All Amazing Babies

 

Raisa was sitting at her desk, reviewing the quarterly reports, when her phone gave a soft vibration. Without thinking, she glanced at the screen and saw a bank alert.

At first she didn’t pay it much attention—most notifications were either her salary being deposited or some useless promotional offer. But then her eyes snagged on the wording, and she went rigid.

“Withdrawal: 50,000 rubles. Card ****4287.”

 

She reread it several times, refusing to believe what she was seeing.

The card ending in 4287 was the one she guarded like a secret treasure—the emergency card kept at home in the dresser, in the far drawer, beneath a stack of laundry. That was where her rainy-day money lived: 230,000 rubles, to be exact. Savings she had built up over three long years. Without that cushion, Raisa felt vulnerable, as if life could shove her off balance at any moment.

Everyone in the family knew the card existed. Raisa never hid the fact that she had a financial safety net. But there was one unbreakable rule: nobody touched that card without her permission. That money was for true emergencies—illness, being laid off, an urgent repair. Not shopping trips. Not entertainment. Not spur-of-the-moment spending.

She grabbed her phone and called her husband. The ringing felt endless before Mikhail finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Misha, fifty thousand was taken from my card!” Raisa tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled anyway. “Do you know anything about it?”

A pause. Too long.

“Raya, I’m busy right now. I’ve got an important meeting in five minutes. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”

“No, not okay!” Raisa raised her voice, ignoring the surprised looks from her coworkers. “Misha, did you take the card?”

“Raya, I really can’t. I’ll explain tonight.”

He hung up.

Raisa stared at the screen, rage swelling inside her. So he had taken it. Otherwise he would’ve sounded shocked, would’ve started asking questions. Instead, he brushed her off and fled into his meeting.

She checked the time—three in the afternoon. Two more hours until the end of her shift, but she knew there was no way she’d be able to focus. Fifty thousand rubles. Someone had taken fifty thousand without asking.

She went to her manager, blamed sudden nausea, and left for home.

On the way, she ran every possibility through her head. Had the card been stolen? But how? It was in the apartment, in the bedroom dresser. A break-in didn’t make sense—the building had cameras, the door wasn’t damaged. That meant it was someone from inside.

But who? She and Mikhail lived alone.

Unless…

Raisa squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach knotted. Her mother-in-law.

Galina Yegorovna sometimes came by when Raisa wasn’t home. Mikhail had given his mother a spare key. She would drop in “to help”—clean a little, cook something, “put things in order.” Raisa hadn’t minded. If she wanted to be useful, fine.

But to take the card? To take money?

Raisa walked into the apartment without even taking off her shoes. Mikhail was on the couch, scrolling on his phone.

“You’re home already?” he asked, startled. “Early today.”

“Where’s the card?” Raisa stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

“What card?”

“The card fifty thousand was taken from. My card. Where is it?”

Mikhail set his phone aside and stood up.

“Raya, let’s talk calmly—”

“I am calm,” Raisa cut him off, though her hands were shaking. “Just answer me. Did you take the card?”

He paced, rubbing his face.

“Listen, it’s… there was a situation…”

“Yes or no?” she snapped.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I took it.”

Raisa closed her eyes and drew a slow breath.

“Why?”

“Mom needed it,” Mikhail shrugged. “She was at the pharmacy, buying medicine. It was really expensive. She called me and asked for help.”

Raisa lifted her gaze slowly.

“Your mom needed it… so you took my card?”

“Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t mind. She’s my mom. It was urgent,” he said as if it were completely normal.

“Where is the card now?” Raisa went to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. Empty. The card really was gone.

“Raya, don’t get mad—”

“Where is it?” she turned sharply.

Mikhail hesitated and looked away.

“Mom has it.”

Raisa went still. For a few seconds she just stared at him, trying to process the words. Then it landed.

“You gave her my card? With my money on it? With my savings?”

“Well… yes. She said she’d bring it back tonight.”

“Tonight,” Raisa repeated in a voice that sounded чужой, чужой even to herself. “So you handed my emergency card—with over two hundred thousand rubles—to someone else, and she promised to return it later?”

“Raya, my mom isn’t ‘someone else’! She’s my mother!”

“To me, she is!” Raisa shouted. “Those are my savings! Mine! I saved for three years! You had no right to touch that card—let alone hand it to anyone!”

“But Mom needed medicine…”

“Medicine for fifty thousand?!” Raisa shoved her phone toward him with the notification. “What kind of medicine costs fifty thousand?!”

Mikhail turned away.

“Well… not only medicine. Mom bought a few other things. Things she needed.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. Groceries, probably. Maybe some clothes.”

Raisa laughed—sharp, brittle, almost hysterical.

“Groceries and clothes. With my money. Without asking me. Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

She spun and headed for the door, grabbing her bag without even checking what was inside.

“Where are you going?” Mikhail jumped up.

“To your mother’s. Before she spends the rest.”

“Raya, wait! Maybe don’t go in so hard—Mom will be offended…”

Raisa turned back and looked at him—long and heavy.

“I don’t care about her being offended. Let her think about how offended I am when she takes someone else’s money.”

The door slammed. Raisa flew down the stairs without waiting for the elevator. Inside, everything was boiling—anger, humiliation, hurt.

How could Mikhail do this? Take the card and hand it to his mother without even asking. As if Raisa’s savings were some shared family pot anyone could dip into whenever they pleased. Three years. Three years of denying herself little things, putting away every spare ruble for peace of mind.

And he just gave it away. For groceries and clothes.

Her mother-in-law lived in a neighboring district, about a fifteen-minute walk. Raisa moved quickly, barely noticing the cold spring wind. She reached the familiar building, climbed to the third floor, and rang the bell, counting the seconds as she waited.

The door opened. Galina Yegorovna stood there—around sixty, broad-shouldered, with a permanently dissatisfied look.

“Raisa? What’s going on?”

 

“Give the card back,” Raisa said shortly, stepping into the apartment without being invited.

“What card?” the older woman asked, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.

“Mine. The one Mikhail gave you.”

Galina Yegorovna crossed her arms.

“Oh, that one. I told you—I’ll give it back tonight.”

“I want it now.”

“But I haven’t finished my shopping yet!” her mother-in-law snapped. “I still need to go to the store and buy groceries!”

Raisa stepped closer until they were nearly face to face.

“I don’t care about your shopping. Hand me the card. Now.”

“How dare you talk to me like that?!” Galina Yegorovna flared. “I’m your husband’s mother. You should show some respect!”

“Respect?!” Raisa’s voice cracked into a shout. “You took my money without asking, spent fifty thousand, and you’re demanding respect?”

“I didn’t take it—Mikhail gave it to me!” her mother-in-law shot back. “A son helps his mother. That’s normal!”

“He gave you someone else’s card. Someone else’s money!”

“If you’re his wife, then the money is shared!” Galina Yegorovna jabbed a finger at Raisa. “What, you’re stingy? Can’t a son help his own mother?”

Raisa exhaled slowly, forcing herself not to explode.

“Galina Yegorovna, give the card back. It’s my emergency fund. I saved that money for three years. You had no right to touch it.”

“I’m not giving you anything!” the older woman turned toward the wardrobe as if she might grab the card—then changed her mind. “Mikhail gave it to me, which means I have every right to use it!”

“You don’t have the right!”

“I do! I’m his mother! It’s simple—if a son wants to help his mom, he gives her money. And you don’t get to forbid him!”

“It’s not his money—it’s mine!”

“So what?!” Galina Yegorovna waved her hand. “You earn more than he does. It won’t kill you to share!”

Raisa froze. So that was it. Mikhail had told his mother how much Raisa made—how she earned good money, more than he did. And now Galina Yegorovna believed that gave her permission to rummage through someone else’s pocket.

“Give me the card,” Raisa said quietly, but with steel in her tone. “This is the last time I’m asking nicely.”

“And if I don’t?” the older woman lifted her chin. “What will you do? Run to Misha? He’ll take my side!”

“You’re not giving it back?” Raisa pulled out her phone. “Fine.”

She opened the bank app. A few quick taps. Galina Yegorovna watched, confused.

“What are you doing there?”

“Blocking the card,” Raisa said evenly, and pressed the final button.

A confirmation flashed: “Card ****4287 has been blocked.”

Galina Yegorovna went silent. For two seconds she only stared, and then comprehension crashed into her face.

“What did you do?!”

“I blocked my card,” Raisa slipped the phone into her pocket. “Now it’s just a piece of plastic. Hang it in a frame if you like.”

“Unblock it right now!” Galina Yegorovna screamed. “I have to go to the store! I need to buy food!”

“Use your own money.”

“But there’s still a hundred and eighty thousand left on it!” the older woman grabbed Raisa’s arm. “That’s money!”

“My money,” Raisa pulled her arm free. “And I decide what happens with it. Mikhail had no right to hand my card to anyone, so I have every right to lock it.”

Galina Yegorovna started pacing, flinging her arms around the room.

“Unblock it this instant! I’m your mother-in-law! I’m your husband’s mother! You have to listen to me!”

“I don’t have to listen to anyone,” Raisa said, heading for the door. “Especially not people who steal from me.”

“It’s not stealing—Mikhail gave it to me!”

“Without my permission,” Raisa turned back. “Galina Yegorovna, keep the fifty thousand you already spent. Consider it severance pay.”

“Severance pay? For what?”

“For you. For Mikhail. For this marriage,” Raisa opened the door. “Forget my name. Forget where I live. We’re not family anymore.”

“What?! Have you lost your mind?! Mikhail won’t let you get away with this!”

“Then Mikhail can move in with you—since he loves helping you with my money,” Raisa threw over her shoulder as she walked out and slammed the door.

Behind her, Galina Yegorovna kept yelling, but Raisa didn’t listen. She walked down the stairs with a strange, unexpected lightness. Yes, fifty thousand was gone. Yes, it hurt. But everything finally made sense.

Mikhail had betrayed her. He took her card, gave it away, never asked, and put his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security. That wasn’t family. That was exploitation.

Raisa went home. Mikhail was smoking nervously on the balcony. When he saw her, he rushed forward.

“Well? Did you get the card back?”

“I blocked it,” Raisa said, and walked straight into the bedroom.

“What? Why?!”

“Because your mother refused to give it back voluntarily.”

Raisa opened the closet, pulled out a large travel bag, and started packing Mikhail’s things—shirts, pants, socks, underwear—methodically, one item at a time.

“What are you doing?” Mikhail stood in the doorway, stunned.

“Packing your things.”

“Packing them where?”

“Out of here. To your mom’s. Or wherever you want—I don’t care,” Raisa said without looking at him.

“Raya, are you serious? Over some money?”

Raisa stopped. Straightened up. Looked him directly in the eyes.

“Not over money. Over betrayal. You took my card without permission. You handed it to someone else. You let my savings be spent. That isn’t a marriage, Misha. That’s using me.”

“Mom isn’t ‘someone else’!”

 

“To me, she is!” Raisa’s voice rose again. “I saved that money for three years. I denied myself everything. And you blew through it in a day—when you knew perfectly well nobody was allowed to touch that card!”

“I didn’t think…”

“You did exactly what your mommy wanted, and you didn’t consider me—my boundaries, my feelings, my security,” Raisa cut him off.

Mikhail dropped his gaze.

“I’m sorry. We’ll return the money. I’ll talk to Mom—”

“No,” Raisa zipped the bag shut. “Don’t return anything. Let Galina Yegorovna keep the fifty thousand. It’s my farewell gift to her.”

“Farewell?”

“I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow.”

Mikhail went pale.

“Raya, you can’t just—”

“I can,” she said, carrying the bag into the hallway. “Take your things and leave.”

“But this is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name,” Raisa reminded him. “I bought it before we got married, with my money. You’re just registered here. So pack up.”

“Raya, let’s talk normally—”

“Normally?” Raisa opened the door. “Normally is not stealing someone else’s money. Normally is asking permission. Normally is choosing your wife, not your mother. You chose differently. Now live with it.”

Mikhail stood in the hallway, pale and helpless. Raisa waited. Five minutes passed in silence. Then he picked up the bag and stepped outside.

“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly.

“No,” Raisa shook her head. “I won’t. The only thing I regret is not seeing who you really were sooner.”

The door closed. Raisa was alone.

She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking, but inside she felt a calm she didn’t expect. The decision was heavy—but right.

That evening, she ordered a new card through the app and permanently shut down the old one. Fifty thousand was gone, but the remaining 180,000 was safe. She transferred the full amount to a new account, added extra security, and made sure no one would ever get access again.

The next day she took time off work and went to a lawyer. The attorney listened, then shook her head.

“A classic case. The husband and mother-in-law think the wife’s money is ‘shared,’ while their own is ‘personal.’ It’s good your apartment was purchased before the marriage. That simplifies things.”

“How quickly can we do the divorce?”

“If both sides agree—about a month. If he fights it, it can drag out to three months.”

“He’ll fight it,” Raisa sighed.

“Then prepare for court hearings. But your situation is clean: the property is yours, there are no joint debts, no children. The court will be on your side.”

Raisa signed the agreement, paid the legal fee, and walked out with a firm decision to see it through. No pleading, no “let’s try again.” Mikhail had shown his true face—and there was no going back.

A week later, Mikhail started calling nonstop. First he apologized and promised he’d never take money without asking again. Then he switched to threats—saying he’d tell everyone how greedy and heartless she was. Then he slipped back into begging.

Raisa didn’t budge. In her world, Mikhail no longer existed.

Galina Yegorovna tried too. She sent long messages about how Raisa had “destroyed the family,” “offended a suffering mother,” and “broken every moral law.” Raisa read them with a smirk and blocked her as well.

A month later, the court issued the decision: the marriage dissolved, the property remained with Raisa, and neither party had claims against the other. Mikhail got his divorce certificate and removed his registration from the apartment. Raisa got the freedom she’d been waiting for.

The first month after the divorce, she came home to an empty apartment, cooked for one, watched movies alone. It felt strange, and sometimes a little sad. But slowly, she began to appreciate it.

No one invaded her space. No one demanded money. No one handed out her bank cards like party favors. She could live at her pace, spend as she chose, and plan her future without bending to anyone else’s opinion.

Raisa returned to saving. She kept setting money aside each month. Six months later, her balance was back where it had been.

Sometimes she thought about the day everything collapsed—Mikhail’s call, the missing fifty thousand, the confrontation with Galina Yegorovna. And every time she reached the same conclusion: she’d done the right thing.

Yes, she could have forgiven him. She could have tried to keep the marriage, hoping he would change.

But why?

Why live with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries? Who believes it’s acceptable to use another person’s money without asking? Who puts his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security?

Raisa didn’t want that life. She didn’t want to spend her days checking whether someone had taken her card again. She didn’t want to fear another demand from Galina Yegorovna. She didn’t want to be a cash cow for someone else’s family.

She chose herself—her money, her freedom, her peace of mind.

And she never regretted it.

Kirill said it without even lifting his eyes from his phone. He sat in the kitchen in his briefs and a tank top, chewing a sandwich and scrolling his feed as if he’d just casually mentioned that it might rain tomorrow.

“Your career can wait! My mom is coming, and you’re going to stay with her. This isn’t up for discussion!”

I froze at the stove, a small coffee pot clutched in my hands.

My first impulse was to hurl the scalding coffee straight into my husband’s smug face. The second was to turn on my heel and leave—slamming the door hard enough to shake the plaster loose.

“Say that again, please,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Oh, Lena, don’t be such a child,” he finally looked up, irritation flickering across his face. “My mom’s sick. She can’t be alone. And you’re at the office all day. Look at you—some big boss now, huh?”

Outside, an October drizzle smeared the world in gray.

I stared at him… the man I’d been with for seven years. The man I’d had a child with, shared a bed with, shared debts with, shared plans for the future with. And I didn’t recognize him.

“Kirill, I’m the head of marketing at a company turning over half a billion rubles. I manage eight employees and a twenty-million-ruble project.”

“And?” He shrugged like it meant nothing. “They’ll find another manager. But I’ve only got one mom.”

The pot trembled slightly in my hands. The coffee began to rise.

“And you only have one son too, by the way.”

“Sasha’s in daycare all day—he’s not a problem. But my mom needs constant care.”

I took the pot off the burner and poured coffee into two cups as slowly as I could. I needed time to think.

My mother-in-law, Galina Petrovna, really had broken her leg recently. But “sick and helpless” was an absurd exaggeration.

At sixty-five she had more energy than most forty-year-olds: theater nights, meetups with friends, and an unstoppable habit of poking her nose into our family life every time she visited.

“When is she coming?” I asked.

“Next week. Monday.”

So he’d already decided everything. Talked it through with Mommy, built a plan, and then presented it to me as a done deal—like I was hired help being assigned a new shift.

“And what, you can’t work from home? You’re freelance, aren’t you?”

“Lena, you know a man can’t take care of an old woman. That’s not a man’s job.”

Not a man’s job!

But supporting the family while he’s been “finding himself” in design for the third year straight—that’s apparently a woman’s job. Paying the mortgage, covering daycare, buying groceries—also a woman’s job. And losing my job for his mother? Naturally expected.

 

“Kirill, what if I refuse?”

He looked at me like I’d asked what would happen if the sun didn’t rise tomorrow.

