slamming the door.

That evening Galina Petrovna called me.

“Darya,” her voice was icy, “Artyom told me about your conversation. How dare you insult me?”

“I was just telling the truth,” I said.

“The truth?” she laughed. “Girl, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. I can make it so you lose not only the apartment—but your job too!”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning. I have a lot of connections in this city. One word from me—and you’ll be fired. So I suggest you be smarter and accept my offer. Move in with us, be a good daughter-in-law, have grandchildren—and everything will be fine.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then blame yourself. You have five days left.”

She hung up. I knew Galina Petrovna wasn’t joking. Her late husband had been a major businessman; she really did have influence. But I wasn’t going to surrender.

The next day I went to work as usual. I was an accountant at a small firm, and my boss, Sergey Pavlovich, had always valued me as a specialist.

By lunchtime I was called into the director’s office.

“Darya,” Sergey Pavlovich began, clearly uncomfortable, “someone called me… Galina Petrovna Vorontsova. Do you know her?”

“My mother-in-law,” I answered.

“I see. She… hinted that if you keep working here, her company will cancel its contract with us. And they’re our main client.”

Anger surged inside me.

“So what did you decide?”

“Darya, you’re an excellent specialist, but…” He spread his hands. “I can’t risk the firm. I’m very sorry.”

“So you’re firing me?”

“I’m asking you to resign voluntarily. It’ll be better for everyone.”

I stood and walked toward the door.

“Darya!” the director called after me. “I truly am sorry. But I don’t have a choice.”

“You do have a choice,” I said. “All of us do. You just chose money.”

I returned to my desk, packed my things, and left. I didn’t even write a resignation letter—let them fire me “for cause” if they wanted.

At home, Artyom was waiting for me. He sat in the kitchen looking smug.

“Mom said you’re not working anymore,” he said. “Maybe now you’ll come to your senses?”

“Your mother deliberately got me fired?”

“She just showed you what happens if you keep being stubborn. Dasha, understand—Mom wants what’s best for us! She wants us to live as one big family!”

“She wants to control you—and me along with you!”

“Why do you hate her so much?” Artyom stood up. “She hasn’t done anything bad to you!”

“Haven’t?” I snapped. “She’s kicking me out of my home! She got me fired! She humiliates me every time we meet!”

“That’s your own fault! If you were a normal daughter-in-law…”

 

“A normal daughter-in-law?” I couldn’t hold back. “In your mother’s version, a ‘normal’ one is a powerless servant who fulfills every whim!”

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

“And don’t you dare tell me what I can say! This is still my home—at least for four more days!”

Artyom left without a word. I stayed alone, thinking through my next steps. Galina Petrovna had shown she could take my job. But I still had one trump card.

I picked up my phone and called my uncle. He worked at the tax inspectorate.

“Uncle Misha? It’s Dasha. I need your help.”

“What happened, niece?”

I told him the whole story. He was quiet for a moment, then gave a low chuckle.

“Vorontsova, you say? Interesting. Do you know her late husband left behind some very tangled business? And the tax office has been keeping an eye on some of their companies for a long time.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do. If your mother-in-law keeps pressuring you, remind her about a company called ‘Stroyinvest.’ I think she’ll understand.”

I thanked him and thought it over. I had leverage against Galina Petrovna now—I just had to use it correctly.

The next day my mother-in-law came again—this time with a realtor.

“We’re inspecting the apartment for an appraisal,” she announced from the doorway.

“Without the owner’s permission, you have no right to perform an appraisal,” I said calmly.

“Artyom is the owner! And he gave permission!”

“Artyom is not currently living in this apartment. And I am registered here and have the right to be here until the marriage is officially dissolved.”

“You—!” my mother-in-law turned red with rage. “I’ll throw you out on the street!”

“Try,” I smiled. “And by the way, Galina Petrovna—greetings from ‘Stroyinvest.’”

She went pale.

“What do you mean?”

“I think you understand perfectly. The tax office is very interested in some of your affairs. And if you continue to harass me, that interest can become… more active.”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“I’m defending myself. You started this war.”

She stared at me with hatred.

“Fine,” she hissed. “You can stay here. But Artyom will still file for divorce!”

“That’s his right. Just like it’s my right to demand compensation for the mortgage money I paid.”

She turned and stormed out, slamming the door. The realtor shifted awkwardly in the hallway and left too.

An hour later Artyom called.

“What did you say to my mother?” he yelled into the phone. “She’s hysterical!”

“I just stated my position.”

“You threatened her!”

“No. I warned her about the consequences of her actions. There’s a difference.”

“Dasha, stop this! Apologize to Mom and we’ll settle everything peacefully!”

“Peacefully? Artyom, your mother tried to throw me out and got me fired! What ‘peace’ is there?”

“She just wanted us to live together!”

“No—she wanted control. Total control over you and me. And I’m not going to become her puppet!”

“You know what? We’re getting divorced! And you’ll walk away with nothing!”

“We’ll see,” I said—and hung up.

In the following days, a real war unfolded. Galina Petrovna tried every way she could to push me out. She showed up with different people—first a plumber to “check the pipes,” then an electrician to “inspect the wiring.” I didn’t let anyone in.

Artyom sent divorce papers. I gave them to Olga, and she began preparing a countersuit for division of property.

“We have a chance,” she told me. “You can prove you contributed significant funds to paying down the mortgage. The court might order Artyom to compensate you.”

But Galina Petrovna wasn’t going to surrender. One day I came home and found the locks changed. My belongings were in boxes by the door.

I called the police. The officers listened to both sides—me and Artyom, who just “happened” to be home.

“She has no right to be here!” Artyom insisted. “We’re divorcing, and the apartment is mine!”

“I’m registered here!” I argued. “And until the court decision, I have the right to live here!”

The officers checked the documents and took my side. Artyom had to switch the old locks back.

“You’ll pay for this!” Galina Petrovna hissed when she appeared.

“I’m recording this conversation,” I warned, holding up my phone. “All your threats will be given to my lawyer.”

She fell silent, but her look promised trouble.

And it didn’t take long. Two days later the neighbors upstairs flooded my apartment. Supposedly a pipe burst. But I knew Galina Petrovna’s friend lived up there.

I photographed all the damage and called the police again. This time they drew up a report for property damage.

“Prove it was me,” my mother-in-law smirked when we met in the stairwell.

“I don’t have to prove anything. The court will figure it out.”

The divorce was in full swing. At the first hearing Artyom claimed I had no rights to the apartment because of the prenup. Olga presented proof of my mortgage payments.

The judge studied the documents carefully.

“Mrs. Vorontsova, did you in fact pay half of the mortgage payments?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Here are all the receipts and bank statements.”

“Mr. Vorontsov, do you confirm your wife participated in repaying the mortgage?”

Artyom hesitated, glanced at his mother sitting in the courtroom.

“She was just paying to live there,” he finally said.

“But the amounts exactly match half the mortgage payment,” the judge noted. “And the payments went directly to the bank toward the loan.”

“That’s… that’s a coincidence,” Artyom muttered.

The judge postponed the hearing for further review of the paperwork.

After court, Galina Petrovna came up to me.

“You think you’ve won?” she hissed. “I won’t let some upstart take my son’s apartment!”

“I don’t want to take the apartment. I want fair compensation for the money I paid.”

“You won’t get a kopeck!”

But the next hearing showed she was wrong. The judge ruled that I was entitled to compensation for half of the mortgage funds that had been paid.

“The court rules,” the judge read out, “to obligate Vorontsov Artyom Denisovich to pay Vorontsova Darya Mikhailovna compensation in the amount of one million two hundred thousand rubles.”

Galina Petrovna jumped up.

“That’s unfair! She tricked him into giving her that money!”

“Order in the courtroom!” the judge said sharply.

After the session Artyom approached me.

“Are you happy? You destroyed our family!”

“No, Artyom. Our family was destroyed by your inability to be independent and by your mother’s need to control everything.”

“We’ll appeal!”

“Go ahead. I have time—and a good lawyer.”

 

But there was no appeal. Instead, a week later Galina Petrovna called me.

“Darya, let’s meet and talk.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“A peaceful solution.”

We met at a café. She looked tired and older.

“I’m ready to pay the compensation,” she said without preamble. “But I have a condition.”

“What condition?”

“You sign an agreement saying you have no further claims against Artyom or our family. And you leave the city.”

I laughed.

“Leave the city? Why would I?”

“I don’t want you to be in my son’s sight.”

“Your son made his choice. And I’m not going anywhere because of your whims.”

“Then you won’t get the money!”

“I will. By court order. And if you stall, I’ll go to the bailiffs.”

She clenched her fists.

“I hate you!”

“It’s mutual,” I said calmly. “But unlike you, I don’t let emotions control my actions.”

In the end, the money was transferred to me a month later. I rented a new apartment and found a job at another firm. Life gradually got better.

And six months later I ran into Artyom by chance at a mall. He was with a young woman—quiet-looking, modest.

“Dasha?” he said in surprise.

“Hi, Artyom.”

The woman looked at me curiously.

“This is… my ex-wife,” Artyom introduced awkwardly. “And this is Lena. We’re… seeing each other.”

I smiled at Lena.

“I’m happy for you. And here’s some advice—don’t sign a prenup, and don’t agree to live with your mother-in-law.”

Lena blinked, confused. Artyom turned red.

“Dasha, don’t…”

“Just friendly advice,” I shrugged. “All the best.”

I walked away, leaving them standing in the middle of the mall. I didn’t care whether Lena listened to my advice or not. Everyone makes their own choice.

And I made mine—I chose freedom and independence. Yes, it cost me my marriage, but can you really call it a marriage when one person fully submits to another?

Galina Petrovna got what she wanted—she pulled her son back under her control. But she lost more than she gained. Because Artyom remained a mama’s boy, incapable of an independent life.

And me? I learned a priceless lesson. Now I know you should never lose yourself for someone else. And you should never let a mother-in-law dictate how you live.

Every daughter-in-law should remember: respect has to be mutual. And if a mother-in-law doesn’t respect the boundaries of a young family, that family is doomed.

My divorce wasn’t an ending—it was a beginning. The start of a new, free life where I decide how to live, who to talk to, and what choices to make.

And you know what? I don’t regret a thing

“Are you kidding me?” Oleg shook his phone in front of his wife’s face as if it were irrefutable evidence. “I’m trying to pay for a cab and it says ‘insufficient funds.’ What, did you withdraw all the money?”

Anna slowly lifted her eyes from her book. Her face was calm, almost detached, and that calm frightened Oleg more than any shouting ever could. She casually slipped a bookmark between the pages, set the volume aside, and looked at her husband—not at the phone in his hand, not at his face twisted with anger, but straight into his eyes, with a cold, appraising curiosity.

“I didn’t withdraw anything, Oleg. I blocked your extra card. And the account it was linked to.”

He froze, lowering his hand. The air in the room thickened, turning dense and heavy. Every word Anna said fell into the silence like a stone into a deep well.

“What? Why?” His voice dropped into a hoarse whisper.

“I blocked the card and the account—enough spending my money without asking,” she said coldly. Her tone allowed no objections. This wasn’t a reproach, not the start of a fight. It was a verdict.

Oleg stared at her, and the familiar, cozy world he’d lived in began to collapse before his eyes. Anna—his Anya—his quiet, understanding wife of eight years—suddenly turned into a hard, unfamiliar person. He opened his mouth to argue, to shout that it was his money too, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew it wasn’t true. She had always been the main breadwinner in their family. He, a carpenter-cabinetmaker with golden hands but modest earnings, was more like a reliable rear guard and the maker of comfort. She, a financial analyst at a large company, was the provider. It had been that way from the start, and until today it hadn’t bothered anyone.

“But… I had money there. Mine,” he mumbled, clinging to his last straw.

“Your salary goes to a different account, and you have a card for that one. Use it,” Anna said, getting up and heading to the kitchen. “Tea?”

That question—so ordinary, so domestic—right after she’d effectively declared financial war on him, made something inside him explode.

“Tea? What the hell kind of tea, Anna?! You left me without a penny in the middle of the city! I had to ask the driver to wait while I ran home for cash! That’s humiliating!”

She turned back in the kitchen doorway, and for the first time that evening he saw not only coldness in her eyes, but deep, long-standing pain.

“And spending the money I was saving for our vacation on your secret affairs—that’s not humiliating to me? You think I don’t see thirty, forty, fifty thousand disappearing from the account? You think I didn’t try to talk to you?”

He said nothing. She had tried. A week ago, a month ago. Softly she’d asked: “Oleg, sweetheart, do we have some unexpected expenses?” “Do you need something and you’re embarrassed to say so?” And every time he waved her off, lied, muttered something about new tools, about expensive materials for the next job—though they both knew his rare orders barely covered the cost of the materials themselves. He lied because the truth was even more humiliating than begging the cab driver.

That truth had a name: Lena. His younger sister. A perpetual child—fireworks of failed business ideas and ridiculous troubles.

The night passed in oppressive silence. For the first time, they slept in separate rooms. Oleg tossed and turned on the living-room couch, breathing in the smell of resentment and his own helplessness. He felt cornered. On one side—his wife, whom he loved, but whose trust he’d betrayed. On the other—his sister, whom he also loved, but that love felt more like a chronic illness.