“Lena, don’t be stupid. My mom gave birth to me, raised me, devoted her whole life to me. And now I’m supposed to abandon her? You’re not a stranger, after all.”

There it was. “Not a stranger.” Meaning I was obligated to sacrifice everything for his mother. And the fact that I had my own life, my own plans, a career I’d built for ten years—that was just background noise.

I sat down across from him and wrapped my hands around the cup. The coffee burned my fingers, but the sting helped me focus.

“Fine,” I said. “Give me a little time to think.”

“What is there to think about?” Kirill was already turning back to his phone. “You’ll write a resignation letter and work your two weeks. End of story!”

And in that moment it clicked. He truly believed I would simply obey. No discussion. No compromise. Because I’m the wife. Because that’s how it’s “supposed” to be. Because Mommy needs it.

“Of course, darling,” I said in a honey-sweet voice. “Everything will be exactly the way you want.”

He didn’t even notice the sarcasm.

At work I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I sat through the daily meeting, nodded along, discussed layouts for a new campaign—while his words kept echoing in my head: “Your career can wait!”

“Lena, are you okay?” my deputy Oksana asked. “You’re pale. Something happened?”

“Just home stuff,” I waved it off.

By the end of the day, a plan had taken shape. Not the noblest plan—but a fair one. If my husband wanted to play a game where my opinion didn’t matter, fine. But I’d be the one writing the rules.

I knocked on the door of Marina Vladimirovna, our CEO. We’d worked together for five years and built real trust.

“Marina Vladimirovna, can I talk to you? Confidentially.”

“Of course, Lena. Sit down. What’s going on?”

I told her everything—my husband, my mother-in-law, the ultimatum. Then I explained what I wanted to do.

“I need unpaid leave. Two months—maybe a little more, maybe less. We’ll say it’s to care for a sick relative. Officially, I stay on the payroll, but I won’t be working.”

“And where’s the catch?” Marina Vladimirovna narrowed her eyes. She was experienced; she could tell I wasn’t being fully transparent.

“If my husband calls or comes here, I need you to tell him I quit. That I resigned voluntarily.”

Marina Vladimirovna was silent for a second—and then she laughed.

“Lena, you’re clever. You’re going to teach your tyrant a lesson?”

“Something like that. I want him to feel what it’s like when someone decides your life for you.”

“And what are you going to do at home—play housewife?”

“No. I’m going to be the most attentive daughter-in-law in the world,” I smiled. “So attentive they’ll get tired of it faster than they expect.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let the men learn a lesson. But with one condition: in two months you’re back. I’ve got a project that can’t run without you.”

“I think it’ll be sooner,” I assured her. “Thank you so much. I won’t forget this.”

I went home light and happy. For the first time in days, I felt like I was in control.

Kirill, as always, was in the kitchen with his phone. Sasha was building a tower of blocks in his room. A peaceful family evening—if you ignored the fact that my small rebellion was about to begin.

“Kir,” I said, dropping my bag onto the table. “I wrote my resignation.”

He lifted his head, and I immediately saw how surprised he was. Apparently he hadn’t expected me to fold so quickly.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Absolutely. You’re right—family comes first. Your mom is sick, she needs care. And I can always find another job later.”

Kirill broke into a satisfied grin. His plan was working even better than he’d imagined.

“Good job, Lena. I knew you’d understand. Mom will be very happy.”

“Of course she will,” I said. “By the way, when exactly is she arriving?”

“Monday morning. I told you! The train gets in at eight.”

“Perfect. That gives me the weekend to prepare. I want to meet her fully armed.”

“What do you mean, ‘fully armed’?”

“I mean I’m going to learn everything about caring for someone with a fracture—put together a rehab routine, a meal plan. If I’m responsible for her health now, I’m going to do it professionally.”

Kirill nodded, but I caught a flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d probably expected resistance, not enthusiasm like this.

“Lena… you’re really not upset? I just thought you’d… complain more.”

“Why would I?” I shrugged. “You’re the man, the head of the household. If you think this is best, then that’s how it’ll be. I’ll be the best wife and daughter-in-law you’ve ever seen. You’ll see.”

Now he looked genuinely worried. I’d agreed too smoothly—too brightly for someone who’d been arguing just yesterday.

“Lena, are you sick or something?”

“Why would you ask that?” I feigned surprise.

“I don’t know… this is just weird.”

“Kir, you’re the one who wanted me to be a housewife. So I decided to be the perfect one. Your mother will get care she’s never had in her life.”

And that part was true. Galina Petrovna would absolutely get care—care she would remember with a shudder.

Saturday morning, I woke up at six and got to work. My husband was still asleep while I was already making shopping lists and reading up online about caring for older people with fractures.

“Lena, why are you up so early?” Kirill shuffled into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing his lounge shorts.

“Preparing for your mom’s arrival, darling,” I chirped. “Look what I found!”

I held up a printed article about therapeutic diets for bone fractures.

“Turns out older people need a special menu. Lots of calcium, vitamin D, protein. No sweets, no fatty food, no salty food. And meals must be strictly scheduled—small portions every three hours.”

“Oh, come on,” Kirill yawned. “Mom’s not disabled. Regular food is fine.”

“Kirill!” I snapped. “How can you say that? Your mother is trusting us with her health. I can’t let her down.”

“But why make it so complicated…?”

“No complications,” I cut him off. “If I’m a housewife now, I’m going to do it properly. And I also read about rehabilitation exercises—every day, thirty minutes minimum, or the muscles start wasting away.”

Panic flashed in his eyes.

 

“Lena, maybe don’t go overboard? Mom came to rest, not to a rehab clinic.”

“To rest?” I widened my eyes. “Kir, she has a fracture! That’s serious. Without proper care there can be complications—blood clots, pneumonia…”

“Where are you even getting all this?”

“Research,” I said proudly. “I read medical articles all night. And I already ordered orthopedic pillows, a massage mat, and a special four-pronged cane.”

Kirill sat down at the table and stared at me.

“Lena, maybe we’re exaggerating?”

“We’re not exaggerating—we’re finally taking your mother’s health seriously,” I lectured. “And by the way, you’ll have to help too.”

“Me? But you said you’d—”

“Darling, I’ll cook, clean, manage her meds. But lifting your mom and helping her to the bathroom—that’s a man’s job. My back is weak; I could injure myself.”

“But you just said you could handle it…”

“And I will. We will—together. Like a real family!”

By Saturday evening, Kirill was visibly on edge. I dashed around the house with the intensity of a factory hero, rearranging furniture to create a “barrier-free environment,” buying half the pharmacy’s supply of supplements for bone strength.

“Lena, stop,” he begged when I moved the armchair in the living room for the third time.

“I can’t stop—your mom arrives tomorrow!” I panted. “By the way, we need to discuss the duty schedule.”

“What duty schedule?”

“Well, someone has to check on her at night. After fractures people get pain, they may need help. We’ll take turns—one hour you, one hour me.”

“Lena, have you lost your mind? What night shifts?”

“Kirill,” I said sternly, “this is your mother. Don’t you care about her well-being?”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him time to argue.

“And I booked her with three doctors next week: an orthopedist, a cardiologist, and an endocrinologist. At her age she needs a full workup.”

“But she didn’t ask for any of that…”

“Whether she asked or not doesn’t matter. We’re responsible for her.”

Sunday, I woke up even earlier and started cooking a “diet borscht” with no sautéing and no salt. Kirill came into the kitchen looking like a storm cloud.

“Listen, Lena… maybe we should rent Mom her own apartment. Or put her in a sanatorium?”

“Kirill!” I threw my hands up. “How can you even say that? Your mother needs family warmth, the care of loved ones. And you want to hand her over to strangers?”

“But all these procedures, schedules…”

“It’s necessary,” I said firmly. “I’m not working anymore—I can devote myself fully to caring for her. By the way, I made a list of things we still need.”

I handed him a sheet: a bedpan, rubber gloves, a blood-pressure monitor, a glucose meter, special underwear, an anti-bedsore mattress…

“An anti-bedsore mattress?” he read aloud. “Lena, she’s not bedridden!”

“Not yet. Prevention is better than treatment.”

By Sunday night, Kirill looked like he wasn’t waiting for his mother—he was waiting for his own funeral.

“Lena… what if we postpone her trip? Say we’re renovating or something…”

“Absolutely not!” I huffed. “That poor woman already packed and bought a ticket. No—we’ll meet her properly. With love and care.”

Kirill let out a doomed sigh.

Galina Petrovna arrived Monday morning with two suitcases and expectations of a quiet vacation at her son’s place. She had no idea she’d walked straight into the arms of the most “caring” daughter-in-law on earth.

“Galina Petrovna, my dear!” I greeted her right in the entryway with open arms. “Finally! We’ve been so worried about your health!”

“Oh, what’s there to worry about, Lena,” she waved it off. “My leg’s almost healed. They’ll take the cast off in a week or two.”

“In a week?!” I gasped. “Mom, you can’t be serious! After the cast comes off, the most important stage begins—rehab. At least a month of recovery, maybe more!”

Kirill stood next to his mother looking like a man on death row.

“Mom… come in, sit down,” he mumbled.

“Do not sit!” I cut in. “You need to lie down. Long trip, stress—it’s terrible for bone tissue.”

I escorted my stunned mother-in-law to the bedroom, where an orthopedic bed I’d ordered the day before already stood waiting.

“What is this?” Galina Petrovna asked, staring at the adjustable medical bed with side rails.

“A special medical bed for injuries of the musculoskeletal system,” I explained. “The angle adjusts, the rails keep you safe. And the mattress is anti-bedsore.”

“Anti-bedsore?” she blanched. “Lena, I’m not bedridden!”

“Not yet,” I agreed darkly. “But at your age complications develop quickly. Better safe than sorry.”

The next days turned into a living nightmare. I had Galina Petrovna up at seven each morning for blood pressure and pulse checks.

“Mom, time to get up—morning exercises!”

“What exercises?” she groaned.

“Therapeutic ones! Without movement, muscles waste away. Breathing drills, joint mobility exercises, foot massage—everything according to medical guidelines.”

At eight: breakfast—plain diet porridge without salt or sugar, plus vitamin boosters.

“Lena, this is impossible to eat,” Galina Petrovna complained.

“But it helps your bones recover,” I replied, unwavering. “And after breakfast—supplements. Don’t forget!”

On the table stood a full battalion of jars and packets: calcium, magnesium, vitamin D3, collagen, chondroitin, omega-3.

“How much is all this costing?” Kirill whispered in horror.

“Health is more important than money!” I said. “And we also need glucosamine and hyaluronic acid—for the joints.”

By the end of the first week, Kirill looked squeezed dry. Night “shifts,” constant pharmacy runs, his mother’s complaints—everything exhausted him more than years of freelancing ever had.

“Lena,” he said Friday evening, “maybe we can loosen the schedule a little? Mom’s tired…”

“Tired?” I snapped. “Rehab isn’t a vacation. If we want your mother healthy, we work. And by the way…”

I pulled out a notebook with calculations.

“We’re running out of money for treatment.”

“Running out?” he blinked. “How?”

“Like this. Special food, supplements, medical equipment, orthopedic supplies—it’s expensive. We spent two hundred thousand in a week.”

“Two hundred thousand?!” Kirill went pale.

“And that’s only the beginning. Tomorrow we need a new round of vitamins, to order a massage chair, to pay for doctor visits. Another hundred thousand at least.”

“Lena, maybe we can skip the massage chair?”

“Kirill!” I gave him a wounded look. “That’s your mother. You want to save money on her health? A massage chair improves circulation and prevents blood clots. Or would you rather deal with a stroke later?”

“But we don’t have that kind of money…”

“Of course we don’t—because I’m not working anymore. We’ll have to spend your savings. But it’s for Mom…”

Kirill buried his face in his hands.

“Lena, maybe you should go back to work after all?”

“How can I?” I said, feigning astonishment. “Your mother needs constant care. Besides, I ‘quit’ because you insisted. They already replaced me.”

“But the money…”

“We’ll find money. Pull out your stash.”

“There isn’t much…”

“How much is ‘not much’?”

“Three hundred thousand,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Perfect,” I said brightly. “That’ll cover about a month. And then we’ll see.”

Galina Petrovna shuffled into the kitchen in her robe, worn out and furious.

“Lena, I can’t eat this grass anymore,” she complained. “And why do I have to swallow pills every two hours?”

“Mom, those aren’t pills—they’re vitamins,” I said patiently. “For recovery. And tomorrow is a very important day: a dietitian and a massage therapist.”

 

“A dietitian? For what?”

“I think our menu needs professional adjustment.”

Kirill watched us with the expression of a man realizing he’s trapped.

The next Monday, I woke Galina Petrovna at six-thirty for breathing exercises.

“Mom, up we go! Big day today: procedures first, then an osteopath, and in the evening—lymph drainage massage.”

“Lena,” she moaned, “I can’t do this anymore. Every day the same thing. I can’t eat what I want, I can’t sleep when I want…”

“It’s temporary,” I chirped, reaching for the blood-pressure cuff. “In a month or two you’ll be good as new! By the way, the doctor said we need to increase your calcium dose. And add another joint supplement.”

“Another supplement?” Kirill appeared in the doorway, looking terrified.

“High-strength glucosamine. A bit pricey—five thousand per box—but the results are incredible.”

“Lena, I don’t have any money left,” he croaked.

“How can you not? The savings?”

“Spent them. Every last bit.”

“Really?” I widened my eyes. “That was fast. Oh well—then we’ll sell something. Mom’s health comes first!”

That was the moment Galina Petrovna sat up in bed and declared, voice sharp and final:

“That’s it. Enough. I’m not disabled and I’m not dying. It’s a simple fracture that’s almost healed. I’m not eating this tasteless food, I’m not swallowing mountains of supplements, and I’m not getting up at dawn for gymnastics!”

“But Mom—”

“No ‘but’!” she snapped. “Kirill, pack my things. I’m going home. Today.”

“Mom, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Better to be alone at home than in this madhouse. Lena, thank you for your ‘care,’ but this isn’t care anymore—it’s torture!”

I tried to protest.

“But Mom, rehab isn’t finished yet—”

“Finished, finished!” she waved me off. “I’m buying a ticket for the next train.”

Three hours later Galina Petrovna climbed into a taxi with her suitcases, leaving us alone with the medical bed, the pile of vitamins, and the sense that my plan had worked a little too well.

“That’s it. Finally,” Kirill said, watching his mother disappear.

He sank onto the couch and stared at the floor.

“You know,” he went on quietly, “I realized something. I was a complete idiot. I decided everything for you, forced you to quit, never even asked what you wanted.”

I stayed silent, letting him speak.

“It was your career. Your life. And I treated it like you weren’t a person at all—like you were some kind of… maid. I’m sorry. Please.”

His voice carried real remorse.

“If you want, you can start looking for a new job. I’ll never interfere again. I swear.”

I sat down beside him.

“Kir… I have news for you.”

“What now?” he asked, exhausted.

“I didn’t quit.”

He looked up, confused.

“What do you mean you didn’t quit?”

“I took unpaid leave. And I arranged it so that if you called my office or came in, they’d tell you I resigned.”

He sat there for a few seconds, processing it.

“So you… lied this whole time? You set me up?”

“I set you both up,” I admitted. “I wanted you to feel what it’s like when someone decides everything for you. I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

He stared at me, not blinking.

“So you did all that to my mom on purpose?”

“I didn’t torment her. The diet, the exercises, the supplements—those things really can help after fractures. It’s just that this level of care is usually for very serious cases, not a simple break.”

“And the money—you spent it on purpose too?”

“Of course,” I said. “You told me health is more important than money. So I took your words and made them real.”

Kirill rubbed his face with both hands.

“God… I was such an idiot.”

“You were,” I agreed. “But I think you won’t be again.”

“Lena, I’m sorry. For everything. For not valuing your work. For making decisions for you. I truly understand now—you have a right to your own life.”

“And my career?” I asked.

“And your career,” he nodded. “Grow, thrive—do whatever you want. I’ll be proud, not threatened.”

I wrapped my arms around him.

“You know what’s funniest? Your mom is going to tell all her friends what a devoted daughter-in-law she has. She just might also add that it’s better to stay far away from that kind of devotion.”

Kirill finally smiled.

“So what now?”

“Tomorrow I’m back at the office. I’ve got a twenty-million-ruble project waiting. And at home, we’re going to be a normal family—where decisions are made together.”

“Deal. And… Lena, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Can you make a normal dinner? I miss real food.”

I laughed.

“Sure. I’ll even add salt.”

The next morning, I walked into the office feeling like I’d won. The lesson was harsh—but fair. And most importantly, it worked.

 

The couch had sagged under Maksim so much that it formed a perfect hollow shaped like his body. Three months was plenty of time for furniture to memorize its owner. The monitor pulsed with a bluish-green light, reflected in his tired eyes. Somewhere in the background, music from the game droned on, and his fingers moved over the keyboard automatically.

“Max, are you even listening to me?” Anya’s voice sliced through his focus like a knife through butter.

“Mm-hm,” he mumbled without looking away from the screen. Five more minutes and he’d beat the level. Just five minutes.

“I’m serious. We need to talk. Now.”

Something in his wife’s tone made Maksim hit pause. He turned and saw Anya standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. A bad sign. A very bad sign.