In the morning Anna left for work without saying a word. On the kitchen table stood a single cup of cold coffee and a five-thousand-ruble note. The note said: “For groceries.” Oleg stared at the money, and it felt like he’d been slapped in the face. She’d reduced him to the level of a freeloader being handed pocket change. He crushed the bill in his fist until it crackled. No. He wouldn’t take it.

Stubbornly he ate breakfast—yesterday’s bread washed down with tap water—and went to his little workshop set up on the insulated balcony. The smell of wood, the shavings underfoot, the familiar outlines of his tools—normally it soothed him. But today everything irritated him. He picked up a blank for a carved jewelry box, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His thoughts were far away.

At lunchtime the phone rang. Lena. Oleg rejected the call. A minute later the phone rang again. And again. On the fifth time he gave in.

 

“Yeah,” he snapped into the receiver.

“Olezhik, hi! Why aren’t you picking up? I’m worried!” Her voice, as always, was full of cheerful selfishness. “Listen, here’s the thing… So, remember that aerial-yoga studio I told you about? I found an absolutely killer space—rent’s basically nothing! But I have to put down the deposit today, by evening, or it’ll be gone! There’s a line of people who want it!”

Oleg listened in silence, eyes closed. Same old song. A month ago it was a “super-profitable” Korean cosmetics franchise. Before that—web design courses that were going to make her rich. Earlier—buying “eco-friendly” handmade string bags. Every idea required urgent cash and promised mountains of gold, and in the end turned into nothing but a puff of air and new debts.

“Len, I don’t have money,” he said in an even, lifeless voice.

“How do you not have money?” his sister asked, genuinely surprised. “I know your Anya’s salary is good. What, you feel sorry for your own sister? I’ll pay it back—the minute I make my first profit! Oleg, come on. This is the chance of my life!”

“I said no,” he cut her off. “And Anya’s money has nothing to do with it. I. Don’t. Have. Money.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” she whined. “Your Anya put you up to this, didn’t she? She’s always looking at me like I’m stealing her last crumbs! Your wife’s such a petty philistine—she only ever thinks about money!”

That was the last straw.

“Shut up,” Oleg hissed. “Do you even understand that my family is falling apart because of you? Anna blocked all the accounts. All of them, Len! Because I’m sick of lying to her about where our money goes! And it goes into your black hole!”

Silence hung on the line. Oleg thought she’d hang up, get offended—but suddenly Lena sniffled.

“Olezhik, I’m sorry… I didn’t know… honestly… I just wanted something—anything—to work out… so Mom could be proud of me, like she is of you…”

That was a forbidden move. He knew Lena was skilled at manipulating his guilt, but he couldn’t help himself. The image of their mother, Galina Ivanovna, living in a small town in the old family apartment, always disarmed him. She never complained, but he knew how much she worried about her hopeless younger daughter.

“Fine, Len. I’ll figure something out,” he exhaled and hung up, hating himself for the weakness.

“I’ll figure something out” turned out to be harder than he’d thought. Borrowing from friends was shameful. Going to the bank for a loan with his unstable income was pointless. One option remained—the worst one. In the back drawer of the dresser, under a stack of old T-shirts, he kept his grandfather’s cigarette case. Silver, with exquisite engraving. A keepsake. The only thing left from his grandfather—the man who had taught him to work with wood. Oleg took it out and turned the cold, heavy metal in his hands. Forgive me, Grandpa.

The pawnshop gave him twenty thousand for it. Insultingly little, but it should cover Lena’s deposit. He transferred the money to her and trudged home, feeling emptied out and filthy.

Anna came back late. Without a word she went into the bedroom and changed into house clothes. Oleg sat in the kitchen, staring dully out at the dark window.

“I sold Grandpa’s cigarette case,” he said into the silence without turning around.

Anna froze in the doorway.

“Why?”

“For Lena. She needed money urgently again. For ‘the project of her life.’”

He expected reproaches, shouting—anything. But Anna just came over, sat down across from him, and said tiredly:

“Oleg, why didn’t you just talk to me? Why did you decide that lying and taking money behind my back was the best solution? Do you think I’m a monster?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I think I’m a failure. You’re successful, smart, strong. And I… I’m just a guy who can’t provide for his family and fix his sister’s problems without reaching into his wife’s pocket. I was ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed that you earn less. You should be ashamed of lying,” her voice wavered. “I didn’t marry your wallet. I married you. The man who could turn a piece of wood into a work of art. The man who felt warm and reliable to be with. Where did he go, Oleg?”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know where that Oleg had gone either. He’d gotten lost somewhere between love for his wife and pity for his sister, between pride and shame.

The next few weeks their life became a strange cohabitation of two strangers in one apartment. They barely spoke. Anna threw herself into work, came home late, often ate dinner somewhere in the city. Oleg tried to work in the workshop, but nothing went right. He took a few small furniture-restoration jobs just to have some money. Life ran on a schedule—no spontaneous joys, no shared evenings and plans. The money he earned, he spent meticulously on groceries and utilities, leaving the receipts on the kitchen table. It was his silent proof that he wasn’t a freeloader. Anna silently gathered up the receipts, and that silence was worse than any words.

One Saturday Anna was getting ready to go somewhere. She wore comfortable jeans and a sweater, and in her hands she held a small travel bag.

“Where are you going?” Oleg asked, unable to hide his anxiety. Is she leaving?

“I’m going to see your mom,” Anna answered simply. “I think I need to talk to her.”

Oleg went cold. Mom. She’d tell her everything, and Mom… what would Mom do? She’d always been on his side, but in this situation… He imagined Anna complaining about him and Lena and felt a new wave of humiliation.

“Don’t. Don’t drag her into this,” he asked thickly.

“I’m a grown woman, Oleg. I’ll decide what I do,” Anna said, looking at him with a long, unreadable gaze, and walked out.

The two days she was gone were torture. Oleg couldn’t find a place for himself. He called his mother over and over, but she didn’t answer. Anna didn’t answer either. He imagined the worst: the two of them fighting, his mother accusing Anya of coldness, Anya in response spilling every ugly detail of Lena’s schemes.

Anna came back Sunday evening—quiet, thoughtful, with some new, hard expression in her eyes. She brought a bag of homemade pickles and little pies. From his mother.

“Well?” Oleg couldn’t stand it. “Pour a bucket of filth on me? Tell my mom what a worthless son she has?”

Anna set the bag on the floor and looked at him.

“No. Galina Ivanovna and I had a very good talk. She’s a wonderful woman, Oleg. Very wise. And very tired.”

She told him—not how she’d complained, but what she’d heard. Galina Ivanovna defended neither him nor Lena. She simply talked. About how Lena had been like this since childhood—charming and completely irresponsible. How in school she would “lose” the money given for lunches, and Oleg would give her his. How she got into college in another city and dropped out after half a year, spending a full year’s worth of money in three months. How Oleg, then still a student, went to work nights as a loader to pay off her debts. How Galina Ivanovna herself had spent years paying off loans for her until she went down with heart trouble.

“She said you’re not just her brother. You’re her function,” Anna said quietly. “A ‘rescue’ function. As long as you’re there, she doesn’t have to grow up. She’ll keep inventing projects, getting into debt, knowing her big brother will come and fix it all—even at the cost of his own life. His own family.”

Anna fell silent, then added, staring somewhere into the wall:

“And she also said: ‘Anya, don’t let him ruin your life too. I love my son very much, but I can see that this love of his for his sister isn’t kindness—it’s an illness. And he doesn’t want to be cured.’”

Oleg listened, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. His mother’s words, repeated by his wife, struck sharper and more painfully than any reproach. His whole life—his whole “help” for his sister—appeared in a new, grotesque light. He wasn’t helping. He was crippling them all—Lena, himself, his family.

The next day he withdrew all the money from his salary card. He kept a little for living expenses and put the rest on the kitchen table in front of Anna.

“This is the first part,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll pay back every last kopek.”

Anna looked at the money, then at him.

“I don’t need that money, Oleg.”

“But I do,” he said firmly. “I don’t need to return money. I need to return a debt.”

He started working like a man possessed. Through acquaintances he found a way into a furniture factory and got a job in an experimental workshop. He worked twelve-hour shifts, came home wrung out like a lemon, collapsed, and fell asleep. Every two weeks he silently put another sum on the table. Anna silently took it away. The wall between them was still there, but a tiny crack had appeared in it. In her eyes he saw not contempt, but something like… observation. She was watching him.

Lena called a few more times. The aerial-yoga studio, of course, went under before it even opened. Now she needed money to “pay off gangster landlords.” For the first time in his life Oleg told her a firm, final “no” and hung up without listening to her screams and threats. He felt as if someone had pulled a rotten tooth. It hurt, it was empty—but it was right.

Three months passed. One evening, when he put yet another bundle of cash on the table, Anna covered it with her hand.

“Enough, Oleg.”

He looked up at her.

“I haven’t paid it all back yet.”

“It’s not about the money, and you know it. You paid it back.”

She paused, searching for words.

“I filed for divorce.”

He’d been expecting it. All those months he’d waited for the blow, and now it had come. But oddly, there was no anger, no resentment—only a dull, heavy ache and emptiness.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“No. You don’t,” she looked straight into his eyes, and there was no coldness there now, no pity—only endless, cosmic exhaustion. “I love you, Oleg. The you I fell in love with once. But I can’t live with your sister anymore. She will always be between us, invisibly. I can’t be your warden, your banker, and your psychologist. I just want to be a wife. And you… you can’t be just a husband. You’ll always also be a rescuer.”

She stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the night city.

“Maybe someday you’ll handle it. Learn to live your own life. But I can’t wait anymore. My life is passing too. I’m leaving for a few months to another city—our branch is opening there. The apartment stays with you. The money you paid back…” she gave a bitter half-smile, “is sitting in the account. It’s yours. Consider it severance.”

She spoke evenly, almost without emotion, but Oleg saw her chin trembling. She wasn’t kicking him out. She was letting him go. And that was the most frightening thing of all.

He didn’t try to hold her back. He didn’t make promises. He understood that words meant nothing now. She’d taught him the cruelest and most important lesson of his life—and he had to learn it. Alone.

A week later Anna left. The apartment, which had recently felt cramped with tension, became huge and empty. Oleg was left alone with the scent of her perfume in the bedroom, her book on the nightstand, and the hollow silence in which he could clearly hear his old life collapsing. He didn’t know what would happen next. But he knew for certain he would never again let someone else’s trouble become more important than his own life. The lesson had been too expensive.

The words stabbed into Dasha like shards of glass. She stood by the living-room window, holding the younger one—little Kira wasn’t even a year old yet—while four-year-old Misha clung to her leg, sensing that something terrible was happening.

“Stay on your own with your litter!” her mother-in-law, Zinaida Petrovna, said as if she were spitting out something rotten. “And my son and I are leaving—and forget about the car too, you grey mouse!”

Her voice sliced through the room, where just yesterday it still smelled of baby soap and happiness. Yesterday… Yesterday, Dasha had woken up at five in the morning to her daughter’s crying, then got Misha ready for kindergarten, cooked porridge, ironed her husband’s shirt. An ordinary morning. And today Anton stood at the door with two bags, not even looking at her.

“Are you serious?” She didn’t recognize her own voice. “Anton, look at me!”

But he stared at the floor. His mother—dressed to the nines, in pearl earrings and wearing that particular smile Dasha had always called “the victory smile”—stepped forward.

“My son deserves better than this dreariness!” Zinaida Petrovna swept her hand around the room, and Dasha saw it through her eyes: wallpaper they hadn’t managed to replace, children’s toys everywhere, Dasha’s house robe stained with baby purée. “He’s a young man, his whole life is ahead of him! And you… you’ve turned into a housewife with a head that’s never washed.”

Anton picked up the bags. The car keys—their only car, a Lada bought on credit—he slipped into his pocket.

“Wait,” Dasha shifted Kira to her other arm; the baby began to whimper. “We can talk… I understand it’s hard for you, I know the last few months have been difficult, but the children…”

“The children, the children!” her mother-in-law cut in. “Always these children! And when are you going to think about a man? About his career? He became a shift supervisor at twenty-eight, and you’re dragging him down with your endless tantrums!”

The door slammed. Just like that—slam, and that was it. Ten years together, a wedding at the city registry office, two children, thousands of nights side by side—and the door closed, leaving the three of them in a rented two-bedroom on the outskirts of town.

Dasha sank onto the sofa. Kira cried louder. Misha pressed against her and whispered:

“Mom… will Dad come back?”

Would he? She didn’t know. She knew only one thing: there were three thousand rubles left on the card, rent was due in a week, and she hadn’t worked for two years—she’d stayed home with the kids, like they’d agreed. Anton had promised that after Kira turned three, Dasha would go back to accounting. Promised…

The next three days passed like fog. Anton didn’t answer his phone. Zinaida Petrovna rejected her calls. Dasha fed the children whatever was left in the fridge—pasta, porridge made with water. Misha kept asking about his dad, and she didn’t know what to say.

On the fourth day she wrapped Kira up warmer—October had turned vicious, with sharp wind—and pushed the stroller across the city to the center, to the factory where Anton worked. Misha trudged beside her in a jacket he’d already outgrown.

At the gate she waited two hours. Workers came out, smoking, glancing sideways at her—a disheveled woman with two kids, clearly out of place. Finally she saw him. Anton walked with a colleague, laughing at something, and that laugh stole Dasha’s breath.

“Anton!”

He turned, and his face went flat as stone.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. The kids need money—food…”

 

His colleague stepped aside but stayed close—curiosity won. Misha tugged at his father’s hand:

“Dad, let’s go home!”

Anton pulled his hand away.

“Dasha, I told you. We’re getting divorced. Mom thinks…”

“Mom thinks?!” Her voice cracked. “Is this your life—or hers?!”

“Don’t yell here!” he glanced at his colleague, and Dasha understood: he was ashamed. Not ashamed that he’d abandoned his family—ashamed of the scene.

He shoved five thousand into her hand—crumpled bills—turned around and walked away. Just walked away, without even looking at Kira in the stroller.

They rode back on the bus. Misha fell asleep on her lap, Kira snuffled in the stroller. Outside the window the city drifted by—alien, indifferent, with bright shop windows and happy people whose lives were normal. Dasha hugged her son tighter and thought: what now?

What does a woman do with two children, no job, no husband, no car—nothing?

A message arrived from an unknown number: “Your husband is with me. Stop calling and making scenes. Zinaida Petrovna.”

Dasha deleted it and stared out the window. Somewhere out there, in this city, there was an answer. There had to be.

The morning began with the hot water being shut off. Dasha boiled kettle after kettle and bathed the kids in a basin. Kira fussed; Misha stayed silent—his frightened child’s look broke her heart more than any words. As if he was afraid to speak, scared his mom might cry.

The five thousand melted away at a terrifying speed. Diapers, formula, bread. Dasha counted every kopek, setting some aside for rent, and realized: the money would last, at best, two weeks. And after that?

She pulled out her laptop—an old one, seven years at least—and started searching for vacancies. An accountant with a two-year gap… Everywhere demanded experience with new software she’d never even seen. She called companies, and they politely refused: “We’ll call you back.” No one called back.

On the sixth day she gathered her courage and went to the employment center. A grey building on Lenin Street greeted her with queues and the smell of bureaucratic hopelessness. Dasha stood in line for two hours with Kira in her arms—she’d left Misha at kindergarten; at least they fed him lunch there.

“Unemployment benefits will be fifteen thousand for the first three months,” the clerk said without looking up. “Bring your documents—work record book, certificate from your last workplace, passport…”

“I haven’t worked for two years. I’ve been at home with the children.”

“Then register, and in a month we’ll assign the payment.”

A month. So long.

That evening her mother called—from Novosibirsk, where she lived with her new husband.

“Dashenka… oh, honey…” Her voice was sympathetic but tired. “You know, Kolya had surgery, and his teeth—implants. So much money… I’d help, but right now I just can’t.”

She would, but she couldn’t. Dasha knew that song by heart. Her mother was always nearby—one phone call away—but at the crucial moment she always had reasons. New husband, new life, and her adult daughter’s problems didn’t fit into it.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll manage.”

I’ll manage. She repeated the words like a mantra as she put the kids to bed. Kira finally fell asleep, Misha lay with his face in the pillow, and Dasha sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea—the tea was running out, so she used one bag three times.

The phone buzzed. Unknown number.

“I saw your application on the job site. We need an office assistant—can you come in tomorrow? Ksenia.”

Dasha read the message three times. Office assistant… She didn’t even remember which vacancies she’d applied to—there had been dozens. But it was a chance.

In the morning she took the kids to her neighbor Lyudmila—an elderly woman next door who sometimes watched Kira.

“Three hours or so, okay? I have an interview.”

“Of course, dear. Just… do yourself up a bit. Comb your hair properly. Put on some lipstick.”

Dasha looked at herself in the mirror. When had she last worn makeup? When had she last looked at herself for more than a second? A thinner face, dark circles, hair twisted into a bun. Grey mouse—her mother-in-law had been right.

She dug out her only decent trousers and a blouse she’d worn to work three years earlier. The blouse hung loose—Dasha had lost eight kilos from stress. She put on makeup, fixed her hair, and another woman appeared in the mirror. Not the old Dasha yet—confident and smiling—but no longer the hunted one who’d been pacing the apartment these last days.

The address was in the business district—a glass building on the embankment, with guards and turnstiles. Dasha went up to the seventh floor and found the right office: “Vector Consulting Group.”

Ksenia turned out to be around forty, with a short haircut and a strict suit.

“Sit down. Do you have experience?”

“I worked as an accountant, but there was a two-year break…”

“Right. How many kids?”

Dasha tensed up. Usually the interview ended right there.

“Two. But I can—”

“I can too,” Ksenia interrupted. “I have three myself. I know how it is. Do you need a flexible schedule?”

Dasha nodded, not believing her ears.

“Good. The duties are simple: paperwork, meeting clients, coffee and tea, sorting mail. Hours are nine to six, but if a child gets sick you can work remotely. Salary thirty-five thousand, plus bonuses. Can you start the day after tomorrow?”

Thirty-five thousand. That was money. Real money you could live on.

“Yes,” Dasha breathed out. “Thank you.”

“No need. Bring your documents—we’ll sign the contract.”

Walking out of the office, Dasha felt something inside her thaw. For the first time in days she could breathe fully. Work. She would have work.

At the building’s exit she ran into Anton.

He was with a woman—young, in an expensive coat, hair styled at a salon. They were laughing, and the woman held his arm as naturally as if she’d always held it.

Time froze. Anton saw Dasha and his face twitched. The woman looked Dasha up and down—appraising—and asked him something. He gave a small shake of his head, and they walked past.

Past—as if she were nothing.

Dasha stood by the glass door and watched them go. So it wasn’t about the kids. Not about her exhaustion, not about her turning into a “housewife.” It was about another woman. All this time—another woman.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A voice message from Misha—Lyudmila had taught him how to use her phone:

“Mom, are you coming soon? Kira’s crying.”

Dasha wiped her eyes and headed for the bus stop. Soon, sweetheart. Mom’s coming.

And somewhere in that same city, Anton sat in a café with his new girlfriend, while his mother kept calling, demanding he come over—something had grabbed at her heart again. But he didn’t hurry. He had a different life now—pretty, without nightly baby cries and a perpetually tired wife. The life he deserved.

Only for some reason, emptiness scraped at him from the inside.

Four months passed.

Dasha worked from morning to night, picked the kids up from kindergarten, cooked dinners, put them to bed. On weekends she took Misha to the library—he’d fallen in love with dinosaur books—and Kira to the park, where she chased pigeons and laughed. Life was getting simpler. Not easier—simpler. Dasha learned not to think about Anton, not to wait for calls, not to hope.

Ksenia turned out to be more than a boss—she became almost a friend. She taught Dasha the new programs, sometimes invited her to lunch, listened when Dasha needed to talk.

“You know,” Ksenia said once over coffee, “my ex left too. For a twenty-five-year-old secretary. Thought life would suddenly become bright and new. And a year later he found me on social media, whining that she was milking him and the kids had turned away from him.”

 

“And what did you do?”

“Blocked him,” Ksenia smirked. “Why would I bring back something that left on its own?”

In February Dasha got a bonus—fifteen thousand. She bought Misha the construction set he’d been dreaming of for half a year, Kira a plush bear, and herself new boots. The first in three years. Standing in the shoe store mirror, she suddenly caught herself smiling. Just like that—no reason.

And meanwhile Anton’s life began to crumble.

That woman—Zhanna, as it turned out—really did drain his money. Restaurants, gifts, trips to the sea. Loan after loan. Zinaida Petrovna was thrilled at first: “Now that’s a woman! Not like your ex!” But when Zhanna asked him to buy her a car—not some Lada, but a proper foreign one—she started to grumble.

“Son, maybe she’s not your woman?”

“Mom, don’t start.”

But she did. Zinaida Petrovna couldn’t not start. She’d controlled her son all her life, and the thought that some “girl” had taken him from her was unbearable. Scandals, tears, accusations. Zhanna quickly realized that getting involved with a mama’s boy was a bad idea and left for a more promising man.

Anton was left alone. More precisely: with his mother, with half a million rubles in debt, and with the understanding that time can’t be turned back.

In March he wrote to Dasha: “Can we meet?”

She stared at the message for a long time. Before, her heart would have clenched—she would have run to him, forgiven everything. But now… she simply replied: “No.”

A week later another message came: “I need to see the kids.”

“Have you paid child support even once?”

He didn’t answer.

And in early April something happened that Dasha could never have imagined. A call from an unfamiliar number—a woman’s voice, worried:

“Is this Darya Sergeyevna? I’m calling from Hospital No. 7. Zinaida Petrovna Krylova has been admitted. She listed you as an emergency contact…”

“What? I’m not—”

“She’s had a stroke. Is Anton Viktorovich your husband? We can’t reach him—his phone isn’t answering.”

Dasha came to the hospital that evening after leaving the kids with Lyudmila. Zinaida Petrovna lay in intensive care—pale, with an IV, nothing like the domineering woman in pearl earrings.

“Where is Anton?” Dasha asked the duty nurse.

“We don’t know. A neighbor called the ambulance—said her son went somewhere.”

Somewhere. Of course. He had his own life now.

Dasha sat in the hospital corridor, drinking vending-machine coffee, thinking. This woman had destroyed her family, called her children “litter,” pushed her own son out of their lives… and now she lay alone because that son had simply vanished.

The doctor came out about two hours later.

“Are you a relative?”

“Ex-daughter-in-law.”

“I see. Her condition is stable, but she’ll need long rehabilitation. She’ll have trouble walking, and she’ll need constant care. Is there anyone?”

Dasha said nothing. Anton showed up only the next day—unshaven, red-eyed, in a wrinkled shirt. He saw Dasha in the corridor and stopped.

“You… how is she?”

“Ask the doctors.”

“Dasha, I didn’t know it was this… I was on a work trip, my phone died…”

“It doesn’t matter, Anton.”

She stood up and picked up her bag. He grabbed her wrist.

“Wait. I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For everything. I realized what I’ve done. Mom was right about you—but not in the way she thought. You’re strong. And I’m a weakling who…”

“Anton,” Dasha cut in softly. “Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Forgive you? Tell you it’s all okay?”

He was silent.

“I won’t. Because it wasn’t okay. You abandoned two children. You took the last car when I didn’t know how to feed them. You walked past me with another woman as if I were nothing.”

“I’ll pay child support, I swear…”

“You’ll pay it through the courts,” Dasha freed her hand. “And about your mother… hire a caregiver. I have my own family. Two children—the ones you called ‘litter.’”

She walked out into the April night. The city breathed spring—somewhere lilacs were blooming, somewhere young people were laughing by an entranceway. Dasha headed for the bus stop and suddenly laughed. Quietly, to herself.

Grey mouse—that’s what she was in her mother-in-law’s eyes. But mice are tough creatures. They survive where others don’t. They adapt, raise their young, build nests out of nothing.

At home, Misha and Kira were already asleep. Dasha kissed them both, brewed tea—real, good tea, not one bag used three times—and sat by the window. A message from Ksenia waited on her phone: “We need to talk. After work tomorrow, come by—I want to offer you the assistant manager position. With a raise.”

Dasha smiled and looked at her sleeping children. Her children. Her life. Grey, but honest. Simple, but real.

And somewhere in the hospital, Anton sat by his mother’s bed and, for the first time in many years, understood what it meant to be alone. Truly alone—when there is no wife who will forgive, no children who will run to you, no person who will always be there.

Only emptiness. And the bills for the loans.

Zinaida Petrovna came to around morning. She saw her son and whispered:

“Where… is Dasha?”

“Mom, she’s not here.”

“Call her… I was wrong…”

But there was no one to call. The grey mouse had gone to build her own nest—and she had no intention of coming back.

 That day was supposed to be completely different. Sergey and I had planned to spend a quiet weekend at the dacha—grill some shashlik, putter around in the garden beds, and just laze in the hammock. But those plans crumbled to dust in an instant, the moment I walked into the house.

As always, the first thing I did was head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. And that’s when my fingers brushed against it—against the kettle. Cold, wet with condensation on the outside. I hadn’t used it the day before; we’d only just arrived. A strange, unpleasant feeling stirred low in my stomach. I opened the cupboard where I kept my tea collection. The packet of expensive oolong from our last trip lay there crumpled and half-empty.

“Sergey,” I called my husband, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Did you make tea the last time we were here?”

He walked into the kitchen, looking around with the usual awkwardness of someone who rarely sets foot there.

“What tea? No, of course not. We left right after lunch on Sunday. Why?”

“Because someone boiled our kettle, and someone drank my oolong,” I said, holding up the packet.

Sergey sighed and rubbed his face. I knew that gesture by heart—it was the gesture of a tired peacemaker.

“Marina, maybe my mom dropped by? To air the place out, water the plants. Maybe she made herself some tea. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Sergey, this isn’t the first time! Remember that new pack of coffee we never even got to open? It was half-empty. And my new garden bench? Where did those scratches come from, like someone raked it with nails?”

I walked out of the kitchen into the living room, and he followed. The air in the house was stale, smelling of dust and someone else’s perfume. Not mine.

“Mom says it could’ve been the neighbor’s cat,” Sergey mumbled uncertainly.