“What’s wrong?” he tried to sound concerned, though inside he was already regretting being pulled away from the game.

“What’s wrong?” She gave a bitter half-smile. “What’s wrong is my parents just sent us another twenty thousand. For the third time in two months, Max. The third time.”

Maksim shrugged.

“So what? They offered to help until I find something suitable. Your dad said himself he was willing to support us.”

“Suitable!” Anya threw her hands up. “You’ve already been offered three jobs! Three normal positions with decent pay!”

“Anya, come on. That place out in the industrial district—it’s an hour and a half each way. I’d spend three hours a day in traffic!”

“And the second job?”

“The salary was fifteen percent lower than what I used to make,” Maksim grimaced as if she’d suggested something insulting. “I’m an experienced specialist. I can’t devalue myself in the job market.”

“Devalue,” Anya repeated, and there was steel in her voice. “And what about the third option? Good pay, and the office was twenty minutes from home.”

Maksim looked away. Yes, the third one was decent. But the interview had been painfully dull, the HR manager seemed smug, and the would-be boss was too young. He didn’t want to work in that kind of atmosphere. He had the right to choose where he worked, didn’t he?

“The team was weird,” he muttered. “Not for me.”

“Not for you,” Anya echoed. She walked to the window and stared at the evening city. “So what is for you, Max? The couch? Your games? Living off my parents’ money—that suits you?”

“I’m looking for work!” he snapped. “The market’s terrible right now, okay? Crisis, layoffs… you can’t just grab the first thing you see!”

“You’re looking for work,” Anya said slowly, still facing the window. “Tell me—when was the last time you sent out a résumé?”

Maksim hesitated. When was it? A week ago? Two? Or more? He’d meant to do it—he really had—but first he needed to finish one hard quest, then an update came out, then…

“Last week,” he lied. “Sent five or so.”

“You’re lying,” Anya said calmly, turning to him. “I checked your browser history. The last time you visited a job site was three weeks ago. Three weeks, Max. And the rest of the time—games, streams, forums.”

His cheeks burned with outrage. How dare she check his browser? That was a violation of privacy.

“You went through my computer?” his voice rose. “Is that supposed to be normal?”

“Normal?” Anya stepped toward him, and he saw her eyes glistening with tears she was holding back. “You want to talk about normal? Is it normal for a grown man to sit at home all day playing games while his wife works two jobs? Is it normal for my parents—who saved their whole lives for retirement—to be supporting a healthy freeloader?”

“I’m not a freeloader!” Maksim shouted, springing off the couch. “I’m waiting for a decent offer! I’m a professional, I’m not selling myself for pennies!”

“My parents are not obligated to support you, my dear—whether they have money or not!” Anya yelled, her voice cracking at the end. “Get off that couch and find a job. Any job. I can’t live like this anymore!”

 

Silence dropped over the room—heavy, ringing, full of unsaid blame and hurt. Maksim felt adrenaline boiling in his veins, the urge to keep shouting, to justify himself, to accuse her of not understanding. But when he looked at his wife’s face, he saw something that made him stop.

Exhaustion. Vast, bottomless exhaustion.

“I’m giving you a week,” Anya said quietly. “Seven days. You find a job—any job—or you move out. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You’re joking,” Maksim whispered, thrown off balance. “Anya, this is our home.”

“No,” she shook her head. “It’s my home. My parents gave me this apartment as a wedding present, remember? It’s in my name. And I have every right to decide who lives here.”

“But we’re married!”

“Then act like a husband,” she said, turning toward the door. “A week, Max. Seven days.”

The bedroom door slammed behind her with terrifying finality.

For the first two days, Maksim told himself Anya had just snapped—that it was an empty threat, that everything would settle down. She flared up sometimes, but she always cooled off. He just had to wait out the storm.

He kept playing, though now he turned the volume down when he heard her footsteps and tried, at least, to look busy. He’d open a couple of job sites in another tab—just in case she walked in to check.

Anya barely spoke to him. She came home late, ate dinner in silence, shut herself in the bedroom. At night Maksim heard her crying, but he didn’t know what to say. It felt unfair. He hadn’t lost his job on purpose—the company collapsed, the whole department got cut. That wasn’t his fault. Why should he grab the first offer? He’d earned the right to wait for something worthwhile.

On the third morning, his phone rang. An unknown number.

“Maksim Igorevich? This is Olga from Career Recruiting Agency. I’d like to discuss a sales manager position at—”

He didn’t even let her finish. Sales? He’d never worked in sales and never planned to. That wasn’t his field. He refused politely and hung up.

An hour later, another call. This time it was a technical specialist role with travel to client sites. The pay was even a bit higher than his old job, but Maksim immediately pictured himself hauling heavy equipment around offices, sitting in traffic, dealing with irritated customers. No. Not for him. He was a technical expert, not a courier with a toolbox.

By the evening of the fourth day, Anya silently placed a sheet of paper in front of him. An address and a time—two interviews scheduled for tomorrow.

“I found these openings myself,” she said in a flat voice. “I set up the meetings. You’re going.”

It didn’t sound like a request. It sounded like an order.

“Anya, but I don’t even know what these companies are—”

“You have three days left,” she cut him off. “Three days, Max. I’m not joking.”

On the morning of the fifth day, Maksim reluctantly pulled on the suit he hadn’t worn since his last day at work and went to the first interview. The firm was small, the office cramped and noisy, and his would-be coworkers watched him with poorly hidden skepticism. The position demanded irregular hours and a willingness to “grow with the company,” which usually meant working for an intern’s pay while being fed promises of a bright future.

“We’re a young startup,” the manager said with contagious enthusiasm—a twenty-five-year-old with fanatic fire in his eyes. “We’re changing the market! Yes, at first you’ll have to grind, but later, when we take off—”

Maksim listened with half an ear, thinking only about how to leave as fast as possible.

The second interview was a little better. A normal company, a reasonable director, a sensible salary. Only they needed him to start the day after tomorrow, and Maksim wasn’t mentally ready. He needed time to think it over, weigh the pros and cons, maybe negotiate improved terms…

“We’ll make a decision within two days,” the director said as they said goodbye. “If we approve you, we’ll call.”

That evening Anya asked how it went. Maksim muttered something vague about prospects and opportunities, not mentioning that the first job was a joke to him, and that at the second he hadn’t exactly tried to impress.

The sixth day slipped by in anxious emptiness. No calls. Maksim sat at his computer, but even games no longer felt good. He sensed the pressure closing in, but he still hoped Anya would back down, forgive him, give him more time.

The seventh day began with a call. The second company offered him the position. He could start as soon as tomorrow. Maksim asked for a day to think—this was an important decision; you couldn’t make it in a rush.

“Alright,” they said. “We’ll wait for your answer until this evening.”

He ended the call and went still. There it was—a real offer. Normal work, decent money, close to home. He just had to say yes. One word.

But something inside him dug in its heels. What if something better showed up tomorrow? What if he rushed and missed a truly great chance? Maybe he should wait just a little longer.

That evening Anya came home and quietly started packing his things into a bag.

“What are you doing?” he sprang up from the couch.

“Seven days are up,” she said evenly, though her hands were shaking. “Did you find a job?”

“I got an offer!” he blurted. “They called this morning! I start tomorrow!”

She froze with his shirt in her hands, then slowly turned to him.

“Really?”

“Yes. I swear. Want me to show you the call on my phone?”

Anya sank onto the edge of the bed. For a moment, hope flickered on her face—small, cautious, but real.

“And you accepted? You gave them a definite answer?”

Maksim hesitated. Just a second—but it was enough.

“I… I said I’d give them my answer tonight. But I’ll take it, of course! I just wanted to think it through…”

The hope went out. Anya stood up again and kept folding his clothes.

“Anya, wait! I’m telling you I’ll say yes! I’ll call right now and confirm!”

“No,” she said softly. “Don’t. I understand now. You were hoping until the very last moment that I’d back down, weren’t you? That I’d give you more time—another week, another month. And then more. You would’ve sat on that couch while my parents spent their last savings.”

“That’s not true!” His voice sounded desperate even to himself. “I really was looking! I went to interviews!”

“You went because I forced you to,” she said, zipping the bag and holding it out to him. “You don’t want to work, Max. You want to be comfortable. You want everything to be perfect—prestigious job, high salary, short commute, pleasant team. But life doesn’t work like that. Sometimes you do things you don’t like because you have responsibilities. Because you’re an adult.”

“I am an adult!” he almost shouted.

“No,” she shook her head. “Adults take responsibility for their choices. Adults don’t live off other people. Adults don’t lie to their wives and hide from reality in computer games.”

Maksim wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Because somewhere deep down, he knew she was right. He’d watched her work two jobs, come home drained, look anxiously at the bills. He’d heard her father joke that he had to postpone repairs at the country house because “the young ones need help.” Maksim had seen all of it—and he’d refused to feel guilty. Because admitting guilt meant admitting he’d failed, that he’d messed up, that he couldn’t handle it.

“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. “I really didn’t.”

“I know,” sadness crept into her voice. “But what we mean isn’t enough. What matters is what we do. And you did nothing.”

She opened the door, and Maksim understood this was the end. Real. Final.

“Anya…”

“Go stay with your parents,” she said without looking at him. “Pull yourself together. Find a job—any job. Maybe when you’re yourself again, we’ll be able to talk. Or maybe we won’t.”

He took the bag and stepped into the hallway. He turned back—she stood in the doorway, pale, eyes red, but determined to go through with it.

 

“I love you,” Anya said. “But that’s not enough. I’m sorry.”

The door closed.

His parents received him in silence. His mother lifted her hands in alarm, his father frowned, but no one asked questions. They made a bed for him in his old room, where student-year posters still hung and textbooks gathered dust on the shelf.

That first night, Maksim didn’t sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling, replaying the last few months. How it had started with a simple, “I’ll take a short break,” how the break turned into weeks, the weeks into months. How every day he pushed unpleasant decisions to “tomorrow,” hoping tomorrow would somehow solve itself.

In the morning, he called the company that had offered him the job. He apologized for being late with his answer and said he accepted. He’d start the very next day.

“I’m sorry,” the secretary replied. “But last night we hired another candidate. We waited for your call until six p.m., like we agreed. After that, we offered the position to the next person on the list.”

Maksim lowered his phone. So this was what it felt like—missing a chance. Not an abstract idea, but something real and concrete.

The days that followed blurred into a haze of searches, calls, interviews. He sent out résumés by the dozen, went to meetings without even properly learning what the companies did. He just went—because sitting still had become unbearable.

Two weeks later, he got an offer. Not the most prestigious job, not the best salary. An ordinary specialist position at a mid-sized company. But it was work. Maksim accepted on the spot.

On his first day, walking home—to his parents’ place, because he had no other home now—he texted Anya: “Started work today. I’m sorry for everything.”

Her reply came a few hours later: “I’m glad for you. But I filed for divorce this morning. I’m sorry.”

Maksim sat down on a bench by the entrance and stared at the phone for a long time. He had finally done what was expected of him—but it turned out he’d done it too late.

Some mistakes can be fixed. Others can’t. No matter how correct your next steps are, they don’t erase the consequences of earlier choices—or, more precisely, earlier inaction.

He stood up and went inside—to a house that would never truly be his. Because his home, his life, his future were still back there, behind a closed door, in the apartment he’d essentially lost by refusing to change until it was too late. Not his wife’s cruelty, not spite, not injustice—just the simple unwillingness to grow up before the deadline hit.

And that was the bitterest truth he’d ever had to admit.

Marina heard the front door creak earlier than usual. Friday, five-thirty—Igor never came home that early. She hurried to slide the shoebox from her new boots under the couch, but she instantly knew she hadn’t made it in time: her husband was already in the living room doorway, and his eyes were locked on her feet.

She was wearing the boots. Suede, deep bitter-chocolate brown, on a steady heel. She’d admired them in the boutique window for ages, walking past the shop every day on her way to work.

“New?” Igor asked. His voice was controlled, but Marina could hear the tension in it.

“Yes,” she said, deciding not to twist herself into excuses. “I bought them today.”

Igor slowly took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. Then he unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He did it all without a word, and that silence was louder than any accusation.

“Did we talk about boots?” he finally asked, sitting down on the couch.

“No, we didn’t.”

“Exactly. We didn’t.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Marina, how many times do we have to go over this? We have rules. Anything that isn’t groceries or small household stuff gets discussed. Together. Remember that word—‘together’?”

That familiar irritation began to boil in Marina’s chest. That tone—patronizing, lecturing—the kind that made her want to throw something heavy at him.

“Igor, this is my money,” she said as evenly as she could.

He gave a short scoff.

 

“Your money? We have a joint budget, in case you forgot. Shared income, shared spending, shared responsibility.”

“I bought these boots with my own money. Not from the joint budget.”

Igor’s forehead creased.

“What are you talking about? What ‘own money’? Did you start keeping a stash?”

“I sold my things,” Marina stood and crossed her arms. “Old jewelry my grandmother left me—pieces I never wore. I listed them online, found a buyer. That money is mine. I didn’t take it from our household budget.”

Igor’s face flushed an unhealthy red.

“Wait, wait,” he lifted a hand. “You sold family valuables and didn’t even consult me?”

“They were my family valuables. From my side.”

“We’re one family!” Igor’s voice rose. “Everything we have belongs to both of us. The apartment, the car, the furniture—even those earrings of yours from your grandmother!”

“Oh, is that so?” Marina felt the last of her restraint crack. “So when you bought yourself those new headphones for twenty thousand, did you consult me? When you ordered that outrageously expensive knife set, did you ask what I thought?”

“That’s different,” Igor snapped, jumping up. “I need the headphones for work. And the knives are an investment—in the house, in our kitchen.”

“And I need boots for work!” Marina shot back. “I go into the office every day, I meet clients. Or do you think I should look like I crawled out of a shelter?”

“Don’t exaggerate! You’ve got a whole closet full of shoes!”

“Old shoes! Shoes I wore before we even got married!” Marina paced the room, her voice trembling with contained anger. “You know what, Igor? I’m tired. Tired of counting every ruble I spend on myself. Tired of explaining every lipstick, every cream. Meanwhile you calmly buy whatever you want and don’t even mention it!”

“Because I earn more!” Igor barked. “I bring the main money into this house. I pay for this apartment, for the car, for everything!”

A heavy silence fell. Marina stared at him, and for the first time in a long time she truly saw him—red-faced, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with superiority. When had he become this person? Or had he always been this way, and she’d simply chosen not to notice?

“Understood,” she said quietly. “So because you earn more, you get to tell me how I’m allowed to spend money?”

“I’m not telling you—I’m asking you to follow our agreements!”

“Agreements you break whenever it suits you!”

“Marina, this is ridiculous!” Igor grabbed his head. “I manage our budget, I make sure we don’t spend more than we earn. Do you even know how much we pay every month for utilities? For food? For your mother, who we help?”

“My mother?” Marina’s voice turned ice-cold. “We give my mother five thousand a month. But last month you sent your parents fifty thousand for repairs at their dacha, and I didn’t say a single word.”

“That was different! That was an emergency!”

“Of course—an emergency,” Marina said sharply. “Like the new fishing rod you bought in spring for fifteen thousand. Extremely urgent.”

Igor jerked his head as if brushing off a fly.

“What does the fishing rod have to do with anything? We’re talking about your boots!”

“No, Igor. We’re talking about your double standards.” Marina stepped closer and met his gaze head-on. “You can spend money on your hobbies and your wants without asking me. But I’m expected to account for every purchase. I’m supposed to ask permission to buy boots. With my own money, by the way.”

“Enough!” Igor blurted—and then froze, as if he’d startled himself. “Calm down. You have nothing to do with that money and you never will. Got it?”

Marina took a step back. Something inside her went cold and empty.

“Say it again,” she whispered. “I have nothing to do with the money?”

Igor dragged a hand over his face.

“That’s not what I meant…”

“No, you said exactly what you meant.” Marina’s voice stayed low, but it cut like a blade. “Me—who works eight hours a day. Me—who saves on myself so there’s a cushion in the budget. Me—who hasn’t bought anything new in almost a year.”

“Marina…”

“You know what’s almost funny?” She lowered herself onto the edge of the armchair, suddenly exhausted. “I didn’t sell my grandmother’s jewelry just for boots. I wanted a gym membership. I wanted English classes so I could qualify for a promotion. But then I thought—why? You’d still find a reason it was wrong. A reason it was ‘unnecessary.’ A reason I should’ve asked you first.”

“That’s not true…”

“It is true!” She shot to her feet, words rushing out in a torrent. “You monitor every purchase I make, but you act like you can buy anything you want. Remember when you ordered that gaming console for thirty thousand? I only found out when the courier brought it! And you said it was ‘for relaxing after work.’ But when I wanted a new phone because my old one is dying, you put me on trial: ‘Do you really need it? Maybe it’ll last longer? Let’s wait a couple months.’”

Igor opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“And do you know what hurts the most? Not even the money. It’s that you don’t see the problem. You honestly believe that because you earn more, you get to decide how we live.”

“I just want us to be financially stable!”

“Lie,” Marina said, nearly shouting now. “You want control. You want me dependent on you—asking, explaining, justifying!”

“That’s paranoia…”

“Paranoia?” She gave a bitter laugh. “Fine. Let’s test it. How many times in the last year did you ask my opinion before you spent more than five thousand?”