“What cat?!” I almost squealed with indignation. “A cat that opens packs of coffee and brews itself oolong? That’s a genius cat!”

I walked over to the washing machine we’d bought only a couple of months ago. It stood there like a silent reproach.

“And this, was that the cat too, in your opinion? We bought it, set it up, used it carefully. And three weeks later it broke down. Still under warranty. The repairman comes and says: ‘You’ve got a clog in the pump. Hair, some kind of fur.’ We have a short-haired hamster, Sergey! Where is all that fur from?”

He kept silent, staring at the floor. I could see he was uncomfortable, that he didn’t want to get into this. His mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, lived in the neighboring house, literally five minutes’ walk away. And for Sergey she was sacred. Widowed early, raised two sons alone, and he, the elder, had carried a lifelong guilt before her.

“Marina, calm down,” he finally said. “Mom’s not a thief. She’s just… a little tactless. She’s lonely, she comes over to feel useful. Maybe really to water the plants, tidy up a bit… Have some tea.”

“A little?!” I felt myself boiling over. “Sergey, this is my house! Our house! I’m supposed to feel like the mistress here, not a night watchman in a warehouse that’s constantly being pilfered! I can’t relax, I keep checking whether things are in their place, whether I’ve locked all the locks. What locks?! I’m sure your mother has spare keys!”

He stepped closer, trying to hug me, but I pulled away. His conciliatory position infuriated me even more.

“Fine, I’ll talk to her,” he promised, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Carefully, tactfully. I’ll ask her to knock before coming in.”

“She doesn’t ‘come in’, Sergey, she lives here when we’re gone!” I exhaled. “And it’s not just about the tea. It’s that the place smells like someone else. I don’t feel at home here.”

That evening we never did grill the shashlik. We just sat at the table in oppressive silence. I felt like a stranger in my own home, in a fortress whose walls had treacherously melted away. And Sergey didn’t see a loving wife in front of him, but a shrew attacking his poor, lonely mother.

Later, back in the city, I was complaining about all this to my friend Olga over the phone.

“Yeah, your mother-in-law is a real gift,” she sympathized. “You know what lots of people do now? Put in hidden cameras. Not to ‘spy’, but to keep an eye on things. Like those smart door intercoms. You install one, and everything becomes clear right away: who, when and why.”

I laughed, but the laugh came out nervous.

“A camera? Oh no, that’s too much. Like I’m in some spy movie.”

“Just think about it,” Olga insisted. “Otherwise you’ll keep snapping at Sergey, and he’ll keep thinking you’re paranoid. You need proof. Ironclad.”

I hung up, and her words lodged in my head like a splinter. “Proof. Ironclad.” All the next week I moved around like in a daze, constantly coming back to that thought. It seemed so radical, so… distrusting. But every time I remembered the wet kettle and the crumpled tea packet, I felt my certainty growing.

And then one evening, sitting in front of my laptop, I found myself scrolling through an online store catalog without any hesitation. My finger froze over one image. A small, minimalistic device disguised as a smoke detector. “Perfect,” I thought. “No one will ever notice.”

I added it to my cart and clicked “Place order.”

The package arrived faster than I expected. A small cardboard box, so harmless-looking. I hid it at the bottom of my bag like stolen goods, and on Friday, when Sergey and I were packing for the dacha, my heart was pounding wildly.

I spent the entire car ride in silence, staring out the window at the passing trees. My husband turned on the radio, and soft music filled the car, but it couldn’t drown out the voice of my conscience whispering, “You’re crossing a line. This is sneaky.”

But then I remembered that wet kettle, the ruined bench, and Sergey’s helpless face. No. I had to do this. For peace of mind. For proof.

Installing it took only a few minutes on Sunday, right before we left. Sergey was loading things into the trunk.

“I’ll be right there,” I called to him, going up the stairs to the bedroom. “Just checking we didn’t forget anything.”

I took the small plastic cylinder—so much like a real smoke detector—out of my purse. My fingers trembled as I fixed it to the ceiling, carefully snapping on the base. It blended with the white surface, looked completely natural. I plugged it into the power, downloaded the special app to my phone, and checked the connection. A clear image of the empty room popped up on the screen. Everything worked.

Just then Sergey’s voice drifted up from downstairs:

“Marina, how’s it going up there? Looks like we loaded everything!”

“Coming!” I answered, my voice cracking, and after taking a deep breath, I walked out of the room.

I didn’t tell my husband a word. My thoughts were a tangle. What if I was breaking some law? What if it got discovered? But no, I was protecting my property, my home. I had that right.

On the way back to the city, Sergey seemed to be in a good mood.

“Well, that was a nice weekend. No fights. Mom, by the way, walked past today, waved, didn’t even come in. See? And you were worried.”

I just nodded, clenching my phone in my jacket pocket. “Worried”… If only he knew.

The first two days at work I couldn’t concentrate. My phone lay on the desk in front of me like a rattlesnake ready to strike at any moment. I kept picking it up and opening the app. The screen showed an empty sunlit living room. Peace and quiet. I even felt a bit ashamed. Maybe I really had imagined it all? Maybe my mother-in-law did just drop in for a minute, and the rest was the product of my fevered imagination?

On the third day, Tuesday, around three in the afternoon, I was in a meeting. My phone suddenly vibrated briefly but insistently in my bag. My fingers went cold. It was a notification from the app. “Motion detected.”

I excused myself and stepped out into the empty staff kitchen. My hands were shaking so much I could barely unlock the screen. I tapped on the notification.

The image loaded. My heart dropped.

In my living room stood Lyudmila Petrovna. She was talking to someone, her back partly turned towards the camera. She held a key in her hand. My key. Then she stepped aside, and two more people entered the frame.

I almost dropped the phone.

Behind her came her younger son, Dima, my brother-in-law. He was carrying several full grocery bags. Next to him trotted his wife Irina with a shoulder bag and that same smug expression I always saw on her face.

I stood there, leaning against the fridge, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. So that’s who the “thieves” were. Our own relatives.

Lyudmila took off her jacket and hung it over the back of my armchair, the one I’d brought back from a trip to the Baltics.

“Well, home at last,” her voice came through clearly on the microphone. “Unpack the groceries, Dimulek. I’ll put the kettle on.”

She headed for the kitchen, and in a moment I heard that familiar sound—the hiss and bubbling of water in my kettle.

I watched, my mouth gone dry. So that’s what “airing out the house” meant.

I stood in the silence of the office kitchen, glued to my phone screen. The picture was sharp, the sound crystal clear, as if I were in the next room. This wasn’t a passing visit. This was a full-blown picnic over my bones.

Dima plunked the bags down on my coffee table, noisily pulling out bottles of drinks, a packet of cookies, cheese.

“Ira, fix some snacks,” he threw over his shoulder to his wife, sprawling on the couch and slinging his leg over the armrest. “Mom, where d’you keep that whiskey Sergey was raving about? Bet he’s got something fancy stashed away.”

Lyudmila bustled over to the sideboard where we kept alcohol for special occasions, looking every inch the rightful hostess.

“Here, son, I know where. He keeps it on the bottom shelf so it’s not on display. Take it, don’t be shy. We’ll tell your brother we had guests over. He’s not stingy.”

A chill ran through me. They were talking about my husband, my generous, trusting Sergey with such matey disdain that the blood rushed to my head. Dima casually pulled out the expensive whiskey and, not immediately finding any glasses, poured the golden liquid into my favorite large coffee mugs.

Meanwhile Irina was looking around the room with interest. Her gaze slid over the shelves, the framed photos, and stopped at the bedroom door.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, can I have a look at what kind of bedding they’ve got?” she asked. “Last time I noticed Marina bought some new silky set. I want to see it up close.”

“Go on, go on, dear,” my mother-in-law said graciously. “Our dear daughter-in-law likes to pamper herself. Wouldn’t hurt you either.”

Irina disappeared into the bedroom. I switched the view to the bedroom camera as well. My heart started pounding again. She walked over to our bed, ran her hand over the silk duvet cover, then her eyes moved to my wardrobe. Without a second’s hesitation, she flung it open.

Heat flushed through me. She started rummaging through my dresses, tops, blouses, taking some off the hangers and holding them up to herself in front of the mirror. Then she picked one—a dressy sand-colored dress I’d worn only once, to Sergey’s birthday party. Irina took off her own sweater and jeans and slipped into my dress. It was a bit tight on her, but she spun in front of the mirror, striking sultry poses.

“Dima, come here!” she called. “Take a picture of me. Let people see how to really relax out of town.”

Dima lazily got up with his mug of whiskey, pulled out his phone and started snapping her. They laughed like kids pulling a prank while their parents were away.

“Look good?” she cooed.

“Very. Suits you. Maybe you should keep it? Marina probably won’t even remember it,” Dima snorted.

I watched, barely able to breathe. This wasn’t just crossing boundaries. This was mockery. They felt like masters here, entitled to everything.

Back in the living room, Irina continued her little fashion show for my mother-in-law. The latter nodded approvingly.

“Oh, what a beauty you are! A real model. And on Marina…” she paused briefly, “…it didn’t sit as well. That cut doesn’t suit her.”

I couldn’t take it anymore and muted the sound, sinking onto a chair. I felt physically ill. From their audacity, from the sheer sense of being completely powerless. I was sitting there in my office, miles away from the dacha, and they were playing house in my home, trying on my life like it was a borrowed dress.

Then I turned the sound back on. They were already sitting at the table, eating the food they’d brought and washing it down with our whiskey. The conversation flowed smoothly—and disgustingly.

“Well, how do you like it here, son?” Lyudmila asked, sweeping the room with a proprietary gaze.

 

“It’s fine,” Dima mumbled with his mouth full. “Sergey’s got taste. His wife helps, of course, but the base is ours, family property. We’ve been here all our lives, you and me. And she just showed up and made herself the mistress of the place.”

Lyudmila sighed, pouring herself more whiskey.

“What can you do, Dimulek. A stranger came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And she thinks she’s in charge here. What does she understand about our history? Our traditions? Nothing. She just latched on.”

The word “stranger” sounded so open and venomous it was like a slap in the face. All my attempts to build a relationship, all my compromises, all the festive meals I’d cooked for them—everything shattered against the stone wall of their certainty in their own superiority.

Suddenly Irina, pushing her plate aside, went back to the wardrobe. But this time her eyes fell not on the clothes, but on a large cardboard box on the top shelf. I froze. That box held old family photographs, letters and several albums that had belonged to my late mother—my most precious possessions, priceless to me.

Irina took the box down, plunked it on the floor and started rifling through it without much interest. She flipped through albums, tossing photos back in. Then she came across one where I was about seven, sitting on my mother’s lap. Irina stared at it for a couple of seconds, shrugged, and, holding the picture by the corner, flicked it back into the box like some useless scrap of paper.

Something broke inside me at that moment. The tears I’d been holding back poured out in a flood. It wasn’t about things anymore. It was about my memories, my love, my mother, whom she’d never even known. This was a deliberate, cynical desecration.

I wiped my tears and turned the sound back on. I needed to hear all of it. Every word. Every chuckle. I watched those strangers in my home and for the first time in a long while felt not confusion and anger, but a cold, steely resolve. By their own hands and their own words, they were putting weapons into mine. And I fully intended to use them.

They stayed in the house for about another hour. I kept watching the screen, a mute, helpless witness to my own humiliation. They finished eating, drinking, Dima sprawled on the couch and turned our TV up to full volume, and Irina still hadn’t taken off my dress.

When they finally decided to leave, Lyudmila cast a satisfied look around the room.

“Well, that was a nice little get-together. We’ll come by tomorrow to take out the trash,” she said, as if bestowing a favor.

They left, abandoning dirty plates on the table, an empty whiskey bottle, and that invisible but acrid smell of someone else’s presence. The door slammed shut behind them.

I sat alone in the office kitchen, and only ragged sobs broke the silence. My hands were still trembling. I turned the sound back on, but the house was now hollow and quiet. The camera showed an empty living room littered with the traces of their feast.

So that’s what “airing the house out” meant. That’s why my tea was always gone. That’s where the bench scratches and the broken washer had come from.

My thoughts whirled, one replacing another. Fury. Pity for myself. A dull, gnawing sense of betrayal. But stronger than all of it was confusion. What now? Call Sergey? Scream into the phone: “I told you so! I saw everything!”?

I imagined his face. First disbelief. Then an attempt to justify them. “Mom must’ve just stopped by to tidy up, and Dima and Irina dropped in by chance… Don’t exaggerate, Marina.”

No. Words wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t feel that icy shiver that ran down my spine when Irina tossed my mother’s photograph aside. He hadn’t seen how gleefully they drank his whiskey while talking about his wife.

I didn’t need words. I needed a movie. That recording now stored in my phone’s memory.

I took a deep breath, wiped my tears and opened the app again. Now my movements were precise and deliberate. I found the archive function and began reviewing the recordings from the previous weeks. And I found them. Not as long, but still: short visits. Here’s Lyudmila alone, brewing tea and curiously inspecting the contents of my kitchen cabinets. Here she is bringing Dima in, and they’re chatting animatedly, though the microphone is too far to catch the words. And here’s Irina, popping in “for a minute” to drop off some box.

I started saving the most telling moments from that day to my phone. A separate clip of Irina trying on my dress. Another of them drinking the whiskey. Another of my mother-in-law’s monologue about the “stranger” in the family. And a separate, shortest but most painful one—my mother’s photo being flung back into the box.

Each saved clip was like a knife driven into my memory, but I forced myself to continue. I was gathering my weapons. Cold, ironclad, undeniable.

Later, at home, I tried to act normal, but everything boiled inside me. Sergey was talking about work, and I just nodded, hearing his voice as a distant hum. All I saw were their smug faces.

“You’re not yourself,” he noticed over dinner. “Tired?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Very tired.”

He reached across the table and stroked my hand.

“It’s okay, you’ll get some sleep. Next weekend we’ll go back to the dacha, get some fresh air.”

I looked at his kind, unsuspecting face and felt a strange wave of pity. His world, his belief in a “friendly family” was on the brink of collapse. And I was the one who had to bring it down.

Lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I ran through all the scenarios in my head. Make a scene. Show the recordings right away. Dump everything into the family chat. But every option felt too emotional, too impulsive. They’d circle the wagons, declare me crazy, accuse me of faking everything. My mother-in-law would burst into tears, Dima would start threatening me, and Sergey would once again be stuck in the middle.

No. What they needed wasn’t a tantrum. They needed a verdict. And for that, one emotional talk wasn’t enough. I needed a full dossier. Multiple recordings. An airtight evidence system of their systematic, brazen, cynical behavior.

I quietly turned on my side and stared into the darkness. The anger was giving way to cold, calculated determination. They thought they were playing in their own sandbox. They didn’t know I’d already started digging a pit for them. And their next party in my house would be their last.

The following weekend came with a sense of heavy, oppressive anticipation. We were driving to the dacha, the silence in the car thick and ringing. I stared out the window, mentally rehearsing my moves. Sergey, sensing my tension, tried several times to start light conversation, but when I didn’t respond, he fell silent.

When we pulled up to the house, my heart began to race. On the veranda, just as I’d expected, they were sitting. All three. Lyudmila knitting, Dima scrolling on his phone, and Irina, seeing our car, stretching languidly like she’d just woken up at her own place.

We got out of the car. The air was fresh and clear, but between us hung an invisible wall.

“Well, finally, we waited long enough,” my mother-in-law greeted us, putting down her knitting. “The kettle’s already boiling.”

“Hello, Mama,” I said dryly, walking past her without offering a hug.

We went into the house. I immediately swept my gaze over the living room. Everything was clean, tidy. But I knew all too well what was hiding behind that façade.

Over tea, what I had dubbed “reconnaissance by fire” began. I took my cup and took a small sip.

“How odd,” I said thoughtfully, looking at the wall. “Right before we left, I had a full pack of good tea here. And somehow it disappeared. In just a week.”

The atmosphere at the table instantly changed, crackling with tension. Lyudmila froze with her saucer in hand.

“Maybe you finished it yourself and forgot?” Irina chimed in quickly, syrupy sweet.

“No,” I replied just as calmly. “I was saving it. Same with the coffee that mysteriously vanished last time. Or that new bench… Where did those scratches come from, like someone scraped nails across it?”

Dima tore himself away from his phone and slowly raised his eyes to me. They were full of irritation and challenge.

“Are you hinting at us?” His voice came out rough and loud.

Sergey immediately stirred.

“Dima, calm down. Marina is just stating facts.”

“What facts?” Lyudmila flared up, her eyes instantly filling with offended tears. “I keep an eye on this house, don’t take my eyes off it, and I get accused of stealing! I, your own mother, Sergey, to whom you entrusted your keys, get humiliated like this!”

She dabbed at an imaginary tear with the corner of a napkin.

“Mama, no one’s accusing you,” Sergey squirmed on his chair, shooting me a pleading look.

“Then who is?” Dima went on, heating up. “Your wife is straight up saying we’re stealing things and wrecking the place! Are you serious? I’ve got more money than I know what to do with! You think I need your tea and benches? Don’t make me laugh!”

“Who said anything about stealing?” I turned to him, keeping my voice icy-calm. “I simply listed the things that have disappeared or been damaged recently. I’m stating facts. And asking whether you might have seen anything.”

“We haven’t seen a thing!” Irina snorted. “Maybe you’ve got mice? Or your memory’s gone?”

“My memory is just fine,” I shot back. “It’s my sense of security in my own home that’s been suffering.”

My mother-in-law now burst into genuine tears, but I could see the pure theatrics in them.

“Sergey!” she sobbed. “Do you see this? Do you see how your wife talks to us? She thinks we’re thieves! Crooks! We’re family! And she… she’s the stranger here, if that’s how she treats us!”

The word “stranger,” spoken aloud, cracked across the table like a slap. Sergey turned pale. He was wedged between a weeping mother and a cold, unbending wife—pressure building on him from both sides.

“Marina…” His voice trembled. “Maybe that’s enough? Mom is upset. Maybe you could just apologize for the misunderstanding and we’ll forget it?”

Everyone fell quiet, staring at me. Dima’s eyes gleamed with gloating triumph. Irina was barely suppressing a smile. Lyudmila peered at me over her tissue, silent reproach in her gaze.

I slowly set my cup down on the saucer. The sharp clink of porcelain rang out in the tense silence. I lifted my head and looked straight at my husband.

“No, Sergey. I’m not going to apologize. Because there is no misunderstanding here.”

And standing up from the table, I walked out into the garden, leaving a dead silence behind me.

That evening we sat at opposite ends of the couch like two strangers accidentally locked in the same room. Sergey didn’t look at me, his attention glued to his phone. I could feel his hurt, his confusion, but inside me everything had frozen into crystal hardness. Their reaction had only confirmed that I was right.

The next morning, under the pretext of urgent business in the city, I left the dacha alone. Sergey just nodded when I said goodbye, his face like stone.

 

I drove along the empty Sunday highway, one thought pounding in my head: “What next?” An emotional blow-up wasn’t enough. I needed a plan based not on shouting, but on the law.

On Monday, during my lunch break, I met Olga in a quiet café. She was already waiting, and from her expression I could see she knew it was serious.

“So, how’s your James Bond operation going?” she asked. The joke came out strained.

I didn’t say anything. I just took out my phone, opened the saved videos, and handed it to her. I watched her face change gradually: curiosity, then surprise, then mute outrage. She watched Irina prancing in my dress, Dima pouring whiskey, my mother-in-law delivering her speech about the “stranger.”

“They are… they’re just…” Olga searched for words, pushing the phone away like it was hot. “This is insane! The nerve of them!”

“Now do you understand?” I said quietly, taking the phone back. “I showed this to Sergey. He asked me to apologize.”

Olga was silent for a few seconds, digesting that.

“Okay. Yelling at them is useless. They’ll twist everything. You need a lawyer. A real one. My cousin had a similar problem with neighbors. I’ll give you her contact.”

Two hours later I was sitting in a strict, tidy office across from a woman in her fifties with smart, attentive eyes. Her name was Alla Viktorovna. For the third time I replayed my humiliation, but this time it was easier. I spoke like a robot, listing facts.

Alla listened without interruption, occasionally jotting notes in a notepad. When I finished, she set her pen down.

“Let’s go through this step by step,” she began calmly. “First and most important: hidden recording in your own house or in a house you legally own is not a violation. You are not infringing on anyone’s right to privacy, because these people were in your home without your permission—or, more precisely, exceeded the permission you had granted. You had every right to protect your property this way. These recordings are material evidence.”

Relief washed through me at her words. I wasn’t the offender. I was the victim.

“Second,” she continued. “From what you’ve described, we can pick out several offenses. First, petty theft. Tea, coffee, food. Second, possibly unlawful entry, if we can prove that your mother-in-law exceeded the authority you gave her when you handed over the key ‘to water the plants’. Third, property damage—the scratches on the furniture. For now these are administrative violations, but under certain conditions it could escalate to criminal charges.”

She looked straight at me.

“What do you want as a result? A criminal record for your relatives? Compensation for the damaged bench?”

“No,” I answered firmly. “I want this to stop. For good. I want them to be afraid to even come near my house. I want my husband to finally see the truth and stop blaming me. And I want all the trump cards in my hands if they decide to retaliate.”

Alla nodded.

“Reasonable. In that case, you don’t need to run to the police with these recordings. Not yet. You need to structure your evidence. Make a detailed list of everything stolen and damaged with the cost for each item. Attach receipts if you have them. Edit the recordings into a short but striking video, five to seven minutes long, with the most telling moments. And prepare an informal written statement demanding compensation for damages and a pledge not to approach your house. We’ll notarize it.”

“And if they refuse to sign?” I asked.

The lawyer smiled slightly.

“Then you calmly inform them that your next step will be filing a report with law enforcement, along with all the material you’ve gathered. And then things will follow a very different script. I assure you, once they see those recordings, they’ll lose all desire to argue.”

I walked out of her office with a completely different feeling. Fear and uncertainty had given way to a clear, thought-out plan. I had a weapon. And now I knew how and when to use it.

That evening I came home to our empty apartment. Sergey hadn’t returned yet. I sat down at the computer, plugged in the flash drive with the recordings, and opened my editing program. Now, watching those clips, I felt no pain—only cold focus. I cut, spliced, added subtitles to the most offensive lines.

I wasn’t just making a video. I was preparing a verdict. And it would be read at the next family council.

Saturday greeted us with a dull sky and heavy, humid air. It felt like even nature was holding its breath before the storm. Sergey and I drove to the dacha in silence, denser and heavier than ever. He was still sulking, and I was mustering strength for the performance where I’d have the lead role.

When we arrived, they were already there. All three. Sitting on the veranda like we were the ones coming to visit them. Lyudmila with chilly dignity, Dima with a defiant smirk, Irina with a sickly-sweet, disdainful smile.

We went into the house. The atmosphere was taut as a drawn wire.

“So, have you made up?” Dima asked sarcastically, lounging in an armchair.

“I asked everyone to come because I want to put an end to this ‘misunderstanding’ once and for all,” I began, trying to keep my voice steady. I walked over to the big TV in the living room and connected my laptop.

“Oh, we’re watching a movie?” Irina snorted. “Should I make popcorn?”

Sergey looked at me with confusion and worry.

“Marina, what are you doing? Cut out the theatrics.”

“This isn’t theatrics, Sergey,” I said, looking him in the eye. “This is our life. And you’re about to see it without curtains and makeup.”

I picked up the remote. The big screen showed a frozen image of an empty living room from a high angle. Lyudmila frowned.

“What is this? What are these spy tricks?”

“You didn’t believe my word,” I said, and my voice finally hardened to steel. “You called me hysterical. Let’s take a look at the truth.”

I hit “play.”

The screen came to life. The sunlit room. The creak of the door opening. And there they were—Lyudmila, Dima with the bags, Irina. The audio was clear and loud.

“Well, home at last,” my mother-in-law’s voice rang out.

For the first seconds, the room was dead silent. They watched themselves, watched the screen, unable to grasp what was happening. Then, when Dima poured whiskey into my coffee cups and Irina headed into the bedroom, Lyudmila leapt to her feet.

“Turn that off right this minute! This is vile! This is illegal!”

“Sit,” I said coldly, not taking my eyes off the screen. “The most interesting part is just starting.”

On the screen, Irina, already in my dress, twirled in front of the mirror.

“Turn it off!” Dima roared, lunging toward me and grabbing for the remote.

But then Sergey stood up. His face was chalk white, and in his eyes burned a rage I had never seen before.

“SIT DOWN!” His voice cracked like a whip, making Dima freeze mid-stride. “Don’t move. I want to see everything. To the end.”

He said it with such absolute authority that Dima, blinking in shock, backed away and dropped heavily onto the couch.

And on the screen, that very monologue was playing.

“…She came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And thinks she’s in charge here… She’s just a stranger…”

Sergey stood motionless, absorbing every word, every chuckle. He watched how they talked about him, his wife, his home. How they treated it all with cynical contempt.

 

When Irina tossed the photograph aside on screen, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.

The film ended. I stopped the video. The room was buried in silence, broken only by Dima’s heavy breathing and Lyudmila’s quiet sobs.

All eyes turned to Sergey. He slowly turned to his mother. His gaze was empty and cold.

“So that’s what ‘airing out the house’ means?” he asked quietly. “That’s why things went missing? That’s why Marina was on edge? You… you just lived here. Like cockroaches behind a cabinet.”

“Son, I…” my mother-in-law began, but he cut her off sharply.

“Silence!” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “This is physical evidence. The next step is a call to the police. Marina, dial.”

Panic erupted.

“Sergey, dear, you can’t! We’re family!” Lyudmila wailed.

“Family?” He laughed bitterly. “Family doesn’t behave like looters. Like vulgar freeloaders.”

I had already picked up my phone, but not to call the police—rather to pull the papers from my bag. A written agreement to compensate for damages, and a pledge not to approach the house. The lawyer had been right. After that “movie,” they had no strength left to argue.

The silence in the living room was deafening. It hung like a thick, heavy blanket, pierced only by Lyudmila’s sniffling and Dima’s ragged breathing. They sat there, broken, unable to meet our eyes. All their fake grandeur and arrogance had evaporated, leaving only their pathetic core.

I silently laid two sheets of paper on the table in front of them. The text was printed in large, clear font.