Igor said nothing.

“Exactly.” Marina nodded. “And how many times did you interrogate me when I bought something more expensive than a thousand? Every time. Every damn time.”

“Because we have to be rational!” Igor exploded. “We can’t just throw money around! We’re saving for a vacation, a new car, the future!”

Your future. Your vacation. Your car!” Marina stepped right up to him. “When was the last time you asked where I want to go? What car I would choose? What I want out of life?”

“We talked about it…”

“Three years ago—before the wedding!” Marina fired back. “Since then you’ve made every decision alone. ‘Marina, we’re spending the summer at my parents.’ ‘Marina, I decided we’re getting this model of car.’ ‘Marina, I booked us a table at this restaurant.’ I’ve turned into an add-on to your life.”

Igor turned toward the window. The silence stretched. Somewhere behind the wall, a neighbor turned on the TV—muted laughter from some show drifted into the room.

“What do you want?” he asked finally, quietly.

“I want you to respect me,” Marina answered just as quietly. “I want the right to spend the money I earn without reporting every cent. I want you to admit that if you can buy things without permission, then I can too.”

“But I earn more…”

 

“And?” Marina sank onto the couch, suddenly feeling hollow. “Does that make me second-class? Does it mean I don’t get a voice?”

Igor turned to her. For the first time in the entire argument, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

“No, of course not…”

“Then why do you act like this?” Marina asked. “Why do I have to beg for permission to buy boots, while you calmly order another gadget whenever you feel like it?”

He stayed silent, staring at the floor.

“You know, Igor,” Marina leaned back, “I’m tired of more than the money control. I’m tired—period. Because all the housework is on me, too. Remember how you promised you’d help around the house? When we first moved in together, you said, ‘Of course, sweetheart—we’ll split everything fifty-fifty.’”

“I do help…”

“You take out the trash. Sometimes. After I ask. Three times.” She looked straight at him. “Who cooks dinner every day? Who does the laundry? Who irons your shirts? Who cleans the apartment? Who goes grocery shopping?”

“You get home earlier…”

“By an hour! I get home one hour earlier!” Her voice cracked. “And that means I’m supposed to carry the entire household? And I also pack your lunches. I make sure you have clean clothes. I schedule your doctor appointments, buy gifts for your relatives, remember every family date.” She shook her head, furious and hurt. “I’m basically your mother, for God’s sake—not your wife!”

Igor’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not fair…”

“Not fair?” Marina snapped, springing up. “You know what’s not fair? I come home from work and start my second shift. My weekends are cleaning and cooking while you play games or watch football. And you call it ‘help’ when you do something you should be doing anyway—because you’re an adult living in this apartment!”

“Fine!” Igor shouted. “What do you want—make a duty roster like summer camp?”

“Why not?” Marina walked to the dresser, grabbed a notebook and pen. “Let’s split responsibilities. Right now. Half and half. Fair.”

She opened the notebook and drew two columns.

“Cooking. Monday, Wednesday, Friday—me. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday—you. Sunday we cook together or we order in.”

“Marina, this is absurd…”

“Cleaning. I do the bathroom and bedroom; you do the kitchen and living room. Once a week. Laundry—we each wash our own. Groceries—we alternate or go together.” She kept writing without looking up. “Ironing—each person irons their own. Trash—you take it out every evening without being reminded. Dishes—the person who cooks doesn’t wash.”

“You’re serious?” Igor stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Completely.” Marina lifted her head. “Either we split things honestly, or I stop doing everything alone. Pick one.”

“But I don’t know how to cook!”

“You’ll learn. You have two degrees—you can handle pasta.”

“Marina, this is stupid. We’re adults. Why are we playing games?”

“This isn’t a game, Igor.” She set the notebook on the table. “It’s an attempt to save whatever is left of us. Because honestly, I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be your maid who also has to justify every expense. I don’t want to live like this.”

Something in her voice made Igor go still. For the first time, he understood this wasn’t another routine fight. This was a line—one more step and something would break.

“What are you saying?” he asked quietly.

Marina looked at him for a long moment.

“I’m saying I need change. Real change—not promises you forget in a week. You once promised you’d be my partner, not my boss. That we’d decide everything together. That we’d be a team.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “But we never became a team. You became the boss—and I became the subordinate. With money and at home.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Her voice softened. “You didn’t mean to. But this is where we ended up. And now we have to fix it.”

Igor sank onto the couch and covered his face with his hands. He sat that way, silent. Marina waited.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Alright. You’re right. I… I really didn’t see it. I didn’t think about it.”

“Because it was convenient not to.”

“Probably.” He lifted his head. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t want you to feel… like that.”

Marina sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him.

“I don’t want apologies, Igor. I want action. I want you to actually start doing your share at home. I want you to stop policing every ruble I spend. I want to feel equal in this relationship.”

He nodded without looking at her.

“And the list?” he asked.

“Take it.” Marina handed him the notebook. “Read it. Think about it. If something doesn’t work for you, propose your version. But it has to be fair. Truly fair.”

Igor took the notebook and scanned the lines. His face stayed unreadable.

“And the money?” he asked.

“The money is simple.” Marina’s tone was steady now. “My paycheck is mine. Yours is yours. We contribute equally to shared expenses—rent, groceries, the car. Whatever is left after that, each of us spends however we want. No reports. No permissions.” She paused. “Or we do it the other way: everything is split exactly in half—you get half, I get half, no matter who earns more. Choose.”

“But I make a lot more…”

“Exactly. So the first option is better for you.” She gave a small, dry smile. “But if you insist it’s all ‘shared money,’ then let’s share it honestly. Fifty-fifty. Then I’ll spend my half however I like, and you won’t say a word.”

Igor went quiet, clearly doing the math in his head.

“The first option,” he muttered at last. “Equal contributions for shared expenses.”

“Deal.” Marina stood. “Tomorrow we open a joint account. At the start of each month, we both transfer our share. Everything else stays personal.”

“And you’ll stop getting mad about what I buy?”

“If you stop getting mad about what I buy.” She met his gaze. “Fair trade?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Fair trade.”

Marina let out a slow breath. The tension in her shoulders eased a little. It was a beginning—only a beginning. There would still be plenty of talks ahead, arguments, adjustments. But it was a start at something new. Something more honest.

“I’ll go make dinner,” she said, turning toward the kitchen.

“Wait.” Igor stood up. “Let’s… let’s order something tonight. Pizza or sushi. On me.”

Marina turned back, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“To celebrate the new rules,” he said with an awkward smile. “And so you can rest. You’re right—I promised a lot and did very little. I want to try to fix it.”

“Try—or fix it?” Her voice held a teasing edge, but the anger was gone.

“Fix it,” Igor said firmly. “Really. Will you give me a chance?”

Marina looked at him—his guilty face, his tense posture, the way his fingers nervously worried the edge of the notebook. And she thought: maybe they still had a chance. If he truly was willing to change. If they both were.

“Okay,” she nodded. “Order. But starting next week, we live differently. By the list. And by fair rules.”

“By the list and fair rules,” Igor repeated. And for the first time that evening, he smiled for real.

 

Marina went into the bedroom, took off her new boots, and placed them in the closet. She looked at them—beautiful, comfortable, bought with her own money. Money she’d earned— or in this case, money she’d gotten from selling something that belonged only to her.

Those boots weren’t just shoes. They were a symbol. A reminder that she was a person, not an attachment to someone else’s life. That she had a right to her own decisions, her own money, her own opinion.

And if Igor could truly understand that and accept it, maybe they would make it.

And if not… well, those boots would still be useful—for something else: walking forward with confidence on her own road, wherever it might lead.

Lena stood at the window, staring at the rain-slick asphalt below. The downpour blurred the border between the sidewalk and the street until everything melted into one dull, gray smear. Her phone buzzed in her pocket — Igor. She rejected the call and muted the ringer.

Three days earlier, she had closed the savings deposit.

Seven hundred and eighty thousand rubles they’d been putting away for four years. Half of it was hers — bonuses and vacation pay she’d never touched while Igor kept buying his mother a new TV, paying for her health-resort voucher, replacing the plumbing in her apartment. The other half was “joint” on paper too, though Lena had long stopped understanding where their family money ended and Nina Petrovna’s needs began.

“Len, open up!” Igor was pounding on the bedroom door. “I know you’re home!”

She opened it. He stood in the doorway with a bank statement in his hand, his face flushed, his tie shoved to one side.

“Did you really close the deposit? I promised that money to my mom!” He waved the paper inches from her face. “We had an agreement!”

“An agreement?” Lena leaned against the doorframe. “Igor, we agreed to save for our apartment. Then a car. Then a vacation together. And what did we actually do? Your mom got a new kitchen, new windows, a trip to a sanatorium…”

“She’s alone! Her pension is tiny!”

“My mom’s pension is even smaller. And she’s alone too. And I don’t remember you ever offering to buy her anything — not once.”

Igor’s jaw tightened. Lena knew that look — now he would explain how life “really” worked and how she didn’t understand the most basic things.

“Your mother lives in her own house. She’s got a garden. She’s not destitute. My mom’s in the city, in an old apartment. She needs help.”

“In a house with no proper heating,” Lena said calmly. “Where she stuffs the cracks with jute every fall. But that doesn’t count, does it? Because she has a garden.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times!”

“Yes. We have. And a hundred times I heard the same lines: ‘Lena, be patient,’ ‘Lena, Mom truly needs it,’ ‘Lena, you understand.’”

Igor stepped into the room and tossed the printout onto the table.

“You had no right to close it without my permission.”

“The account was in my name. I had every right.”

“Half the money is mine!”

“Your half has been living with your mother for years — as appliances, renovations, and whatever else she wanted. I counted it. In four years you poured a huge amount into her. Now I took my share.”

He stared at her as if he’d never really seen her before. Confusion flickered — then anger flooded in.

“Where did you put the money?”

“I spent it on something I need.”

“On what?!”

“On tickets. I’m taking my mom to Anapa. The day after tomorrow.”

The silence turned so solid Lena could hear the wall clock ticking in the entryway. Nina Petrovna had bought that clock — cheap, loud, and relentless, grating on Lena every evening.

“You’re joking,” Igor said slowly.

“No. We’re going for three weeks. I’m renting a small cottage by the sea for Mom and me. She’s wanted to go south in the fall, to warm water, for years — and she never had the money. Now she does.”

“Lena, Mom’s expecting a dacha. I promised her we’d buy a dacha! She already picked out a plot, she’s been there, she’s seen it all!”

You promised her. Not ‘we.’ You.”

 

“We’re family!”

“Family?” Lena smiled wearily. “Igor, when was the last time we took a vacation just the two of us? When was the last time you asked what I want? Not your mom. Not your relatives. Me.”

He didn’t answer.

Lena walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a bag, and started packing.

“Len, wait. Let’s talk normally.”

“We’ve talked normally so many times. It always ends the same way: you run to your mother, complain about me, and then she calls me to explain what an ungrateful woman I am — as if I should be grateful that my money goes not to us, but to her.”

“She raised me alone!”

“I know. You’ve told me two hundred times. And you know what? My mother raised me alone too. After my father left, she worked two jobs and went hungry so I could eat. But for some reason, that doesn’t give me the right to spend all our money on her.”

Igor sat on the edge of the bed, head lowered. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“So what am I supposed to tell my mom now?”

Lena stopped, a folded sweater hanging from her hands.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Not that I’m leaving. Not that I’m miserable. But what you’ll say to your mom?”

“She was counting on that money!”

“And I was counting on a husband!” Lena snapped. “On a man who would think about me sometimes. On us having a life of our own — not this endless service to someone else’s demands!”

“Someone else’s? That’s my mother!”

“Your mother who calls you five times a day. Who suddenly ‘gets sick’ every time we plan to go anywhere. Who ‘drops by’ and stays for a week. And you don’t even see how it looks.”

“Are you jealous of my mother? That’s ridiculous.”

“No, Igor. It’s sad.”

She zipped the bag. In the hallway Igor’s phone rang again. Lena had no doubt — Nina Petrovna.

“Answer it,” Lena said. “Tell her what a monster I am. Tell her I stole the money you promised her.”

Igor snatched the phone, glanced at the screen, and tossed it onto the couch.

“Don’t.”

“Why not? You always answer. At the cinema, in restaurants, even in the middle of the night. Remember our anniversary in that hotel — she called at one a.m. because her remote didn’t work, and you spent half an hour explaining how to change the batteries.”

“Lena, enough.”

“No, it’s not enough! I’m tired of being second. Tired of hearing I’m cruel, that I don’t understand, that I have no heart. I’ve endured it for six years. Six years of smiling while your mother comes in and teaches me how to cook, how to clean, how to behave with you. Six years of hearing how wonderful your ex was — the one who never objected to all those calls and visits.”

“Leave Olya alone.”

“With pleasure. Except you’re the one who keeps using her as a measuring stick: ‘Olya baked pies,’ ‘Olya never complained,’ ‘Olya understood how important Mom is to me.’ Want to know why Olya left? She left for the same reason I’m leaving.”

Igor lifted his head. There was something in his eyes that looked like fear.

“You’re not leaving. You’re going on vacation.”

“I don’t know,” Lena said honestly. “I truly don’t know. Maybe three weeks away from you and your mother will help me understand what I should do next.”

“Len, I love you.”

“And I love you,” she said quietly. “But it’s not enough. Because you love your mother too — and whenever you have to choose between us, you always choose her.”

She picked up the bag and walked into the hallway. Igor followed.

“Wait. Let’s sit down, talk. We’ll find a solution.”

“Igor, I’m exhausted from finding solutions. I suggested couples therapy — you refused. I asked you to limit your mother’s visits — you got offended. I wanted us to go to the sea together at least once — you said you couldn’t leave your mother alone for that long. Every time, I gave in. This time, you give in.”

“By giving away our money?”

Lena turned back and met his eyes.

“It hasn’t been ‘our’ money in a long time, Igor. It was your mother’s money that just happened to still be sitting in an account. I simply took what I was owed.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. Wet leaves shone under the streetlights. Lena called a taxi and went to her friend Svetka’s place.

“You left?” Svetka opened the door in pajamas, holding a glass of water.

“I left.”

“Come in. Want wine?”

“I do.”

They sat in the kitchen, and Lena talked — not for the first time, but tonight everything finally formed one clear picture. How Igor consulted his mother about every decision. How Nina Petrovna had keys to their apartment and could show up whenever she pleased. How money flowed to her in an endless stream.

“Do you know what’s the scariest part?” Lena finished her second glass. “I started to hate her. Truly hate her. And that feels wrong. She’s just an old woman used to her son fixing everything. But I hate her because, because of her, I barely have a family at all.”

“Igor’s a good person,” Svetka said thoughtfully. “I’ve known him since university. Kind, decent, loyal.”

“Yeah,” Lena said bitterly. “Loyal to his mother.”

“Do you think it’s over?”

Lena looked out the window. Somewhere nearby Igor was probably explaining everything to his mother. Nina Petrovna would shake her head, cry, say she’d always known Lena wasn’t right for her son. Tomorrow she’d bring him pies, comfort him, repeat that good women are rare these days and he shouldn’t be upset.

“I don’t know,” Lena admitted. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

In the morning Igor texted: “I’m sorry. Let’s meet and talk.” Lena didn’t reply. Their train to Anapa left at six in the evening.

They met Lena’s mother at the station — small, thin, sun-browned, in a faded sweater washed too many times.

“My girl,” her mother hugged her tight. “You’ve gotten so thin.”

“It’s the nerves, Mom.”

They boarded the train. When it started moving, Lena burst into tears. Her mother sat beside her in silence and stroked her hair the way she used to when Lena was little.

“Tell me,” her mother said simply.

And Lena told her everything — with nothing hidden. How tired she was, how guilty she felt even though she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. How she was afraid to be alone, but even more afraid to go back.

“Do you remember why I never remarried after your father?” her mother asked.

“You used to say you didn’t meet anyone.”

“Not exactly. I did. I met good men. But they all wanted me to be convenient — to adjust, to keep quiet, to endure. And I was tired of enduring. After your father — after the drinking and the violence — I understood: better alone than living like that.”

“Igor doesn’t drink. And he doesn’t hit me.”

“I know,” her mother said softly. “But he does what your father did: he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t hear you.”

“Mom… maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I really should’ve helped with the dacha.”

“You can help,” her mother replied. “If someone asks you, if you talk it through, if you decide together. But when something is taken from you without even asking — that isn’t help.”

When they arrived, they found a small house by the sea — two rooms, a kitchen, and a terrace with a view of the water. The owner, an elderly Armenian woman, tried to charge a high price, but when she learned Lena had come with her mother, she softened and gave them a discount.

“A mother brings joy into a home,” she said. “Rest, girls.”

For the first time in years, Lena felt her breathing become easy. They walked along the shore, collected shells, cooked dinner together. Her mother told childhood stories Lena had forgotten. They laughed, drank wine on the terrace, watched the sunsets.

Igor called every day. First he begged. Then he sulked. Then he grew almost aggressive: “You can’t just leave and disappear,” “I have to solve your problems back here,” “Mom is very worried.” Lena listened, but she refused to discuss coming back.

On the tenth day he sent a voice message. He talked for a long time, stumbling over words. He said he’d gone to a therapist — alone, for the first time in his life. That he was starting to understand some things. That he’d talked to his mother, and it had been a brutal conversation. That he loved Lena and was ready to change.

“What will you answer?” her mother asked.

“Nothing yet,” Lena said. “Let him be patient — the way I was patient.”

But two days later Igor came in person. He had quietly gotten their address from Lena’s mother. He knocked on the cottage door in the evening while Lena and her mother were finishing tea on the terrace.

“Lena… can we talk?”

He looked unshaven and rumpled, wearing a wrinkled jacket. Lena stepped outside.

“Why did you come?”

“For you,” he said. “Forgive me. I should’ve done this sooner. I should’ve heard you sooner.”

“Igor—”

“Wait. Let me say it. I did go to a therapist. Three times already. And she explained… no — she helped me see what I’m doing. How I keep putting my mother’s needs above yours. How I use you without meaning to. How I turned our family into some twisted setup where Mom is the main person and you’re a secondary character.”

“And now you understand?”

“I do,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m ashamed. So ashamed, Len. I talked to Mom. I told her we’re not buying a dacha. That I’m married, and my wife is the most important woman in my life. If she wants a dacha, she can save for it or sell something of her own. But our money is ours.”

Lena stayed silent. The words were right. But she’d heard “right words” from him before — after every fight — and then everything slid back to normal.

“How did she take it?” Lena asked.

“She cried. Accused me of being cold. Then she didn’t answer my calls for two days. Yesterday she called and apologized. Said she never wanted to destroy our family — that she’d just gotten used to leaning on me and didn’t notice she’d crossed the line.”

“And you believe her?”

“I want to,” he admitted. “But more than anything, I want you to come back. If you want, we’ll move to another city. Or I’ll tell Mom she can only visit when invited. Or whatever you need. Just tell me — what would it take for you to come back?”

Lena looked at the sea. The moon laid a wide, silver path across the water. She wanted to believe him. She wanted hope. But six years had taught her caution.

“I need time,” she said quietly. “To understand whether this is just temporary clarity. To see if anything truly changes.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. A month. Three. I don’t know, Igor.”

He nodded. In his eyes there was something new — not resentment, not confusion. Fear. Fear of losing the woman he loved.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

He left. Lena returned to the terrace where her mother pretended she hadn’t been listening.

 

“He came,” Lena said.

“I see. And?”

“I don’t know, Mom. He’s saying the right things. But I’m tired of right things.”

“Then wait for actions,” her mother said firmly. “Words are cheap. Actions tell you everything.”

Two months passed. Lena went back to the city — but she rented a small apartment on her own. Igor called, they met, they talked. He really did keep going to therapy. He really did set boundaries with his mother — no more uninvited visits, no more five calls a day. Once Nina Petrovna tried to throw a tantrum, and Igor calmly told her he wouldn’t discuss it.

One day Nina Petrovna called Lena herself and asked to meet. They sat in a café with tea, and for the first time in all those years Lena saw her not as an enemy, but as an aging woman terrified of loneliness.

“I didn’t want to steal your husband,” Nina Petrovna said. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it looked like. I thought… if he needs me, then I’m not alone. Then my life isn’t over.”

“He wouldn’t have abandoned you anyway,” Lena replied. “But there had to be room for me too.”

“I know that now,” Nina Petrovna whispered. “I’m sorry. If you can forgive me.”

Lena didn’t answer. But something inside her shifted — not forgiveness yet, but the possibility of it someday.

In March, Lena and Igor went to the sea. Just the two of them. For a week. He turned off his phone, and they simply existed together — for the first time in years. They walked, talked, laughed, spent time as if they were discovering each other again.

“I missed you,” Igor said on the last evening. “The real you — the one who laughs and isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.”

“I missed you too,” Lena said. “This version of you — the one who actually hears me.”

She came home again. To their shared apartment, where she took down the loud Chinese clock and hung a painting she’d been looking for a place for for ages. Igor didn’t object.

“This is our home,” he said simply. “You have the right to decide what belongs where.”

And for the first time in years, Lena believed — maybe they could make it. Maybe a family isn’t about one person being more important. Maybe it’s about hearing each other… even if it took running to the edge of the country and closing that deposit to finally learn how.

The key wouldn’t work.

Inna stood on the fifth-floor landing with her suitcase at her feet, trying to understand what was wrong. The key slipped into the lock, but after that the metal hit something new—something foreign. She tried again. And again. No use.

She pressed the doorbell.

Footsteps sounded inside. The door opened a crack, held by a chain. In the narrow gap appeared Margarita Pavlovna’s face. Her mother-in-law looked at her the way people look at someone asking for spare change.

“You don’t live here anymore,” Margarita Pavlovna said. “My son dumped you.”

Inna stared at her in silence, then asked:

“What did you say?”

“Kirill decided everything. He changed the lock, and I came to support him. You’re always away—he’s tired. Pack your things and get out.”

The door slammed.

The click of the lock was loud—final.

Inna stood there staring at the door of her apartment. The one she paid for. The one whose documents were in her bag. Without looking away from the door, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

“Pyotr Nikolaevich? I need help. Immediately.”

Forty minutes later the lawyer arrived with the local police officer. Inna showed her paperwork—the purchase contract in her name, the registry extract. The officer nodded and wrote something down.

They went upstairs. Inna rang again. Margarita Pavlovna didn’t open right away—something rustled behind the door for about three minutes, then the chain scraped.

“What else do you need? I already told you—”

The officer held up his ID.

“Open the door. You are unlawfully inside someone else’s apartment.”

“Someone else’s? My son is registered here!”

“Registration doesn’t grant ownership,” Pyotr Nikolaevich said. “Open it voluntarily, or we’ll have it forced.”

Margarita Pavlovna tried to argue, but the officer cut in sharply:

“Open it now, or I’m calling a unit. Decide.”

With a grating sound, the chain slid off. The door swung wide.

The entryway smelled wrong—an overly sweet air freshener Inna had never bought. Her mother-in-law’s jacket hung on the rack; her slippers sat on the shelf. Inna walked into the room.

A sofa pillow was wrinkled—pink, covered in tiny flowers. Dirty dishes and scraps cluttered the table. Margarita Pavlovna had moved in. Settled. Made herself comfortable.

“Where’s Kirill?” Inna asked.

“At work,” her mother-in-law said, arms crossed. “He’ll come back and tell you himself.”

“Call him. Tell him to come.”

“I’m not bothering him!”

“Call him,” the officer repeated, “or we’ll contact him ourselves.”

Margarita Pavlovna pressed her lips together, pulled out her phone, and spoke in short, nervous bursts. She ended the call.

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

 

Inna sat on the edge of the sofa. Margarita Pavlovna paced the room, muttering to herself, but saying nothing aloud. The silence pressed down. The officer stood near the door. Pyotr Nikolaevich flipped through papers.

Fifteen minutes later, a key turned in the lock.

Kirill came in pale, sweat on his forehead. His gaze darted between Inna, his mother, and the officer. He opened his mouth—then said nothing.

“Explain what’s going on,” Inna said quietly.

He swallowed and looked at his mother. Margarita Pavlovna stepped forward:

“Kirill is exhausted by your constant trips, you understand? You earn money while he sits here alone. It’s hard for a man when his wife makes more. You humiliate him with your business trips and your bakery. He works as a driver—modestly—while you keep proving who’s the boss!”

Inna didn’t take her eyes off Kirill.

“Is that true? Is that what you think?”

Silence. He licked his lips and rubbed his face with his palm.

“Mom… don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t’?” Margarita Pavlovna spun toward him. “Am I lying? You complained to me yourself—you said she doesn’t appreciate you!”

“Mom, please stop.”

“I won’t stop! Say it yourself—are you a man or not?”

Inna stood and stepped right up to Kirill. He backed away until his shoulders hit the wall.

“Kirill,” she said slowly, looking him in the eyes, “did you change the lock on my apartment?”

He stared at the floor.

“And you brought your mother here so she could speak for you?”

Silence.

“Kirill, you’re thirty-seven. Say one word.”

Nothing. Just heavy breathing and restless eyes.

“Leave him alone!” Margarita Pavlovna shoved herself between them. “Kirill, don’t listen to her! We’ll go now—you’ll live with me, and she can sit here alone with her money!”

“Ma’am,” the officer raised a hand, “don’t interfere. Let him answer.”

At last Kirill lifted his head. He tried to smile—weak, crooked.

“Inna, look… can we just talk calmly? I didn’t want it like this…”

“Did you change the lock or not?”

“Well… yes. But Mom advised it—said it would be better while we figure things out…”

“Figure out what?” Inna felt the cold spread inside her. “Figure out that this apartment is mine? That I dragged you along for five years while you went whining to your mother about how hard your life is?”

He went even paler.

“I didn’t whine…”

“Yes, you did!” Margarita Pavlovna snapped. “Don’t lie now!”

Inna turned slowly to her mother-in-law.

“You will pack your things and leave my apartment. Right now.”

“How can you say that? And Kirill?”

“Kirill too.”

“What?!” Margarita Pavlovna lunged forward, but the officer stepped between them.

“Inna, wait,” Kirill mumbled. “We can talk this through…”

“There’s nothing to talk through,” Inna said, and felt a strange calm settle over her. “You made your choice when you changed the lock. When you hid behind your mother’s skirt. You chose. Pack up.”

Margarita Pavlovna screamed for ten minutes—about injustice, about Inna destroying the family, about how she was “the mother” and had rights. Pyotr Nikolaevich patiently explained the law and the rights of the legal owner. The officer added that if she didn’t leave voluntarily, she would be removed.

Her mother-in-law threw her things into a bag with loud thuds, slammed closet doors. Kirill stood in the corner silent, twisting his phone in his hands. Inna sat on the sofa and stared out the window. Nothing tugged at her, nothing ached—only emptiness and relief.

Margarita Pavlovna appeared in the hallway with an overstuffed bag and turned back at the threshold.

“You’ll regret this! He’s a good man, and you never valued him!”

Inna looked up at her.

“A good man doesn’t hide behind someone else,” she said softly. “And he doesn’t change locks in someone else’s home. Leave.”

Her mother-in-law wanted to answer, but the officer nodded toward the door. She stomped out loudly.

Kirill packed a backpack—jacket, documents, charger. He came up to Inna and stopped a couple of steps away.

“Can I call you later?”

Inna studied him for a long moment. She saw what she hadn’t noticed before—weakness, childishness, the habit of dumping responsibility on anyone else as long as it wasn’t him.

“Call me when you grow up,” she said. “If that ever happens.”

He nodded, lowered his head, and left. From the landing, Margarita Pavlovna’s voice was already audible—explaining, justifying, making excuses. Inna closed the door and turned the key.

A new lock—one the locksmith installed while her mother-in-law packed.

She went into the room and threw the window wide open. Cold air rushed in, pushing out the cloying, artificial smell of that чужой air freshener. She gathered the dirty dishes from the table. She shoved the pink flowered pillow into a trash bag. She erased the traces of someone else’s presence methodically, calmly.

Pyotr Nikolaevich explained how to file for divorce and left her his contacts. When he left, Inna sat on the sofa and looked at the empty room.

Quiet. Clean. Hers.

She didn’t cry. She just sat there and understood that she’d spent five years with a man who never grew up—who waited for her to stop being strong instead of becoming support himself.

The next day she filed for divorce.

Kirill didn’t call. Margarita Pavlovna sent a message: “You’ll regret it. You’ll end up alone.” Inna deleted it without replying.

 

A week later she boxed up his things—the ones he hadn’t taken—and drove them to Margarita Pavlovna’s building. She left the boxes by the door, rang the bell, and walked away without waiting.

A month after that, Inna ran into Margarita Pavlovna’s former neighbor in a store. The woman told her eagerly: Kirill was living with his mother, sleeping on a folding cot in her tiny one-room apartment. They fought every day. Margarita Pavlovna complained to anyone who would listen that her son had turned into a freeloader, that she couldn’t get a moment’s peace, that he sat on his phone all day and did nothing around the house.

Inna listened and felt something light unfurl inside her—almost joyful. Not gloating. Just fairness. Margarita Pavlovna had dreamed of controlling someone else’s life, and instead she ended up stuck with a grown child on her neck—the very child she had raised that way.

Inna thanked the neighbor and walked on—to her car, to her apartment, to her life. A life where no one changed locks, no one resented her success, and no one hid behind someone else’s back.

She simply closed the door.

And it turned out to be easier than she ever thought.

Marina first understood that something was off about three months after the wedding.

She and Denis had stopped by his mother’s for Sunday lunch, and Galina Petrovna barely waited for Marina to step into the kitchen for the salad bowl before lowering her voice and starting a conversation with her sister—one that was clearly about Marina.

“…she can’t cook at all, can you imagine?” Marina heard through the half-open door. “Denis told me it’s dumplings and pasta every single day. And I raised him on real home food…”

Marina froze, the bowl in her hands. Her cheeks burned. First, it wasn’t true—she cooked every evening and tried to keep their meals varied. Second, even if it had been true, what right did her mother-in-law have to dissect her in front of relatives?

When they got home, Marina asked Denis to speak to his mother.

“It really hurts that she talks about me behind my back,” Marina said, trying to stay calm. “And she makes things up. I do cook every day.”

Denis sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Ignore it. That’s just Mom—she likes to talk. She doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“But it still feels awful,” Marina replied. “Please talk to her.”

Denis promised. Marina let herself believe that would be the end of it.

Two weeks later, they were at Galina Petrovna’s again. This time Denis’s cousin Sveta came by with her boyfriend. The table was lively and loud; Marina relaxed and laughed along with Sveta’s jokes. Then Marina had to step away—her mother called with something urgent. She went into the hallway so she could speak quietly.

The call took five minutes. When Marina returned, she sensed the change immediately. Sveta was looking at her with a strange curiosity, her boyfriend seemed embarrassed, and Galina Petrovna sat wearing an innocent expression while slicing pie into neat pieces.

That evening on the drive home, Denis stayed silent for a long time. Then he said:

“Mom told Sveta you’re very demanding. That you keep forcing me to do renovations, buy new furniture, even though the old stuff is still fine.”

Something clenched inside Marina—hurt and anger tightening into one knot.

“That’s not true!” she burst out. “We decided together to redo the bedroom because the wallpaper was literally peeling off from the Soviet days! And we picked furniture together—you were the one who wanted a new sofa!”

“I know,” Denis said, tired. “I told her that. She got offended that I’m ‘taking your side’ and ‘going against her.’”

“But you talked to her after the first time, right? You promised!”

“I did. She said it’s nonsense—that you can tell relatives anything, because they’re ‘our own people.’”

Marina leaned back in the seat, watching streetlights slide past the window.

“Then tell her again,” she said. “More clearly. It genuinely upsets me. I don’t want to be turned into a topic for gossip.”

Denis promised again. But deep down Marina was already realizing that conversations wouldn’t fix this. Something else would have to.

And Galina Petrovna seemed to enjoy it. After each “serious talk” with her son, she came back even more energized, as if she were doing it on purpose. At a family dinner at Denis’s aunt’s home—where the newlyweds had been invited—his mother managed to complain about Marina to several people at once: Marinochka never visits, Marinochka won’t learn the family’s special recipes, Marinochka made Denis refuse a trip to the parents’ dacha.

The last one was completely absurd. They didn’t go because Marina had an important work presentation on Monday and needed the weekend to prepare. Denis had suggested staying home himself—he’d called his mother himself and explained.

After that dinner, Marina came home in tears. All evening she felt relatives’ odd looks, heard the meaningful silences when she entered a room. One aunt even pulled her aside and said:

“Marinka, sweetheart, don’t be afraid of Galina. She’s kind. She’s just trying to help—in her own way. Young couples always have a hard time adjusting.”

Help? Marina thought bitterly as she wiped her tears. How is it help when someone is painted as selfish and a terrible wife?

That night was heavy. She and Denis lay awake for a long time talking—really, Marina talked while Denis listened, his face caught between love for his wife and a lifelong instinct not to clash with his mother.

“I understand she’s your mother,” Marina said once she’d calmed down. “But I’m your wife. I deserve basic respect. I can’t live in a situation where every choice I make becomes material for judgment and whispers among your relatives.”

“I’ll talk to her again,” Denis said, exhausted. “I promise—this time it will be serious.”

Marina looked at him—the person she loved, the man she wanted to grow old with—and understood: serious talks wouldn’t help here. Galina Petrovna clearly got something out of it. Maybe she loved being the center of attention by handing out “inside information” about her son’s life. Or maybe, somewhere deep inside, she still hadn’t accepted Marina, and this was how she punished her for being the choice Denis made.

“Denis,” Marina said slowly, “tell your mother this from me: if she does it even one more time, I will shame her in front of the entire family. I’m not joking.”

Denis flinched.

“Marinka… that’s a threat.”

“It’s a warning,” Marina said firmly. “I gave her chances. I asked politely through you. She doesn’t listen. Worse—she acts like she’s mocking me by doing it more and more. Let her understand I have a limit.”

“But what can you—”

“Repeat my words. Exactly.”

Denis did. Or he tried to. He called his mother the next day, and Marina heard only his side of the conversation.

“Mom, Marina is very serious about this… No, she’s not asking—she’s saying… if you don’t stop discussing her with relatives… Mom, please don’t interrupt. She said she’ll humiliate you if it continues. No, I don’t know exactly how, but she’s not joking…”

Galina Petrovna’s outraged voice spilled out of the phone. Denis listened with a deep frown.