“This is a written acknowledgment of full compensation for damages,” my voice sounded even and quiet, but in the silence it was perfectly audible to everyone. “I’ve made a detailed list. The damaged bench, food, alcohol, moral harm. The total sum is here. And this is a pledge not to approach our house and our land any closer than a hundred meters. Ever.”

Dima raised his eyes to me, rage and fear battling in them.

“And if we don’t sign?”

“Then I call the police immediately,” I replied. “And hand everything over to them, including the bit where you move menacingly toward me just now. It won’t stop at a minor offense. Do you want that?”

Sergey, still pale but completely composed, stepped forward. He was no longer the confused son trying to please everyone. He was a man defending his home.

“Sign,” he said quietly, in a voice that sent goosebumps down my arms. “And leave. While I’m still able to talk to you calmly.”

Lyudmila sobbed something about family, about forgiveness.

“Mom,” Sergey looked at her, and there was only tired sorrow in his eyes. “You destroyed it yourself. You called my wife a stranger in our home. You let them play house here. What kind of family is that? Sign and go.”

The signing took only a few minutes. They did it silently, hunched over like they were being led to execution. Shaking hands, illegible signatures. When the last dot was put down, they stood up without a word and, without looking at us, shuffled toward the door. Dima and Irina practically pushed Lyudmila outside. The door clicked quietly shut behind them.

We were alone. Sergey slowly came up to me. He took my hands in his. His palms were cold.

“Forgive me,” he exhaled, his voice breaking. “I was blind and stupid. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect our home. I let them think this was normal. I was so afraid of conflict I almost lost everything we have.”

I looked at him, and the stone wall inside me began to melt. In his eyes I saw no pity, no excuses—only pain and clear understanding.

“Our home is protected now,” I said softly. “Not by the camera. By our decision. By our unity.”

He nodded and pulled me into a hug. We stood there in the middle of the living room where a whole world had just collapsed—and for the first time in many months, the house smelled of peace again. Our peace.

A week later, I ordered a new surveillance system. Not hidden this time, but the real, obvious kind. Cameras on white brackets, visible wiring, and a big sign on the gate: “Video surveillance in operation.” I was done hiding.

One of the following Saturdays, Sergey and I went back to the dacha. A fresh wooden plank gleamed on the bench, covered with new varnish. I poured myself a cup of expensive oolong from a new packet and went out onto the terrace.

The air was clear and transparent. Birds sang in the garden, and not a single foreign sound disturbed the silence. I sat in my armchair, drank my tea, and looked at my house. It was mine again. Every speck of dust, every rustle of leaves in our garden.

Sergey came out, carrying two plates with freshly made sandwiches. We had breakfast, exchanging a word now and then, and it was an ordinary morning, completely cloudless.

I no longer checked the locks or listened for footsteps at the door. I just lived. And that was the most precious thing I had won in that war. Not the things, not the money, but my right to peace. To my home. And to my own life

 

Alexey stood in front of the door to his apartment, his keys trembling in his hand. Three days ago he had slammed this very door shut to teach Irina a lesson. Three days of proud absence at his ex’s dacha. Three days that were supposed to make his wife understand how deeply she had hurt him. And now he was standing here, breathless with anticipation of what her remorse would look like.

It had all started with an ordinary family dinner. More precisely, with the lack of one.

“You’re late again,” Irina said in that particular tone Alexey had learned to recognize over seven years of marriage—calm, but threaded with deep disappointment.

“Traffic,” he snapped, tossing his keys into the little bowl in the entryway.

“Alexey, you promised you’d be home by seven. It’s almost nine.”

He walked into the kitchen, where a single covered plate stood on the table. The food had long gone cold. Irina sat nearby, scrolling through something on her phone.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said irritably. “Why are you starting?”

“Why am I starting?” Irina looked up. “This is the third evening in a row I’ve been waiting for you with dinner. We agreed we’d have dinner together at least three times a week. This was the last chance this week.”

With a sigh, Alexey sat down and lifted the lid off the plate.

“Like I was out partying instead of working my ass off.”

“It’s not about that, and you know it,” Irina said, setting her phone aside. “We had an agreement. It matters to me. I cooked, I waited. Like last time. And the time before that.”

“My project is on fire, you know that!” Alexey raised his voice. “What was I supposed to do—stand up and leave in the middle of a meeting? Tell Mikhalych my wife is baking pies and I need to run home?”

Irina straightened in her chair.

“First of all, I’m not baking pies—I’m making a normal dinner for my family. Second, you could have at least called and warned me. Third, your Mikhalych knows perfectly well the workday ends at six.”

“Don’t start,” Alexey sighed, poking at the cold potatoes.

“What do you mean, ‘don’t start’? I’m not allowed to say I’m unhappy?”

“You are,” he said, dropping his fork onto the plate. “You have the right. But you know what? I’m tired of these complaints. I’m tired of coming home and, instead of resting, getting another dose of dissatisfaction. I work from morning till night so we can afford this apartment, your new fur coat, a vacation in Turkey!”

“What does the fur coat have to do with it?” Irina shook her head. “I didn’t ask for a fur coat. I asked you to be home at seven three times a week. Is that so hard?”

“It is when you’ve got a tyrant of a boss and deadlines burning!” Alexey jumped up. “Why can’t you understand? Why do I get nothing but reproaches instead of support?”

Irina stared at him in silence for a few seconds.

“You know what?” she said at last. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of being in second place after your job. Maybe you should marry your Mikhalych, if he matters more to you than your family.”

That was the last straw.

“Fine!” Alexey threw his napkin onto the table. “If I’m such a terrible husband, maybe you should go find another one—someone who’ll sit at home and cling to your skirt?”

“I didn’t say that,” Irina replied quietly.

“But you thought it!” Alexey couldn’t stop now. Everything that had built up over weeks of stress burst out. “You know what? I’m leaving. I’ll stay a few days at Sveta’s dacha—at least she appreciated my time and my effort!”

Irina went pale. Sveta was his ex-girlfriend; they had split shortly before he met Irina. They kept in touch as friends—always a source of tension between him and his wife.

“Are you serious right now?” Her voice was strangely calm.

“Absolutely.” Alexey went into the bedroom and started tossing things into a gym bag. “I’ll stay there a few days. Think. And maybe you should think, too, about what matters more to you—my presence at dinner, or everything else I give this family.”

Irina stood in the bedroom doorway with her arms folded.

“If you go to your ex now, you’ll regret it,” she said quietly.

“Is that a threat?” Alexey smirked, zipping the bag.

“It’s a fact.” Irina turned and walked out.

Alexey brushed past her, grabbed his keys, and slammed the door so hard the walls trembled.

Sveta met him with surprise, but without many questions, she offered to let him stay at the dacha as long as he needed. It was a small house in a gardening co-op about an hour from the city—a place Alexey used to go years ago, before marriage.

“Family problems?” she asked, as they drank tea on the veranda.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alexey waved her off.

“As you wish.” Sveta shrugged. “Make yourself at home. I’m only here on weekends anyway, so I won’t bother you. You know where the keys are, there’s food in the fridge. If you need anything—call.”

She left for the city the next morning, leaving Alexey alone with his thoughts. He was sure Irina would call by evening—apologize, beg him to come back. But the phone stayed silent.

By the end of the first day he grew nervous and texted: “Everything okay?”

An hour later the reply came: “Yes. You?”

Short. Cold. No просьба to return, no apologies. Alexey got even angrier. Fine—if she thought he’d be the first to give in, she was wrong.

The second day passed in a strange quiet. Alexey tried to work remotely, but his thoughts kept circling back to Irina. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Why wasn’t she calling?

That evening he couldn’t take it and called first.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Hi,” Irina answered. In the background he could hear laughter and music.

“Where are you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“At home,” she said. “Masha and Katya are over. A girls’ night. We’ve been meaning to do it for ages, but it never worked out.”

Alexey felt a stab of irritation. He was suffering out here—and she was throwing parties?

“Ah, I see,” he said dryly. “I won’t bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said calmly. “Did something happen?”

“No, I just… wanted to check that everything’s okay.”

“Everything’s great, thanks for the concern.” Her voice held neither warmth nor coldness—just ordinary politeness, like with a stranger. “How are you there? Is Sveta pestering you with questions?”

“Sveta isn’t here—she’s in the city,” Alexey said for some reason. “I’m alone at the dacha.”

“Oh, I see,” Irina echoed his tone exactly. “Well, enjoy your rest then. Bye.”

And she hung up before he could add anything.

The third day was the hardest. Alexey paced around the dacha like a caged animal. He checked his phone every five minutes. He typed messages to Irina, deleted them, typed again. What was going on? Why wasn’t she begging him to return? Did she really not care?

By evening he couldn’t stand it and texted: “Coming back tomorrow morning.”

The reply was brutally simple: “Okay.”

That was it. No emotion, no questions. Just “okay,” as if he’d said he’d pick up milk on the way.

 

In that moment Alexey realized his plan hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. And that was exactly why, standing now in front of his own door, he felt a strange mix of anxiety and irritation.

He opened the door and walked in. The apartment smelled of fresh baking and Irina’s perfume. From the kitchen came sounds—someone moving dishes, chopping something.

“I’m home,” Alexey called, stepping into the entryway.

No answer.

He walked into the kitchen and froze in the doorway. Irina stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She was wearing a new dress he’d never seen before—dark blue, elegant, flattering her figure. Her hair was done, light makeup, and that perfume… She looked like she was getting ready for a date, not greeting a husband who’d returned after a fight.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a quick glance. “Hungry?”

Alexey nodded, thrown off. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Where were the tears? The relief? The apologies?

“What are you cooking?” he asked, setting his bag down on the floor.

“Stew,” she replied. “It’ll be ready in half an hour. You can take a shower while you’re at it.”

He stood there, not knowing what to say. This calm, collected woman didn’t resemble the one he had expected to see.

“Ira, we need to talk,” he finally said.

“Of course.” She nodded without looking up from cooking. “We’ll talk over dinner. Go on, freshen up. You look tired.”

Alexey obediently headed to the bathroom, feeling strangely disoriented. What was happening? Why was she so calm? And why did she look so good?

After showering and changing, he returned to the kitchen. Irina had already set the table—nice dishes they usually brought out only for guests, candles, wine glasses.

“Are we celebrating?” he asked, sitting down.

“No.” She smiled, pouring wine. “Just in a good mood.”

Irritation rose in Alexey. He’d spent three days at the dacha suffering, waiting for her call, her apologies—while she was here arranging… what? A celebration of his return? Or showing how great she’d been without him?

“I see you didn’t miss me much,” he couldn’t help saying.

“Why not?” she sat down opposite him. “The first evening was hard. And then… it got easier.”

Something in her tone put him on alert.

“What do you mean, ‘easier’?”

Irina took a sip of wine and met his eyes.

“You know, Lyosha, I’ve thought a lot these days. About us. About our relationship. About what’s been happening between us these past months.”

Here it was. Now she’d apologize, he thought. Now she’d admit she was wrong, that she’d realized how important his work and effort were.

“So what did you conclude?” he asked, preparing for his long-awaited moment of triumph.

“I realized we put too much weight on little things,” she said calmly. “And that life is too short to spend it on resentment and waiting.”

Alexey frowned. That wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean”—Irina served herself stew—“when you left, at first I was very upset. Then I got angry. And then I decided it was a good chance to think about myself.”

“About yourself?” he repeated.

“Yes. You know, for so many years I’ve built my life around our relationship, our plans, your work… But what have I done for myself? What did I want, personally?”

She spoke calmly, without accusation—which somehow irritated him even more.

“And what do you want?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“A lot,” she smiled. “For example, I signed up for photography classes. I’ve wanted to for a long time but kept putting it off. I started going to yoga in the evenings. And, you know, I met up with friends I hadn’t seen in ages.”

“I noticed,” Alexey muttered, remembering yesterday’s call and the party noise in the background. “All that in three days?”

“It’s amazing how much you can do when you don’t have to sit at home waiting for someone to show up for dinner,” she said without the slightest reproach, simply stating a fact.

A knot of тревога tightened in Alexey. Something was off. He’d expected tears, accusations, maybe coldness… but not this calm, almost detached composure.

“Did you meet anyone else besides your friends?” The question escaped before he could stop himself.

Irina looked up, surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it literally. In these three days. Did you meet someone?” He heard how ridiculous it sounded, but couldn’t stop.

Irina slowly set her fork down.

“Are you serious right now? You left to your ex for three days, and now you’re asking whether I cheated on you in that time?”

“I didn’t leave to my ex! I mean, yes, to my ex, but not to her… I—” he tangled himself up. “Sveta wasn’t even there!”

“And if she had been?” Irina asked quietly.

“What?”

“If Sveta had been there, what would have changed? You said you were going to her on purpose. You wanted to hurt me as much as possible, didn’t you?”

Alexey stayed silent. She was right. Mentioning Sveta had been calculated to cause pain.

“I didn’t cheat on you, Alexey,” Irina said after a pause. “Not in these three days, not in all seven years of our marriage. And you know why? Not because there wasn’t opportunity. But because I respect what we have. Even when you demonstratively slam the door and go live at your ex’s to ‘teach me a lesson.’”

Her words hit harder than he expected.

“I wasn’t trying to teach you…”

“No?” She raised an eyebrow. “Then what was it? ‘Maybe you should think about what matters more to you’? Isn’t that a lesson?”