“Mom, I’m on Marina’s side here. You are actually wrong… Mom! It’s not normal to discuss your daughter-in-law behind her back—and lie about her while you’re at it!”

After that call Denis stayed gloomy all evening.

“She’s offended,” he said. “She says I’ve become a bad son and you’re turning me against my own mother.”

Marina didn’t answer. She was boiling inside, but she understood Denis wasn’t having an easy time either. He was caught between two fires.

For three weeks there was peace. Galina Petrovna didn’t call, didn’t invite them over. Marina hoped the warning had worked—that her mother-in-law had finally grasped the seriousness of it.

Then came Denis’s grandfather’s birthday—Galina Petrovna’s father. Ninety years old. A big family celebration at a café. They couldn’t refuse, and Marina didn’t want to; the old man was kind and had always treated her warmly.

They arrived among the first. The table was already set, relatives were gathering. Marina greeted Grandpa and handed him her gift—an album of family photos she had compiled and decorated herself. The old man pressed it to his chest, genuinely touched.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “That’s a gift from the heart.”

Marina smiled and stepped aside. Denis was talking to an uncle. An aunt arrived with her husband, then Sveta came with her parents. The room gradually filled with people.

Then Galina Petrovna appeared, accompanied by her sister Valentina. They greeted the birthday man and moved to the table. Galina Petrovna scanned the room, spotted Marina—and something flickered across her face. Marina understood instantly: nothing had changed.

The celebration started. Toasts were made, stories were shared. It felt warm, homelike, genuinely family. Marina began to relax, thinking perhaps she’d been worrying for nothing.

Then she had to step out—her mother called and asked Marina to pass along her congratulations and best wishes. The conversation took about ten minutes.

When Marina returned, the atmosphere was strange again. Sveta, sitting beside her, looked away guiltily. Denis’s cousin stared at Marina with open curiosity. And Galina Petrovna, at the far end of the table, was chatting animatedly with Valentina.

Marina sat down. Denis leaned close and whispered:

“Mom again… She was talking about you.”

Something snapped into place inside Marina. Cold fury spread through her veins. She looked at Denis, then at his mother. Galina Petrovna turned at that moment and met Marina’s eyes—and in that look was everything: triumph, challenge, complete certainty she would never be held accountable.

Marina stood. Denis caught her hand.

“Marinka, don’t…”

But she pulled free and walked firmly to the other end of the table where Galina Petrovna sat. Conversations quieted—everyone sensed something unusual unfolding.

“Galina Petrovna,” Marina said loudly and clearly, “I’d like to say something. In front of everyone. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Her mother-in-law went pale.

“Marina, I don’t understand—”

“You will,” Marina said evenly. Then she turned to the gathered relatives. Her heart was pounding, but her voice stayed calm and solid. “I want all of you to know how Galina Petrovna truly treats her relatives. Because what she says to your faces is very different from what she says behind your backs.”

“Marina!” Galina Petrovna sprang up. “How dare you?!”

“The same way you do,” Marina answered, unruffled. “You discuss me with relatives. I’m simply going to share what I’ve heard you say about them.”

The silence in the room became absolute.

“For example—Valentina,” Marina turned to her mother-in-law’s sister. “Galina Petrovna once told me you’re a slob and your home is always a mess. That you raised your children badly because Sveta couldn’t get married until she was almost thirty.”

Valentina gasped, staring at her sister. Sveta went white.

“And Boris Mikhailovich,” Marina continued, looking at Denis’s uncle. “Galina Petrovna complained that you’re stingy—that you always try to avoid pitching in for celebrations, even though you earn the most in the family.”

“Stop!” Galina Petrovna shouted, but Marina couldn’t—and wouldn’t—stop now.

“And about Tatyana Sergeyevna,” she nodded toward another aunt by marriage, “you said she’s an upstart who puts on airs because she works at a cosmetology clinic. That she isn’t good enough for our family.”

Tatyana Sergeyevna stiffened, and her husband’s face darkened.

“And about you, Grandpa,” Marina said softly, turning with sadness to the birthday man. “Galina Petrovna once said she’s tired of your constant calls and requests. That you’ve become too demanding in your old age.”

The old man turned pale, as if struck.

“I heard all of this personally,” Marina finished. “Over these few months of my marriage to Denis. Galina Petrovna talked about each of you when you weren’t there. She said these things to me—probably thinking I’d join her, become her partner in gossip. I didn’t. And when I asked her to stop discussing me behind my back, she refused. So I decided you deserve to know what she truly thinks of all of you.”

She turned back to her mother-in-law. Galina Petrovna sat white as paper, her lips trembling.

“I warned you,” Marina said quietly. “I asked. I pleaded through Denis. But you didn’t stop. You believed you were allowed to do anything.”

“You… you…” Galina Petrovna couldn’t form the words. Tears streamed down her face. “How dare you…”

“I dared to do what you’ve been doing all along,” Marina replied. “Only I told the truth. I didn’t invent stories to smear someone.”

She returned to her seat. The room erupted—everyone speaking at once. Valentina hissed furiously at her sister, Boris Mikhailovich gestured red-faced, Tatyana Sergeyevna wiped away tears. Grandpa sat in silence, staring at his daughter with an expression that was pure disappointment and bitterness.

Denis took Marina’s hand. She expected to see condemnation in his eyes, but she saw only sadness—and understanding.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing for us to do here anymore.”

They stood and walked toward the exit. At the door Marina glanced back. Galina Petrovna stared at her through tears, hatred so thick it made Marina’s skin crawl. But beneath it was something else too: shock—the shock of someone suddenly realizing that actions have consequences.

In the car they sat in silence. Denis started the engine but didn’t drive off.

“You knew all this time?” he asked at last. “That she talked about everyone like that?”

“Yes,” Marina said, staring out the window. “She started almost right after the wedding. I think she wanted to bond with me—find common ground by discussing other people. I tried not to support it, but she kept going. Then she started talking about me too. And I realized it’s simply her way—speaking about people behind their backs.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because she’s your mother. I hoped I could solve it without dragging you into the details. I thought she’d stop if someone asked her to.” Marina turned toward him. “I’m sorry. I ruined Grandpa’s birthday.”

Denis shook his head.

“No. Mom did that. A long time ago. Today it just came out into the open.”

He put the car in gear and drove. They rode in silence. Marina felt hollow. Part of her hated that it had come to this. Another part knew there was no other way. Galina Petrovna didn’t respond to normal requests, didn’t hear warnings. She thought she could do anything without consequences.

At home Denis wrapped his arms around his wife.

“I’m on your side,” he said. “I always was. I just didn’t know how to stop Mom without making a scene. And you—you weren’t afraid.”

“I didn’t want a scene,” Marina admitted. “Honestly. I hoped until the last minute she’d stop.”

“I know.”

Denis’s phone rang. He looked at the screen—Mom. He didn’t answer. The phone kept ringing all evening. Then Marina’s phone started ringing too. She didn’t pick up either.

The next day Grandpa called. He talked to Denis for a long time. Marina couldn’t hear what he said, but when Denis hung up, relief was written all over his face.

“Grandpa said he understands you,” Denis told Marina. “And he’ll talk to Mom. He said he suspected she had that habit, but he didn’t realize it was this serious. And he said he’s ashamed of his daughter.”

Marina nodded. It shouldn’t be only Grandpa who felt ashamed, she thought. Galina Petrovna should feel ashamed too—before all the people she smiled at to their faces and tore down behind their backs.

For a week there was no word from Galina Petrovna. Then Valentina called.

“Marina,” her voice sounded tired, “I want to talk to you. Without Galina. Can we meet?”

They met at a café near Marina’s home. Valentina looked worn out.

“We all spoke to Galina,” she began. “After that birthday. She admitted a lot. She said yes, she discussed people—but she didn’t think it hurt this much. She just… got used to it.”

“Used to hurting people?” Marina gave a bitter half-smile.

“Used to being the center of attention that way,” Valentina sighed. “She’s always been like that—even as a child. She liked knowing things about others and sharing them. It made her feel important. Before, it was harmless chatter. But now… she crossed a line and didn’t even notice when it happened.”

Marina stayed quiet.

“She wants to apologize to you,” Valentina continued. “But she’s afraid. After what happened, she doesn’t know if you could forgive her.”

“Did she apologize to everyone else?” Marina asked. “To you, to Uncle, to all of them?”

“Yes,” Valentina nodded. “We gathered at Grandpa’s last week and she asked each person for forgiveness. It was hard—for everyone. But it was necessary.”

Marina thought for a moment. Part of her was still furious. But another part understood that life goes on, and holding anger forever would only hurt her and Denis.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be around her right now,” Marina said slowly. “I need time. But I… I understand she’s your sister and Denis’s mother. I don’t want to destroy the relationship completely. I just need time—and clear boundaries.”

“There will show boundaries,” Valentina promised. “All of us understood. Galina too. She swore she’d never again discuss you—or anyone in the family—behind their backs.”

Marina went home and told Denis about the conversation. He hugged her.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not cutting her off completely. For giving it a chance.”

“I didn’t do it for her,” Marina admitted honestly. “I did it for you. And for us.”

A month later they met Galina Petrovna for the first time since the party. It was brief, tense, full of pauses and careful words. Her mother-in-law apologized—awkwardly, searching for phrases as if they physically hurt. Marina accepted the apology, even though she wasn’t ready to forgive completely.

But it was a beginning. Slow and difficult—but a beginning. Galina Petrovna truly changed. She became more careful with her words, stopped allowing herself “freedom” in conversations about others. Old habits still surfaced sometimes, but she would catch herself, stop, and apologize.

Their relationship didn’t improve overnight. It took months, honest conversations, and firm boundaries. But gradually the tension eased, and they learned how to exist within the same family system while respecting each other’s personal space.

And Marina carried the lesson for the rest of her life: sometimes the only way to stop someone is to hold up a mirror. Even if the reflection is unpleasant—not only for them, but for you as well.

 

Yana stood by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the city below. This apartment was her pride—the reward for five years of relentless work and saving. A bright two-bedroom in a new building, with a view of the park. Every square meter had been paid for with her own money—no loans, no debts. She worked as a manager at a trading company, picked up extra shifts, and denied herself entertainment. But she’d done it.

Three years earlier, Dmitry moved into that apartment. They’d met by chance at a party hosted by mutual friends. Tall, smiling, kind-eyed. Yana liked the way Dima joked and how carefully he listened. They started dating, and half a year later he proposed.

Dmitry had been renting a small one-bedroom across town. When they began discussing living together, it simply made sense that he would move in with Yana. Her place was bigger—there was room for both of them. Yana didn’t mind. She loved him and wanted him close.

The first year was good. They built a routine, bought furniture, cooked together in the evenings. Dmitry worked as a programmer and spent long hours at his computer. He earned decent money, helped with groceries, and occasionally bought something for the home. But the major expenses—utilities, repairs, everything else—fell on Yana. After all, the apartment was hers.

Dmitry’s mother, Valentina Petrovna, lived in the suburbs in her own house. A widow. Lonely. Her son was everything to her. At first she visited rarely—once a month at most. She’d bring pies, ask about their life, drink tea. Yana didn’t mind. A normal mother-in-law, she thought.

But gradually the visits became more frequent. Every two weeks. Then weekly. Then twice a week. Valentina Petrovna began showing up without warning, dropping by “just to check how things were going.”

“Dimochka, I made borscht and brought it for you,” she’d say, setting a huge pot on the table.

“Thanks, Mom,” Dmitry would grin.

Yana smiled too, though tension tightened inside her. She hated when someone invaded her space without permission.

Soon Valentina Petrovna started giving advice—first gently, as if casually.

“Yanochka, you should wash the windows. See the streaks?”
“Yanochka, there’s dust on top of the cabinet. Do you wipe it at all?”
“Yanochka, you’re frying the cutlets wrong. Let me show you.”

Yana clenched her teeth and nodded. She didn’t want conflict. This was her husband’s mother—an older person. You were supposed to endure.

One day, Yana came home from work earlier than usual. She opened the door—and Valentina Petrovna was in the apartment, rearranging dishes in the kitchen.

“Valentina Petrovna?” Yana asked, startled. “How did you get in?”

“Dimochka gave me keys,” her mother-in-law replied calmly. “So I can come when needed. I decided to tidy up. It’s a mess here, Yanochka.”

Yana froze. Keys? Dmitry had given his mother keys to Yana’s apartment—without asking?

That evening she confronted him.

“Dima, did you really give your mom keys?”

“Yeah,” Dmitry shrugged. “So?”

“You could’ve asked me first!”

“Yana, she’s my mother. She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just helping us.”

“But it’s my apartment!”

Dmitry’s face darkened.

“What do you mean, yours? We’re a family. Everything is shared.”

“Shared, sure—but the apartment is in my name. And I want to know who comes in here.”

“Yana, don’t start a scandal over nonsense. Mom knows better how to run a household. She has experience.”

Yana said nothing, but something inside her tightened.

From that day on, Valentina Petrovna came whenever she pleased. Yana returned from work—her mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen. She walked into the living room—Valentina Petrovna was dusting. She went into the bathroom—Valentina Petrovna was folding clean laundry.

“Valentina Petrovna, could you please warn me when you’re coming?” Yana would say cautiously.

“Why, Yanochka? I’m not a stranger. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”

Then her mother-in-law began to take charge. She criticized Yana’s cooking—too much salt, not enough spices. She nitpicked the cleaning—poorly wiped surfaces, floors needed washing more often. She moved things around as she liked.

“Yanochka, that vase is in the wrong place. Put it here.”
“Yanochka, why did you hang those curtains? They’re ugly.”
“Yanochka, those flowers should be thrown away—they’re already wilted.”

Yana tried to resist politely.

“Valentina Petrovna, I like my curtains.”

“What do you know? You’re still young.”

Every time, Yana spoke to her husband.

“Dima, talk to your mother. She’s here all the time, ordering me around. I’m uncomfortable.”

“Yana, she’s trying for us. Don’t be so heartless.”

“But it’s my apartment!”

 

“There you go again. We’re a family, Yana. Or does family mean nothing to you?”

Yana understood: her husband was not on her side—and never would be. For Dmitry, his mother mattered more than his wife.

Two years passed. Yana felt like a stranger in her own home. Every day she came back from work afraid she’d find her mother-in-law there. Valentina Petrovna showed up three or four times a week, cooking, cleaning, handing out instructions.

Yana kept working, paying the utilities, buying food—while Valentina Petrovna acted as if the place belonged to her.

Yana stayed quiet. Endured it. She was afraid of destroying the marriage. She hoped Dmitry would eventually understand. But he didn’t. To him, everything was normal.

Yana’s birthday was approaching—she was turning twenty-eight. She decided to celebrate at home with a small group. She invited a few coworkers and two close friends. She bought a cake—soft and delicate, with strawberries and white chocolate, the one she’d always loved.

She set the table, arranged the dishes, lit candles. For one day, she wanted to feel like the owner of her own home again.

Dmitry invited his mother. Yana didn’t object out loud, but inside she tensed. Valentina Petrovna at a celebration meant a guaranteed ruined mood.

Her mother-in-law arrived before everyone else. She came in and inspected the table with a critical gaze.

“Yanochka, are you serious? You set it like this?”

“What’s wrong?” Yana asked, feeling her fists tighten.

“Everything’s wrong. Plates should be arranged differently. Forks on the left, knives on the right. Don’t you know basic rules?”

Valentina Petrovna started rearranging the cutlery. Yana stood beside her, jaw clenched. No scenes. Not today.

“And napkins should be folded like this,” her mother-in-law commented, refolding them.

“Valentina Petrovna, please leave it,” Yana said quietly.

“Leave what? I’m trying to help. Do you want guests to think you’re a terrible hostess?”

Yana bit her lip and stayed silent.

The guests arrived—coworkers and friends. Everyone sat down. Valentina Petrovna deliberately took the seat at the head of the table—the very place Yana usually sat.

“Valentina Petrovna, that’s my seat,” Yana said softly.

“Oh, Yanochka. I’m older. That means I should sit here.”

Yana looked at her husband. Dmitry looked away. Silent.

Her mother-in-law behaved like the host of the evening—serving food, commenting on dishes, telling stories. Yana sat off to the side, feeling like a guest at her own birthday.

Her friends exchanged glances but said nothing. Her coworkers pretended everything was fine.

When Yana brought out the cake, Valentina Petrovna grimaced.

“Ugh, what is that?”

“A cake,” Yana answered, placing it on the table.

“I don’t eat cakes like that. It’s tasteless. In our family, we buy honey cake—not this nonsense.”

Yana froze, holding the cake knife. Something inside her clicked into place.

“This is my cake. On my birthday. In my apartment.”

“So what? I’m older. I know what’s good and what’s bad.”

Yana slowly set the knife down and looked at her mother-in-law.

“Valentina Petrovna, if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave. This is my apartment.”

Valentina Petrovna’s eyes went wide.

“How dare you?!”

“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. This is my home. I bought it with my own money. And here, I decide what happens.”

Valentina Petrovna jumped up from the table.

“Dimochka! Do you hear the way your wife is talking to me?!”

Dmitry turned pale. He stood.

“Yana, apologize to my mother.”

“What?”

“I said apologize. Now.”

Yana laughed—coldly, without joy.

“Are you serious?”

Valentina Petrovna began to whine.

“Daughters-in-law need to know their place! Stay quiet when elders speak! Show respect! And she… she…”

Yana shot to her feet.

“And she what?! The woman who owns this apartment? The woman who’s paid for every inch of it?!”

“Yana, calm down,” Dmitry stepped forward.

“No! I’ve been quiet for three years! I’ve tolerated three years of your mother running my apartment—humiliating me, criticizing me, ordering me around!”

“She’s trying for us!”

“For you—for you and her! And who am I here? A maid?!”

Dmitry slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. The guests flinched.

“You’re nobody here while Mom is sitting at this table!” he shouted.

Silence fell. Yana stared at Dmitry, unable to believe what she’d heard. Nobody. She was nobody—in her own home.

Something inside her finally broke. Every illusion, every piece of love, every hope—collapsed in an instant.

Yana rose slowly. Walked to Valentina Petrovna. Picked up her handbag from the chair.

“Leave.”

“What?!”

“I said leave. Now.”

“Dimochka!”

“Mom, wait,” Dmitry said, looking at Yana in confusion.

Yana opened the door and pushed Valentina Petrovna toward the hallway.

“Out. Of my home. Immediately.”

Her mother-in-law backed away, startled by the rage in Yana’s eyes, and stepped into the corridor, sobbing.

Yana slammed the door shut. Then she turned to her husband.

“Pack your things.”

“Yana, what are you doing?!”

“Pack. Your. Things. Everything that’s yours—and go to your mother. Right now.”

“You can’t throw me out!”

“I can. This is my apartment. Legally mine. Your name isn’t on the documents.”

Dmitry tried to step closer, to take her hands.

“Yana, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

Yana yanked her hands back.

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow. And you’re leaving today.”

“Yana!”

“Today, Dmitry. Or I’ll call the police.”

 

He looked into her eyes and saw such steel, such icy certainty, that he understood—there was no point arguing. It was over.

Dmitry went into the bedroom, pulled out a bag, and started stuffing his clothes inside. Yana stood in the doorway watching.

“Yana, think about it. Three years together. Are you really ready to destroy everything over one conflict?”

“Not one conflict. Three years of humiliation. Three years of you never taking my side. Three years of you not even seeing me as the owner of my own home.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“It is. You said I’m nobody here while your mother is at the table. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Dmitry finished packing, grabbed the bag, and stopped at the door.

“You’ll regret this, Yana.”

“Maybe. But not as much as I’ll regret it if I stay.”

He left. Yana locked the door behind him, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes.

The guests had already gone. Only her two friends—Lena and Katya—remained. They sat in the kitchen, unsure what to say.

“Yanochka… are you okay?” Lena asked softly.

Yana nodded.

“Now I am.”

The next morning, Yana called a locksmith and changed every lock—starting with the front door. She threw the old keys away. Hid the new ones. That same day, she filed for divorce.

Dmitry tried to call. Yana didn’t answer. Then came long messages full of excuses and promises. Yana deleted them without reading.

A week later, Valentina Petrovna showed up. She rang the bell. Yana looked through the peephole and didn’t open.

“Yanochka, open up! We need to talk!”

Yana stayed silent.

“Yanochka, come on! Dimochka is suffering! He loves you!”

Silence.

“Open the door—I know you’re home!”

Yana turned away and walked deeper into the apartment. Put on headphones. Turned the music up. Valentina Petrovna stood outside for half an hour, then left.

She never came back.

The divorce went quickly. Dmitry showed up—gloomy, thinner than before. He tried to argue, talking about their life together, the shared household. But legally it was clear. Yana had bought the apartment before the marriage, and there were no joint savings involved.

The judge announced the decision: the marriage was dissolved.

Yana stepped out of the courthouse and breathed in deeply. Free. Finally free.

Three months passed. Yana returned to her ordinary life. She went to work, met friends, spent evenings at home with a book and tea. Quiet. No one barged in without warning. No one criticized, ordered her around, or lectured her.

Her apartment became her sanctuary again—warm, calm, safe.

She rearranged the furniture the way she liked. Hung new curtains—bright, patterned. Bought potted flowers and placed them on the windowsills. Everything her way, with no one else’s instructions.

One evening a message from Dmitry appeared. Yana saw his name on the screen and hesitated. Then she opened it.

“Yana, I’m sorry. I understand now that I was wrong. Mom really did go too far. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. Can we try again?”

Yana read it.

She typed back: “No. You made your choice at that table. Live with it.”

She sent the message and blocked his number.

Half a year later, Yana met someone else. They ran into each other in a bookstore—reaching for the same book at the same time. They laughed, started talking, and exchanged numbers.

His name was Maksim. He was an architect. He lived in a rented place and was saving for his own home. His mother lived in another city; they didn’t see each other often, but their relationship was warm.

Yana didn’t rush. They dated, talked, learned each other slowly. Maksim didn’t pressure her. He respected her space.

Two years later, Maksim proposed. Yana said yes—but with one condition: they would live in her apartment, and no relatives would ever get a key without her consent. Maksim nodded, understanding.

“Your apartment, your rules. That’s fair.”

Yana smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt she’d chosen right.

They married quietly, without a lavish wedding. They signed the papers and celebrated with a small circle of friends. Maksim moved in with Yana, bringing only his personal things.

Their life was peaceful. They respected each other’s boundaries. They handled everyday issues together. Maksim cooked, cleaned, helped around the house. He didn’t command, didn’t teach, didn’t criticize.

Maksim’s mother visited twice a year and stayed for a week. Yana welcomed her without anxiety—the woman was tactful and never interfered.

At last, Yana truly felt at home. In her apartment, with her person. No pressure, no humiliation, no чужие правила—no one else’s rules.

Sometimes Yana remembered those three years with Dmitry—how she endured, how she was afraid to destroy the family, how she hoped for the best. How much time she lost.

But now everything was different. Now Yana knew she would never let anyone cross her boundaries again. This was her home, her space, her life—and only she got to decide who belonged in it, and who didn’t.

Yana sat on the couch with a book. In the kitchen, Maksim was making breakfast, humming to himself.

A new life. The right life. The life Yana had earned.

For the first few months of living together, Oleg and I were blissfully blind in love. Everything felt effortless: I cooked dinner, he did the dishes; I ran the laundry, he hung it up; we cleaned the apartment on weekends while his ’90s playlist played in the background. Our money sat in one shared account, and neither of us kept track of who put in how much or what it was spent on.

But by the beginning of the second year, something quietly shifted. Maybe the romance of routine gave way to plain routine. Or maybe it happened when we finally started talking about an apartment.

“Len, we need to save,” Oleg said one evening as we sat in our rented kitchen staring at a wall in the neighboring building. “Seriously save. If we put away thirty thousand a month, in three years we’ll have enough for a down payment.”

I nodded, already imagining our future place—bright, big windows, maybe even a balcony. Thirty thousand sounded realistic. We both worked. We both earned decent money. What could possibly be difficult?

It turned out… everything.

The first point of friction was my yogurt. Or rather, not the yogurt itself, but where I bought it.

“Four hundred rubles?” Oleg pulled a little glass jar from the fridge and stared at it like it was caviar. “Two hundred and fifty for yogurt?”

“It’s not just yogurt,” I said, continuing to slice tomatoes for a salad, forcing myself to stay calm. “It’s from a farm. No additives, real starter culture. You know regular yogurt makes my stomach hurt.”

“Lena, yogurt at Pyaterochka is seventy rubles.”

“And at Pyaterochka it’s full of thickeners and E-numbers. I can’t eat that.”

Oleg opened the jar, sniffed it, tasted a spoonful.

“Normal yogurt,” he shrugged. “But for that price…”

I didn’t argue further. The tomatoes were from the same farm—six hundred a kilo instead of the usual two hundred. But they were amazing: sweet, dense, with a real tomato taste, not that crunchy winter supermarket imitation.

“Oh, and by the way,” Oleg said, reaching into the freezer, “I grabbed pizzas. Three on sale—worked out cheap.”

Three frozen boxes landed on the shelf, pushing aside my frozen berries (also farm berries, frozen by hand in summer—but that was another story).

“And I bought beer,” he added, clearly proud of himself. “Good stuff—German. A whole case with a discount.”

 

A case meant twenty-four bottles. I did the math in my head: even discounted, it was at least three thousand. But I stayed quiet. Everyone has their weaknesses, right?

The next few weeks turned into a strange, silent standoff. I kept buying my farm products—cottage cheese, eggs, vegetables, meat from a supplier I trusted. It cost more, but I felt the difference. It wasn’t a whim; it mattered for my health, for our health.

Oleg kept buying convenience foods. Alongside the pizzas came stuffed crepes, ready-made cutlets you only had to heat up, nuggets. The cupboard filled with chips, crackers, and nuts for beer.

“It’s convenient,” he explained. “You come home tired, heat something up in ten minutes, and you’re done. No need to stand at the stove for an hour.”

I didn’t object. Honestly, I didn’t. He could eat what he wanted. But irritation kept building when I saw him in the evenings with a bottle of beer and a bag of chips in front of the TV, while I spent half an hour in the kitchen making a proper dinner.

One Saturday, he went out with friends.

“I’ll be back by ten,” he promised.

He came home at one in the morning—buzzed, smelling like beer, talkative.

“Such a great night,” he announced while I helped him out of his jacket. “We started at Zhiguli, then went to this new place near Mayakovskaya—those burgers are insane—then we even did karaoke…”

I stayed quiet. By morning he wouldn’t remember half of what he said.

But the next week it happened again. Then again. Friday or Saturday became sacred—Oleg’s time to meet the guys. I wasn’t against friendship, truly. But when the month ended and we sat down to go over our budget, we found only eight thousand in savings instead of thirty.

“Where did the money go?” Oleg squinted at his phone, scrolling through his bank statement.

“I don’t know,” I said, staring at mine. Mine looked almost the same.

We went quiet, both drowning in numbers. Supermarket. Delivery. Café. Supermarket again. Gas station. Pharmacy. Delivery again…

“Len,” Oleg looked up, and there was something new in his eyes—something wary. “How much do you spend on your farm stuff?”

I felt my back tighten.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it separately.”

“Let’s count it,” he said, and an unpleasant note slipped into his voice. “Yogurt—two fifty. Cottage cheese—how much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Eggs?”

“Two fifty.”

“Tomatoes?”

“Six hundred.”

He kept tallying, and I felt anger flare inside me. Yes, I spent more on groceries—but I cooked. Every day. Real, healthy food.

“So that’s about fifteen thousand a month just for your farm products,” he concluded. “That’s half of what we’re supposed to be saving.”

“And how much do you spend on your nights out?” I blurted.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything. You go to bars every week. Every week. What, do they pour drinks for free?”

“I work. I’m allowed to relax,” Oleg’s face darkened.

“And I work too!” My voice cracked into a shout even though I didn’t want it to. “And I’m allowed to eat food that doesn’t make me sick instead of that supermarket chemical mess!”

“It’s not chemicals—it’s normal food that millions of people eat!”

“And then millions of people get sick!”

We stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other. We’d never had a fight like that—little spats, yes, annoyance, sure, but not a direct clash with accusations thrown point-blank.

Oleg looked away first.

“Fine,” he said, flat and heavy. “Let’s think about what to do.”

For the next week, we barely talked. We spoke about household things—pass the salt, I’ll be late, we need toilet paper—but not about the real issue. And the real issue hung between us like an invisible wall.

I tried to understand what was happening. We loved each other—I was sure of it. But somehow money, that cursed money, was turning into a source of tension. And it wasn’t really about the money itself. It was something deeper. The right to live your own way? The right to be yourself?

Oleg must have been thinking the same, because on Friday evening—while I was making dinner (baked chicken with vegetables, all farm-fresh, all delicious)—he came into the kitchen with a strange expression.

“Len, I’ve figured it out,” he said.

“Figured what out?”

“How we can save.”

I set down the knife I’d been using to peel carrots.

“Let’s do it fairly: you pay for your yogurts, and I’ll pay for my food,” my husband announced.

I stood there, trying to process it.

“What do you mean?” I finally asked.

“Simple. Separate food budgets. You buy what you want with your money. I buy what I want with mine. Utilities, internet, everything else—fifty-fifty. That way we’ll see who actually spends what.”

“Oleg, that’s ridiculous…”

“Why is it ridiculous? It’s fair!” He spoke fast, confident—like he’d prepared for this. “I don’t stop you from eating your farm stuff. You don’t stop me from eating what I like. Everyone is responsible for themselves. And one more thing: I’ll save fifteen thousand a month, and you save fifteen—into our joint apartment fund. Deal?”

“And what about shared dinners?” I asked. “When I cook for both of us?”

He hesitated for a second.

“Well… if you cook something shared with regular ingredients, we split it. But if you want to cook with your farm products—that’s your expense.”

A sharp, bitter hurt hit me. So my care for our health—my standing at the stove every evening—was now considered “my personal spending”? And yet… there was something oddly tempting about his idea. Maybe we really should try it. Prove to him, with numbers, that I wasn’t spending as outrageously as he imagined.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s try it. One month.”

“Great!” Oleg’s face brightened. “You’ll see, it’ll be more convenient this way.”

Starting Monday, we began our “new system.” I kept a separate notebook where I wrote down every food expense. Oleg installed a spending tracker app.

The first days felt weird. I’d buy groceries and immediately wonder: is this mine or shared? Chicken was shared, but the vegetables for it were mine—farm produce. Pasta was shared, but the sauce made from farm tomatoes was mine. My head turned into a messy accounting puzzle.

Oleg seemed confused too. He bought his convenience foods, heated them up on his own plate, and looked at me with a guilty expression when I made myself a salad.

“Want some?” I’d ask, holding out the bowl.

“That’s your food,” he’d say uncertainly.

“Oh my God, Oleg—just take the salad,” I’d snap.

He would, but the air stayed tense. Something felt wrong about living separately at the same kitchen table.

A week passed. On Friday, as usual, Oleg went out with friends.

“Bye, I’ll be back late,” he said, kissing my cheek.

“Have fun,” I replied, with a tone so neutral he either didn’t catch the sarcasm—or chose not to.

I was alone. I sat down with my laptop and opened my notebook of expenses. In one week I’d spent three and a half thousand. Multiply by four—fourteen thousand a month. It fit. I could still put away my savings amount, with some left over.

And Oleg?

I truly wasn’t planning to check. But his phone was on the table—he’d taken his work phone—and without thinking I picked it up, unlocked it (I knew the passcode), and opened his expense app.

I froze.

In one week Oleg had spent twelve thousand rubles. On food. Just one week.

I scrolled through the categories. Pizza delivery—1,200. Burger delivery—900. Another delivery—sushi, 1,500. Zhiguli bar—2,300. Another bar—1,800. Store run: beer and snacks—2,000. Another delivery. And another.

Twelve thousand in a week.

I put the phone back and sat staring at nothing. That meant fifty thousand a month. Fifty. And he’d been lecturing me about a yogurt jar worth four hundred rubles…

The anger that rose in me was cold—and strangely clarifying. I didn’t make a scene when he stumbled in after midnight, loud and cheerful. I went to bed and turned my back to the wall.

“Len, are you asleep?” he whispered, sliding under the blanket.

“I’m asleep,” I said without turning.

Week two passed. I kept buying my farm products and cooking my meals. Oleg kept ordering delivery—almost every day. Pizza, rolls, something else. And he kept going to bars.

“How’s your budget going?” I asked one evening, keeping my tone light.

 

“Fine,” he said, eyes still on his phone.

“You’re saving fifteen thousand?”

“Of course.”

He was lying. I could tell. But I stayed quiet. Let him see the truth at the end of the month.

Week three brought a new twist. It was a coworker’s birthday, and they “just had a little get-together” after work—at a restaurant. Oleg came home around eleven.

“How much did you spend?” I couldn’t help asking.

“What?” He was slightly drunk and didn’t understand at first.

“Money. How much?”

“Not much—we split it… four thousand, maybe.”

Four thousand for one evening—while I weighed tomatoes at the store, choosing the cheaper ones.

“Great,” I said. “Very economical.”

“Len, it was a birthday…”

“Sure. Of course.”

Week four was the hardest. We barely spoke. I cooked for myself, he ordered for himself. We ate at different times, from different plates, like roommates instead of a couple.

I missed us. I missed shared dinners and kitchen conversations, the way he used to lick the spoon when I asked him to taste a new dish. I missed closeness.

But I didn’t want to be the first to give in. Let him see the results of his “fair” system.

And then the first of the month arrived. That evening we sat on the couch, each with our phone.

“So… totals?” Oleg asked, and his voice sounded strained.

“Sure.” I opened my notebook. “I spent thirteen thousand eight hundred rubles on food this month. And I saved fifteen thousand, like we agreed.”

I looked up. Oleg was silent, staring at his phone screen.

“And you?” I asked, even though I already knew.

He stayed quiet for another thirty seconds. Then, very softly, he said:

“Fifty-two thousand.”

“What’s fifty-two?”

“I spent fifty-two thousand rubles on food.”