Alexey said nothing. She was right—and that only made it worse.

“I really did think,” she continued. “And I understood something important. I love you, Lyosha. I truly do. But I don’t want to be a woman who sits at home and waits until her husband deigns to appear. I want to build my life—with you, but not around you. Do you understand the difference?”

 

He understood, but wasn’t sure he liked it.

“So what now?” he asked. “You won’t cook dinners anymore?”

Irina laughed.

“My God, Lyosha, are you serious? I’m telling you about fundamental changes in our relationship, and you’re worried about dinners?”

She shook her head, but there was no anger in her eyes—more like mild disappointment.

“I’ll cook when I want to cook. Sometimes for both of us, sometimes just for myself. And sometimes we’ll cook together or order food—like normal modern people. The main thing is we’ll agree, not wait and resent.”

“You’ve changed,” Alexey said, watching his wife with growing unease. This new, confident Irina both attracted and frightened him.

“Yes,” she nodded. “In three days. Imagine what would happen if you left for a week.”

She smiled, and in that smile was something he’d never seen before—light irony, confidence, maybe even a challenge.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked directly.

Irina thought for a moment.

“You know, no. At first I was, of course. But then I realized your leaving was possibly the best thing that’s happened to us in a long time.”

“In what sense?” A pang of jealousy flared. “You were happy without me?”

“It was different,” she answered. “I was able to look at our life from the outside. And I realized I don’t want to go back to what it was. I want to move forward. With you, if you’re ready. Or…” She paused.

“Or?” he echoed, his heart skipping a beat.

“Or on my own,” she said simply. “I’m not afraid of that anymore, Lyosha.”

There was no threat or ultimatum in her voice—just calm fact. And that was what made it so frightening.

“You… you want a divorce?” he asked, his mouth dry.

“No.” She shook her head. “I want a relationship. A real, adult relationship where both partners respect each other. Where there aren’t childish games of ‘teaching a lesson’ and ‘punishing.’ Where we talk when something hurts us, instead of slamming doors.”

Alexey looked at his wife and realized with surprise that he was seeing her as if for the first time. When had she become so… wise? So calmly confident? And why hadn’t he noticed earlier?

“I missed you,” he said suddenly—and it was the truth. “All three days. I missed you terribly.”

Something flickered in her eyes—softness, warmth.

“I missed you too,” she admitted. “Especially the first night. It was strange falling asleep alone.”

“But you didn’t call,” it came out like an accusation, though he hadn’t meant it that way.

“No,” she agreed. “Because it was your choice to leave. And it had to be your choice to come back. Without my begging and tears.”

Alexey lowered his head. She was right. As always.

“I behaved like an idiot,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“I forgive you.” She smiled. “But Lyosha, I’m serious. I don’t want to go back to the old way. I want both of us to change. To become better. Together.”

“What do you propose?” he asked, feeling a strange mix of anxiety and hope.

“To start, let’s be honest with each other,” she said. “I’ll tell you when something bothers me—plainly, without hints. And you do the same. And let’s stop taking each other for granted.”

“What does that mean?” he didn’t understand.

“Well, for example,” she thought, “when you’re late at work, I automatically assume you don’t care that I’m waiting. And when I remind you of our agreement, you automatically hear it as a complaint. We stopped seeing each other as people with feelings and reasons.”

Alexey mulled it over. There was truth in it—truth he hadn’t wanted to admit. He really had started taking her care for granted, her waiting as obligation.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “And you’re right. I… I’ll try to change.”

“I know.” She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Because I know who you really are. Otherwise I wouldn’t have married you.”

Her touch was warm, familiar. But something had changed. Before, that gesture had felt pleading, soothing. Now it was equal—steady, supportive.

“So we’re okay?” he asked, still not fully sure.

“We’re in progress,” she replied with a faint smile. “We’ll always be in progress, Lyosha. A relationship isn’t a final result—it’s constant movement. And right now, I think we’re moving in the right direction.”

She got up and began clearing the table. Alexey watched her—beautiful, composed, confident—the woman he thought he knew by heart, yet now he was discovering anew.

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked, helping with the plates.

“Actually, yes,” she said, and his heart sank. “I have a photography lesson at seven. But it ends at nine. Afterward we can go to that new bar on Sadovaya, if you want. I’ve heard they make great cocktails.”

Alexey froze with a plate in his hand.

“You… want to go to a bar? On a weekday?”

“Why not?” she raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s a workday, sure, but one cocktail won’t hurt anyone. Besides”—she winked—“I missed you. I want to make up for lost time.”

And in that moment, looking at his wife—new, changed, yet still so dear—Alexey understood his plan to “teach her a lesson” had turned out completely differently than he’d expected. But maybe it was exactly how they both needed it to be.

“I’ll wait for you by the studio at nine,” he said, feeling a rush of excitement—almost like the beginning of their relationship. “And Ira… thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, surprised.

“For not leaving me when I behaved like an idiot,” he said honestly. “For giving us a chance to become better.”

Irina smiled, and in that smile was everything he’d once loved in her—and something new he still had to discover.

“You’re welcome,” she said, and rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “Now I need to get ready. I don’t want to be late for class.”

 

She left the kitchen, and Alexey remained standing there, stunned, watching her go. His plan to teach his wife a lesson had ended with her teaching him one instead—maybe the most important lesson of his life.

Three months later, Alexey sat in the kitchen working on a project on his laptop. The clock read half past six—he’d come home early on purpose to finish work here.

“I’m home!” Irina’s voice rang from the entryway.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, closing the laptop.

Irina came in carrying a big folder of photos and a grocery bag.

“Hi,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. “Already home? Did Mikhalych let you off early?”

“I left on my own,” Alexey smirked. “Said I had an important meeting.”

“And with who?” she asked, unpacking groceries.

“With the prettiest girl in the city.” He winked. “It’s our anniversary today.”

“Seven years and three months?” Irina laughed. “That’s not an anniversary.”

“Three months of a new life,” he explained, pulling out a bouquet he’d been hiding under the table since morning. “I’d say that’s a pretty good reason.”

Irina froze with a carton of milk in her hand.

“Lyosha…” She blinked, and to his surprise he saw her eyes glisten. “You remember.”

“Of course I remember.” He handed her the flowers. “That was the day I almost lost the most precious thing I have.”

Irina took the bouquet carefully, as if it might crumble at a touch.

“You know, I think about that day a lot too,” she said softly. “How scared I was when you left. And how I decided I’d never be that afraid again.”

“I’m glad you chose to change,” Alexey said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “And that you made me change too.”

“We both changed,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “And we keep changing. Together.”

He hugged her tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume—the same one she wore the day he came back.

“I can take a shower and cook something for dinner,” he offered. “Or we can order delivery and watch that show you wanted.”

“And your project?” she asked, nodding at the laptop.

“It can wait till tomorrow,” Alexey said firmly. “Today is our anniversary, remember?”

Irina smiled—that same smile that three months ago had turned his world upside down. The smile of a woman who knows her worth and isn’t afraid of the future.

“I remember,” she said, kissing him. “And you know what? I’m glad you decided to ‘teach me a lesson’ back then.”

“Why?”

“Because it became the best lesson for both of us.”

And Alexey couldn’t disagree. Sometimes the most important lessons come to us in ways we never planned. And sometimes that’s for the best

 

Olga sat in the kitchen, mindlessly poking at a salad with her fork. It had already darkened, turning into some pathetic mix of yesterday’s optimism and today’s exhaustion. Sergey was rushing around the apartment like someone who hadn’t lost his keys, but the meaning of life. Galina Petrovna sat in the armchair by the window, looking like a judge presiding over a particularly serious criminal case.

“Seryozh, you’re rustling around like a rat in a sack of crackers,” Olga said without lifting her eyes. “What are you looking for?”

“The apartment documents,” he grunted. “You said yourself it was time to get everything ready to sell.”

“I said it was time to look at options. And you’re already packing like we’re moving into a barn tomorrow,” Olga rolled her eyes.

“Well, if you want to stay in this concrete box until retirement…” Sergey opened a closet, and a winter jacket and a bag with some mysterious contents tumbled onto him.

“Better a box than your village with no decent internet,” she snapped.

“Olga,” Galina Petrovna cut in, lips pressed tight, “you always dramatize everything. A house outside the city means fresh air, your own land, cucumbers. And an apartment… what’s an apartment? The walls close in.”

 

“Right,” Olga snorted. “Especially when there’s a mother-in-law behind one of those walls waiting for me to slip up.”

“My girl, I warned you,” Galina Petrovna leaned back in her chair. “You need to listen to a man while he still wants you to listen. Later it’ll be too late.”

“Mom, don’t start,” Sergey tossed out wearily, pulling a folder from the closet.

Olga looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Sergey, are you sure we’re acting in my interests?” Her voice was calm, but inside everything was already boiling.

“And whose else would we be?” He didn’t even look at her. “You’ll just sign a power of attorney for me, and everything will go faster.”

“Sure,” she smirked. “A power of attorney—so that later I’m left with the loan, and you and your mom are left with the keys to the new house?”

“Olga, what nonsense are you talking?” Sergey spun around sharply. “Do you seriously think I’d trick you?”

“Think?” She set down her fork. “I’m almost certain.”

“This is paranoia,” Galina Petrovna stepped in, rising from her chair. “Men don’t like being suspected of things. Have you tried being his wife instead of his investigator?”

“And have you tried being his mother?” Olga shot back. “Not some advisor in schemes for how to squeeze property out of his wife.”

“Enough!” Sergey raised his hands like he was breaking up two neighborhood dogs. “Both of you are driving me crazy. I want a normal life. A house, a bathhouse, a dog, barbecues…”

“And a thirty-year loan,” Olga cut in.

“So what? It’s an investment in the future,” he shrugged.

“Whose future, Seryozh?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. Galina Petrovna immediately jumped in:

“The family’s future! Is that really so hard to understand?”

“Yeah, the family… only that family’s last name is Sergeyev, not Sergeyeva and Kovalenko. Because you didn’t include me,” Olga stood up abruptly. “I’m not an idiot, Sergey. And I’m not giving you a general power of attorney.”

“Fine, your choice,” he snapped the folder shut, already irritated. “You’ll regret it later.”

“Maybe,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “but at least I’ll regret it because of my own mistake—not yours.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, like an old carpet on the wall in a grandmother’s bedroom. Only the fridge hummed, and Galina Petrovna breathed angrily like a steam engine.

“I’m going to the notary tomorrow,” Sergey said slowly. “You’ll change your mind.”

“Just try signing anything without me,” Olga said coldly. “And it won’t be a move—it’ll be a divorce.”

Galina Petrovna snorted.

“Fine. Then live in this… concrete box.”

Olga gave a thin smile.

“At least it’s not a cage.”

And she walked into the bedroom, leaving the two of them alone.

But one thought was already spinning inside her: I need to check everything. And it looks like I’ll have to play their game—only by my rules.

Olga came home earlier than usual. The project at work had collapsed like a memorial-table setup—quickly, quietly, and with a faint smell of something burnt. Her thoughts kept circling: What if Sergey has already pulled something off behind my back?

She set her bag down by the door, took off her shoes—and suddenly heard familiar laughter from the kitchen. It wasn’t Sergey’s laugh—his was always nervous, breathy. This was Galina Petrovna laughing. Quietly, but with the kind of pleasure people have when they’ve just won the lottery.

Olga froze at the doorway.

“Well, Seryozh, I told you,” her mother-in-law’s voice carried. “The main thing is to register everything in your name first. Then we’ll decide who lives where.”

“Mom, don’t say it like that,” Sergey sounded quiet, almost whispering. “If Olya hears—there goes the plan.”

“She won’t hear,” Galina Petrovna snorted. “Women are like… those… cats. As long as the bowl is full, they purr. The moment they sense the food’s been taken away, they start scratching.”

“Yeah, I know…” Sergey sighed. “I thought she’d agree quickly, without drama. She’d sign the power of attorney, we’d sell the apartment, buy the house…”

“And the loan goes on her, Seryozh. Don’t forget,” steel rang in Galina Petrovna’s voice. “You do understand a man has to be the master of the house. If the house is in your name, no one can throw you out with your things.”

“Mom, well…” he faltered. “Olya put money into it too.”

“Exactly—she put money into it. And she will keep putting money into it,” his mother cut him off. “Do you think I want you ending up with a suitcase in some dorm? Not a chance.”

Something itched behind Olga’s ear, and she barely stopped herself from bursting into the kitchen and applauding. Bravo, family council! A real opera in the genre of “deception for noble reasons.”

Sergey poured tea—the cup sliding across the table made a soft sound.

“Mom, are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Seryozh, your wife is naïve like a first-year student on her first scholarship day. If she starts suspecting something—tell her it’s all for her peace of mind.”

Olga smiled. That part was one step too far.

She pushed the door open and walked in like in a bad TV drama—slow motion, the look of someone who wasn’t holding a grocery bag, but an arrest warrant.

“Good evening, family,” she said sweetly, like tea with eight spoons of sugar. “What are we discussing today? Loans, real estate, how to trick the wife?”

Sergey almost spilled his mug.

“Olya… it’s not what you think…”

“Oh, come on,” she set the bag on the table, staring straight at her mother-in-law. “I think you’ve got strategic planning in full swing. Only here’s the problem—I’m not signing up for your script.”