Silence dropped between us. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt, There. Now you see. But he looked so lost, so miserable, that my anger drained away.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped. “I really thought I spent less. I mean, I eat simple food, convenience stuff, cheap things…”

“But you order delivery every day,” I said quietly. “Delivery is extra cost. And you go to bars every week.”

“I know.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I went through everything. It’s… it’s awful. I spent over twenty thousand on bars. Almost twenty on delivery. And I didn’t even notice it happening.”

“And did you save anything?”

He shook his head.

“No. There was nothing left.”

I felt strange. I had been right, and he had finally seen it—yet it didn’t feel like a win. Only exhaustion, and an odd emptiness.

“Len,” Oleg turned to me, and in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen in a long time—vulnerability, maybe. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I blamed you for us not being able to save, while I… I never even thought about how much I waste on crap. Pizza, bars, delivery… it’s meaningless spending.”

“And my yogurts are meaningful?” I couldn’t resist the jab.

“Your yogurts are health,” he said seriously. “And you cook. Every day you cook real food. And I… I was just a lazy selfish guy who tried to dump everything on you.”

I didn’t answer. Inside me, something softened—the bitterness and anger of the last month beginning to melt.

“And another thing,” he continued. “I missed it. Us. Eating together, you cooking while I tell you about work. Just… being together. This was horrible, Len.”

“I missed it too,” I admitted.

We went quiet. Then Oleg pulled me into his arms, and I leaned into him, feeling the tension of the month finally loosen.

“Can we start over?” he whispered. “One shared budget—but I’ll actually track my spending. Bars—max twice a month, and no more than three thousand each time. No delivery. I’ll eat what you cook. And you… keep buying your farm products. They’re worth it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I tried your cottage cheese last week. It really is better.”

I laughed—for the first time in a month, a real laugh.

“Alright,” I said. “We’ll try. But with one condition: if you genuinely want to go out for a drink with friends, don’t deprive yourself. Just plan it ahead, and we both know how much is going toward that. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The next day I made a big pot of borscht. Oleg stood beside me, chopping potatoes—crookedly, but with effort—while telling me about a new project at work. The soup bubbled on the stove, the kitchen smelled of dill and garlic, and outside the window snow was falling.

“You know,” Oleg said, dropping another potato chunk into the pot, “maybe we really can save up for an apartment after all.”

“We can,” I agreed. “If we do it together, not each on our own.”

He kissed the side of my neck, and I thought those words weren’t only about money. They were about life. Together. Not perfectly, not without arguments and mistakes—but together.

And I kept buying my farm yogurts. Because some habits aren’t just habits. They’re self-care.

And Oleg finally understood that.

The first warning signs appeared in mid-March, when Oleg came home earlier than usual with a cardboard box in his hands. Marina could tell from his face at once—what they’d both secretly dreaded for the past six months had finally happened.

“They cut me,” he said flatly, setting the box of personal items down in the entryway. “The entire department. ‘Cost optimization,’ apparently.”

Marina stepped toward him, wanting to hug him, but Oleg pulled away, went straight to the kitchen, and took a beer from the fridge. It was three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Oleg, we’ll survive this,” she said carefully. “My paycheck is stable—we’ll manage. The main thing is not to give up. You’ll start looking for a new position…”

“Don’t pity me,” he snapped. “I know what I’m doing.”

Except, from the way things went, he wasn’t going to do anything at all. During the first week Marina blamed it on shock—on needing time to come back to himself. Oleg slept late and spent most of the day at the computer. Maybe he was sending out résumés, maybe he was playing games; Marina didn’t check. She worked as a manager at a construction company, left at eight in the morning, came home at seven in the evening, and every day she hoped to see at least some sign of movement.

But the changes she noticed weren’t the ones she’d been hoping for.

By the end of the second week the apartment looked nothing like itself. Oleg cooked and never cleaned up—pans with dried egg stuck to them sat on the stove until night, crumbs blanketed the table, and empty beer bottles lined up neatly on the windowsill. Marina came home exhausted and immediately started putting everything back in order.

“Oleg, could you at least wash the dishes?” she tried one evening, keeping the reproach out of her voice.

“Was busy,” he muttered without lifting his eyes from the screen. “I’ll do it later.”

Later never came.

A month after he was laid off, Marina realized the shift wasn’t only about mess. Oleg had become sharp and irritable, snapping at any remark, turning rude over nothing. When she timidly asked how the job hunt was going, he blew up.

“What, you’re going to keep tabs on me now? Am I some little kid? I’ll find work when I find it!”

 

“I’m just asking,” Marina tried to explain. “I’m worried…”

“Worried?” he mocked. “Then don’t stick your nose in it. I’ve got enough problems.”

Marina fell silent. She wanted to say the problems were theirs now, that she was tired too, that it would be nice to feel like a team. But she swallowed it—because she was afraid of making him even angrier.

And then the real thing happened.

In early May, Marina came home from work yet again and found piles of dirty dishes. Oleg wasn’t alone in the kitchen. His younger brother, Sergey, was sitting at the table beside him, surrounded by beer bottles and bags of chips.

“Marinka, hey!” Sergey shouted. “I’m going to crash here for a bit—hope you don’t mind?”

Marina looked at her husband. Oleg stared off to the side.

“Meaning…?” she asked carefully.

“Olga and I—my wife—we had a little argument,” Sergey said casually. “Figured I’d give her time to cool down. Oleg offered me your place. Just a couple days, no more.”

A couple days turned into two weeks.

Sergey took over the couch in the living room and turned it into his personal territory. His things were everywhere. He watched TV late into the night and didn’t care about the volume. The brothers sat together drinking beer, laughing at their own jokes, and Marina felt like a stranger in her own home.

A home she’d bought with her own money, by the way—before marriage. Oleg moved in only after the wedding, but somehow everyone had decided that detail no longer mattered.

“Oleg, we need to talk,” Marina said on another day off, when Sergey went out to the store.

“About what?” Oleg didn’t even lift his head from his phone.

“About your brother. He’s been here two weeks. When is he leaving?”

“Soon. Why are you freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out. I just want to understand what’s happening. This is my apartment, Oleg, and I didn’t agree to anyone else living here.”

That made him look up. Something ugly flickered in his eyes.

“Your apartment?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes. Mine. I bought it—you know that.”

Marina knew she’d stepped onto dangerous ground, but she couldn’t stop. Everything she’d been holding in finally spilled out.

“Oleg, I’m exhausted. I work all day, I come home, and instead of resting I clean up after the two of you. There’s dirt everywhere, dishes piled up, cigarette butts on the floor…”

“Cigarette butts?” Sergey snorted—he’d just walked in with a bag of beer. “Marinka, come on. The ashtray just overflowed.”

“I’m not talking to you, Sergey,” she cut him off.

“Well excuse me, madam,” he rolled his eyes and headed to the living room.

Oleg stood up. Marina saw his jaw tighten.

“Listen, Marina,” he began in a low voice, anger barely contained. “I get it—you’re tired. But my brother and I aren’t sitting here for fun. I’m going through a hard time, in case you missed it. I need support, not your complaints.”

“Support—like me paying for you for two months?” Marina blurted.

Silence dropped between them. From the living room came the sound of the TV turning louder—Sergey’s idea of being “polite.”

“Paying for me?” Oleg smirked, but there was nothing amused in it. “You’re really bringing that up?”

“Is it not true?” Marina felt her voice trembling, but she kept going. “I pay for everything—utilities, groceries, all of it. And you can’t even wash your own dishes.”

“I’m looking for work!” he shouted.

“You’re drinking beer and playing tank games!” she snapped. “I see you, Oleg. I’m not blind.”

He stepped toward her, and for a second Marina thought she didn’t know him at all. A stranger stood in front of her—angry, bitter.

“You know what, Marina?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry I’m not living up to your expectations. But I’m sick of your nagging. You act like I owe you something.”

“You owe me at least basic respect,” she said softly. “You’re living in my apartment, I’m feeding you…”

“In your apartment,” he cut in. “Ah. So you’re going to hold that over my head forever now?”

“I’m not holding it over your head. I’m stating a fact. And I don’t like what’s happening here. I want your brother out, and I want you to start doing at least something at home if you’re not working yet.”

Oleg turned away, paced the kitchen, then whirled around.

“What does it matter whose apartment it is?” he blurted. “I’m the man, which means I’m the master of everything. And I’ll do what I think is right in here. If I need my brother’s support, he’ll live here. If I want to rest, I’ll rest. And you…”

He didn’t finish, but Marina didn’t need him to.

“You know what, Oleg?” Her voice turned unexpectedly calm. “You’re right. You’re a man. And as a man, you can be the master of a house. Just not of this one.”

“What?” He blinked, not understanding.

“Pack your things,” Marina said clearly. “You and your brother. Pack up and get out. Today.”

“Are you insane?” Sergey sprang into the doorway.

“Shut up,” Marina said without looking at him. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Marina, you can’t kick me out,” Oleg tried to smirk, but it came out weak. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I can. And I am,” she said. “You said it yourself—what does it matter whose apartment it is, you’re the man and the master of everything. Perfect. Go be the master somewhere else. Move in with Sergey—let Olga clean up after both of you, since you’re such ‘lords of life.’”

“You’ve completely lost it,” Sergey muttered.

“Sergey, if you’re not out of here in an hour, I’m calling the police,” Marina said quietly, in a tone that made arguing feel pointless. “You can test whether Olga will let you in. Or go to your mom’s. I don’t care.”

“Marina, we can talk this through,” Oleg said, clearly not expecting her to go this far. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“There’s nothing to talk through,” she said, yanking open the closet, grabbing a bag, and tossing it at him. “I’m tired of being a cleaner in my own home. Tired of your rudeness. Tired of watching you turn into someone I don’t recognize. Leave. Think about how you’ve been acting.”

“You don’t have the right,” Oleg started, but she cut him off.

“I do. This is my apartment—my home. And I decide who lives here. You wanted to be the master? Go be one somewhere else.”

The brothers exchanged a glance. Marina could see they didn’t believe she meant it. They were waiting for her to cry, to back down, to take it all back.

But she wasn’t taking anything back.

“One hour,” she repeated. “And I don’t want to see either of you here.”

They left within forty minutes, shoving their things into bags, muttering about hysterical women and “bitter witches.” Marina stood at the window and watched them load Sergey’s car. Her hands trembled, her throat tightened, but she refused to cry.

When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment felt painfully silent.

Marina sat at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, and only then allowed herself to cry—not out of self-pity, not out of hurt, but out of relief. It felt like she’d set down a weight she’d been carrying too long.

The first three days were strange. She came home from work and instinctively expected chaos, but everything stayed clean—exactly as she’d left it that morning. The quiet felt unfamiliar, almost ringing in her ears. No late-night TV, no drunken talk, no empty bottles.

She wandered from room to room as if meeting her own home again. It was pleasant—and oddly sad at the same time.

Oleg called on the second day. Marina didn’t answer. He texted: “You realize you went too far, right? I’m at Sergey’s. Olga’s not happy at all. Maybe stop messing around?”

She didn’t reply.

On the third day he called five times. Marina kept ignoring him.

On the fourth day, he showed up. He rang the bell, and Marina, sighing, opened the door. Pretending she wasn’t home felt stupid.

“Marina, come on,” Oleg looked rumpled and unshaven. “Enough already. Olga kicked us out. Said she won’t carry two freeloaders on her back. Now I’m literally on the street.”

“And Sergey?” Marina asked.

“Sergey’s at Mom’s. But there’s only one spare spot, and he already took it.”

“So there’s a spot for you too.”

“Mom lives in a two-bedroom! Where am I supposed to go?”

“On the couch. On the floor. Not my problem, Oleg.”

He stared at her like he didn’t recognize her.

“Marinochka, please,” he pleaded. “I get it. I was wrong. Let me come back, and we’ll talk calmly.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, folding her arms. “You haven’t changed. You’ve just run out of options.”

“I have changed!” he rushed out. “I realized I was wrong, I swear. I get it now.”

“You realized Olga didn’t tolerate your rudeness either?” Marina asked quietly. “That being ‘master of everything’ only works where people allow it?”

His jaw clenched.

“So what—now I’m supposed to live on the street?”

“Live with your mother. Find a job. And when you do—then we’ll talk.”

“Marina, this is absurd!”

“No, Oleg. What was absurd was tolerating what you allowed yourself to become. Go. And don’t call me until you have a job. I mean it.”

She shut the door. He stood there a moment longer, then she heard slow, heavy footsteps fade down the hallway.

Marina went back to the kitchen, sat down—and realized she was smiling. For the first time in weeks, she felt genuinely light.

The next weeks were peaceful. Marina worked, came home, tidied up—only after herself now, and it was almost enjoyable. She cooked dinner, watched shows, read the books she’d been meaning to start for ages.

Sometimes she felt lonely. Sometimes she caught herself listening for the sound of keys in the lock. But then she remembered the last months—the mess, the rudeness, that line: “What does it matter whose apartment it is?”—and being alone didn’t seem so frightening.

Oleg called once a week. She didn’t pick up.

And then, a month and a half later, he texted: “I got a job—sales manager for security systems. Three-month probation, but they promise good pay. Can I come by?”

Marina stared at the message for a full fifteen minutes.

Then she typed: “Come Saturday at two. We’ll talk.”

On Saturday, Oleg arrived exactly at two. He wore a clean shirt, was freshly shaved, and held a bouquet.

“Come in,” Marina stepped aside.

They sat in the kitchen. Oleg set the flowers on the table, folded his hands, and looked her in the eyes.

“Marina, I want to apologize,” he said quietly. “For everything. I acted like a complete idiot.”

She stayed silent, waiting.

“When I got fired, I just… broke,” he continued, choosing his words slowly. “I felt useless. Like a loser. And instead of pulling myself together, I dumped my anger on you—the one person who was supporting me.”

“You weren’t dumping anger,” Marina corrected gently. “You were trying to feel powerful at my expense. To be ‘the boss’ somewhere.”

He nodded.

“Maybe you’re right. It was easier to play ‘the master’ than to admit I was scared—that I couldn’t handle it, that I felt like dirt.”

“Oleg, I would’ve supported you,” Marina said. “If you’d just talked to me. If you didn’t treat me badly, didn’t turn the apartment into a dump, didn’t drag your brother in here.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his face. “God, I know. When Olga threw both of us out—me and Sergey—I suddenly saw myself from the outside. Two grown men with no jobs, behaving like pigs. And I thought… is that really me?”

“And what did you answer?” Marina asked.

“That it was me,” he admitted. “And I hated it.”

He told her he’d lived with his mother for three weeks, how she scolded him daily—called him an idiot, said he’d thrown away a good wife, said he was acting like an infant. He admitted he’d wanted to snap back, then realized she was right.

Marina listened and felt something inside her slowly thaw.

“I started looking for work for real,” Oleg went on. “Sending ten résumés a day. Going to interviews. And I found something. The pay’s lower than before, but it’s a start. And I’ll work hard.”

“Why didn’t you do that earlier?” she asked. “When you lived here?”

He hesitated, then answered honestly.

“Because I didn’t have to. Because you fed me anyway. You stayed anyway. Why strain myself if I could just sit and play tanks?” He gave a bitter half-smile. “I was living off you, Marina. I understand that now. And I’m ashamed.”

“Good,” she said softly, lifting the bouquet and breathing in the scent. “Chrysanthemums. My favorite. You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

They were quiet for a moment. Outside, a couple walked past with a dog; somewhere nearby kids laughed loudly.

“So… what now?” Oleg asked. “I want to come back. I want to start over. But I understand if you don’t. If I burned every bridge.”

Marina looked at him. Her husband sat across from her—tired, humbled, unsure. Nothing like the cocky man who’d shouted about being “the master of everything.”

“Rules,” Marina said. “If you come back, there will be rules.”

He nodded, bracing himself.

“First: chores are fifty-fifty. Cleaning, cooking, all of it—shared.”

“Agreed.”

“Second: your brother is never staying here longer than an evening. If he’s fighting with his wife, he can solve it himself.”

 

“Agreed.”

“Third: no disrespect. Not to this home, and not to me. If you’re struggling, we talk about it. But you don’t get to take it out on me—or turn my apartment into a landfill.”

“Marina, I agree. I agree to everything,” he said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. “I’ll be different. I swear.”

She looked at their hands, then at his face.

“And if you ever go back to that behavior,” she said slowly, “there won’t be a second chance. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Then… alright,” she said, giving a small smile. “You can come back.”

Oleg stood, walked around the table, and hugged her. Marina closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his shoulder. She knew this wasn’t the end of their problems. There would be hard days. Trust didn’t rebuild overnight.

But it was a beginning. The start of something new.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for not leaving me for good.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she corrected. “I left the person you became. And this one,” she pulled back slightly and met his eyes, “this one… I think I still remember.”

He smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in months.

And Marina thought that sometimes people really do have to hit bottom to understand how far they’ve fallen. Sometimes you have to lose everything to value what you had.

And sometimes you simply have to find the strength to say, “Enough,” and not be afraid of being alone—if the alternative is living in constant humiliation.

That evening they cooked dinner together. Oleg chopped salad; Marina fried chicken. They talked—carefully, avoiding the sharpest corners, but they talked. The sun set outside, the kitchen smelled of garlic and spices, and for the first time in a long while Marina felt that things might be okay.

Not immediately. Not magically.

But in time—okay.