Galina Petrovna lifted her chin.

“Girl, you misunderstood everything.”

“Oh, I love that phrase,” Olga smirked. “It’s usually said by people caught with their hand in someone else’s wallet.”

Sergey stood, stepped closer, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Olya, listen…”

She pulled away.

 

“No, Seryozh, now you listen. You wanted to make a fool of me. But you know what’s funniest? I almost agreed. And now…” She pulled an envelope from her bag. “Here’s my statement. Tomorrow I’m going to the bank to revoke the authorization—and I’ll also check if there are already any surprises from you.”

Galina Petrovna scoffed.

“And who needs you with your paranoia?”

“Probably not you,” Olga answered coldly. “But I need me.”

She turned and went to the bedroom, leaving behind a thick, sticky silence in the kitchen—so thick even the tea in the mugs seemed to cool down out of spite.

That’s it. The game has begun. But now—by my rules, she thought.

Sergey packed his things on the third day. Not because Olga kicked him out—he decided on his own that he “needed to wait it out.” He went to his mother’s, and a week later sent a text:

“Let’s talk calmly. I’ll explain everything.”

Olga replied briefly:

“We’ll meet at the notary.”

That day the office was stuffy and smelled like old linoleum. Sergey arrived wearing a tie, like he was heading to a job interview, and Galina Petrovna came in a new coat, clearly bought for the “ceremonial moment.”

“Olya, we’ve been thinking…” Sergey began, making his voice soft. “Maybe we shouldn’t act rashly. A house outside the city—it’s a dream.”

“Yes, and the loan on you,” Galina Petrovna added like it was a compliment. “Your salary is stable.”

“Oh, I see you still believe in my altruism,” Olga smirked, pulling out a folder. “Only there’s one little nuance. The apartment is now registered solely in my name. And—attention—I’ve already sold it.”

Sergey went pale.

“What?! When?!”

“Yesterday,” Olga answered calmly. “At market price. And without your schemes.”

“You… you decided without me?!” His voice started to crack.

“Without you, Seryozh, I decide a lot of things now,” she said coldly. “And yes—here’s your notice of divorce.”

Galina Petrovna gasped.

“How dare you?! We’re family!”

“Family?” Olga leaned in so close she could see every wrinkle. “Family doesn’t sit around planning how to throw each other out on the street.”

Sergey stood, slamming his fist on the table.

“You’ll regret this! You’ll have nothing left!”

“You’re wrong,” Olga smiled. “I’ll have freedom. And money.”

The notary coughed, making it clear the circus had gone on long enough. Olga stood, put the documents back in her bag, and headed for the exit.

On the steps outside, she breathed in the icy air and felt something click inside her—like a lock that had kept her trapped in that marriage had finally snapped.

Sergey ran after her.

“Olya, wait… Can we at least do this without a scandal?”

She turned, looked him straight in the eyes, and said:

“Seryozh, the shop is closed.”

And she walked on—toward a new life where no one sits around plotting how to set her up

 The scrape of a key in the lock sounded at the exact moment I finished arranging the vases with the chrysanthemums I’d just bought. Autumn flowers filled the apartment with a special scent—sharp, slightly bitter, the kind that brings back memories of walks through the park with fallen leaves rustling underfoot.

I wasn’t expecting visitors. More than that, this sound—the sound of the front door opening—should have disappeared from my life a month ago, when Andrey packed his things and moved out. We separated quietly, without shouting matches or broken dishes, like civilized people. Eight years of marriage, no children, different views on life, and a gradually widening distance—such was the formula for our divorce. All very logical, though still sad.

I froze with a vase in my hands, listening to the noises in the hallway. The rustle of clothing, a muted female laugh, Andrey’s deep mumbling. So he wasn’t alone. And judging by the tone, his companion wasn’t some random acquaintance.

I set the vase on the side table and straightened up. Strangely, instead of the jealousy or hurt I would have expected, I felt only mild curiosity and a pinch of irritation—why had he come, and why not alone? A month after he took his things, leaving his keys on the dresser with a short note: “Sorry for everything. I was wrong.”

Andrey appeared in the living room so suddenly it was as if he’d materialized out of thin air. Behind him stood a young woman—about thirty—smiling a little shyly, with a fashionable haircut and a light-blue dress that emphasized her slim figure.

“Vika?” He clearly hadn’t expected to find me at home. “You’re here…”

“Where else would I be?” I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “In my own apartment, after work, on a Friday evening.”

Andrey looked thrown. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I knew well from our years together. He always did that when he was nervous or stuck in an awkward situation.

“I thought you were at your parents’. You always go there on Fridays.”

“Not this one.” I shrugged. “Mom and Dad went to the dacha to close up for the season.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. The girl’s gaze darted between me and Andrey, clearly not understanding what was happening.

“Andrey, introduce us,” she finally said, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

“Yes—of course.” He cleared his throat. “Vika, this is Marina. Marina—Victoria, my… my wife.”

At first I didn’t process what he’d said. Then it hit me—he had introduced me as Marina. And he’d called his companion… his wife?

“I think you’ve got something mixed up,” I couldn’t hold back a smirk. “I’m Victoria. And as for ‘wife’—now that’s interesting.”

Andrey went pale. His companion frowned, confused.

“What do you mean—you’re Victoria?” she turned to Andrey. “You told me your ex’s name was Marina, and that you divorced a year ago!”

“This is my premarital apartment, sweetheart!” I said with a cool smile when my husband brought his new fling. “And Andrey and I are still married. Technically, at least. Though the divorce petition has already been filed.”

 

The girl’s face twisted. She stepped away from Andrey as if he’d suddenly turned into something disgusting.

“You lied to me? All this time?” Her voice shook with outrage. “We’ve known each other for six months, and you never once…”

“Marina, it’s not like that,” Andrey tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. “I can explain—”

“Explain what?” Now she was practically shouting. “That you brought me to your real wife’s apartment? That everything you told me about your past was a lie?”

I watched the scene with a strange detachment, like I was watching a film with unfamiliar actors. Marina—so that really was her name—looked genuinely upset and betrayed. Well, I understood her. Andrey had always been a master at inventing his own version of reality.

“You know,” I said to her, “maybe we should talk. The three of us. Like adults.”

“What’s there to talk about?” she sniffled, holding back tears. “It’s all clear.”

“Not entirely.” I nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a bottle of decent wine. And I think it’ll be useful for both of us to know the truth. The whole truth.”

Marina hesitated. Then, throwing Andrey a look that could have annihilated him, she nodded.

“Fine. But only for the truth.”

We sat at the kitchen table, each of us with a glass of red wine. Andrey perched on a stool, clearly uncomfortable between two women he’d so carelessly pitted against each other.

“So,” I took a sip, “let’s be honest. What exactly did Andrey tell you about his… supposedly ex-wife?”

Marina nervously turned her glass in her hands.

“That you were married for five years and divorced a year ago. That she’s a music teacher at a school, and you split up because she didn’t want kids and preferred her career.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Interesting. And now the truth: we’ve been married eight years. We’re not divorced, though we’ve been living separately for the past month. I’m a lawyer, not a teacher. And the ‘kids’ thing’—it was his idea to wait until he ‘made a career.’”

Marina stared at Andrey, who sat with his eyes down like a guilty teenager.

“Why did you lie?” she asked quietly. “And what else have you lied about?”

Andrey exhaled.

“I… got tangled up. When we met, I was still married, but Vika and I practically weren’t living together anymore. I didn’t want to scare you off. And then… then it was already too late to tell the truth.”

“It’s never too late to tell the truth,” I said. “Though in your case, Andrey, it’s always been a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Marina turned to me.

“That lying is his habit,” I took another sip of wine. “Small, harmless lies that slowly destroy a relationship. ‘I didn’t smoke’—when he reeks of cigarettes. ‘I was at a business meeting’—when he was actually playing poker with friends. ‘Of course I did it’—when he hasn’t even started.”

Andrey jerked his head up.

“That’s not fair, Vika. You’re making me out to be some kind of pathological liar.”

“Aren’t you?” I shrugged. “Look where we are right now. You brought your new… girlfriend into the apartment where your legal wife still lives. And you apparently fed her a whole load of nonsense.”

“You told me it was your apartment,” Marina said softly. “That you bought it after the divorce.”

“That’s his favorite trick,” bitterness crept into my voice. “Claiming other people’s achievements. This apartment was my grandmother’s, long before our wedding. I even insisted on a prenup to protect the inheritance. Smart, right?”

Marina drained her wine in one gulp and poured herself more.

“So what else did you lie to me about, Andrey?” Her voice sounded tired now. “That you have your own business? That you make a hundred thousand a month?”

“He really does have his own business,” I cut in. “A small logistics company. But as for the income—better not ask. Things haven’t been going great this past year.”

Andrey sprang to his feet.

“Enough! You’re talking about me like I’m some object, not a person! Yes, I messed up. Yes, I lied. But I did it because—”

“Because it’s easier,” I finished for him. “It’s always easier to create a pretty illusion than admit an ugly reality.”

He sank back onto the stool, suddenly deflating like a punctured balloon.

“I loved you, Vika. I really did.”

“I know.” I nodded. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You always needed something more. Someone more.”

Marina set her glass down so hard wine sloshed over the rim.

“I’m leaving,” she said decisively. “And I never want to see you again, Andrey. Never.”

She turned to me.

“Thank you for the wine and… for the truth. You deserve better.”

With that, she stood and headed for the door. Andrey and I heard the front door slam.

We were left alone at the kitchen table, not looking at each other. The wine in the glasses, unfinished, darkened like dried blood.

“Why did you come?” I asked at last. “And why did you bring her?”

Andrey looked up at me.

“I wanted to pick up my winter clothes. I thought you wouldn’t be home. And Marina… she wanted to see where I live. I couldn’t tell her I’m actually renting a room from a friend.”

“So you decided to show her my apartment? Pass it off as yours?”

“Our apartment,” he corrected. “We lived here eight years. And I thought… just for a couple of hours, while you were out…”

“God, Andrey,” I shook my head. “You never change. Same tricks, dodging, little lies that turn into big problems.”

He stayed silent, and in that silence I saw his admission that I was right.

“Do you really love her?” I asked after a pause.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe. She’s… different. Not as smart as you, but warmer, I guess.”

“And that’s why you told her I’m some bitter music teacher who chose her career over family?” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm.
Family games

“I just…” he faltered. “I just wanted to start with a clean slate. Without the baggage.”

“But the past always catches up, Andrey,” I finished my wine and set down the glass. “Like today.”

He nodded, accepting it.

“So what now?” he asked after a long pause.

“Now you take your winter things,” I stood up. “And you never show up here again with your keys. I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”

“And our divorce?”

“It’s going as planned. Court in three weeks. Like we agreed—no mutual claims.”

Andrey stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare.

 

“What?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Are you… okay, Vika?” His voice held a sincere concern I hadn’t heard in a long time. “After we split up.”

The question caught me off guard.

“Yes,” I nodded after a pause. “Surprisingly okay. Like… like I finally took off a heavy backpack I’d been dragging for too long.”

He smiled sadly.

“Was I the heavy backpack?”

“Not you,” I shook my head. “Our relationship. What it became. An endless cat-and-mouse game where I tried to catch you lying and you wriggled out of it. It’s exhausting, you know.”

“I know,” he lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Vika. For everything.”

I looked at him—the man I’d spent eight years with, shared a bed with, made plans with. He stood there lost and pitiful, and I felt nothing but fatigue and a faint sadness for what could have been, but never was.

“I forgive you,” I said at last. “But it doesn’t change anything. Our time is up, Andrey.”

He nodded, accepting it as a fact.

“Can I at least call you sometimes?” he asked. “Just to see how you are.”

“Why?” I looked at him in surprise. “We have no kids, no business, no reason to stay in touch.”

“Just…” he hesitated. “I’m used to you being in my life. Eight years, after all.”

“And I’m getting used to you not being in it,” I answered gently but firmly. “And I like it, Andrey. For the first time in a long time, I feel calm. Don’t ruin it.”

He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then he nodded, accepting my decision.

“Alright. I’ll take my things and go.”

He went to the bedroom, where some of his winter jackets and sweaters were still in the closet. I heard him open the doors, pull things out, rustle bags. Ten minutes later he came out with a large duffel in his hand.

“That’s it,” he paused in the doorway. “Goodbye, Vika.”

“Goodbye, Andrey,” I stood by the window, looking out at the autumn city spread below. “Good luck. Truly.”

When the door closed behind him, I stood still for a long time, breathing in the scent of chrysanthemums and processing what had happened. Strangely, instead of emptiness or bitterness, I felt light. As if the last thread tying me to the past had finally snapped—and I was truly free.

I walked over to the vase of flowers and straightened a drooping stem. Life went on. My life, in my apartment, without lies and manipulation. And in that moment I understood I really was okay. More than okay. I was on my way to something new, and the feeling was worth every tear and disappointment of the past.

The phone rang. My friend’s name lit up the screen—the one who’d been trying for a week to drag me to a blind dinner with some colleague of hers.

“Hi, Lena,” I answered with a smile. “You know, about that dinner on Saturday… I think I’ll say yes.”

Life went on. And maybe the best part of it was still ahead