All Amazing Babies

Anastasia stood by the window of her one-room apartment, looking at the gray high-rises beyond the glass. Thirty-two square meters—a small space for two adults. She had bought the apartment five years ago, before the wedding, with the money she’d saved over years of work and from selling her share in her parents’ apartment.

The place was cozy—light walls, a minimalist interior, a small kitchen with new appliances. But it was cramped. Especially after Mikhail, Anastasia’s husband, moved in two years ago.

She worked as a manager at a logistics company; Mikhail worked in manufacturing. Their earnings were enough for living—groceries, utilities, the occasional outing. But Anastasia dreamed of more.

Of a house. A real house with a plot of land where she could plant a garden, put up a gazebo, get a dog. Not thirty-two square meters, but a full hundred. A place to breathe freely without bumping into walls.

Anastasia often pictured that house: two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a big kitchen with a dining area. Bright rooms with high ceilings. Wood floors, panoramic windows, a terrace overlooking the garden. She dreamed of arranging every room to her taste—choosing curtains, placing furniture, creating comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” Mikhail came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

“Oh, nothing,” Anastasia turned. “Thinking about a house.”

“About a house again,” her husband smirked. “Nastya, a house costs millions.”

“I know,” she nodded. “But I can dream, can’t I?”

“You can,” Misha shrugged and went to the kitchen.

Her husband didn’t share her dream. Mikhail was comfortable in the apartment—close to work, not far from the center, everything at hand. Why have a house somewhere on the outskirts if everything you need is here?

But Anastasia didn’t let go of the idea of her own house. And she started putting money aside.

Five years ago, she opened a separate account. Every month she transferred ten to fifteen thousand to it. She cut back on everything—bought clothes less often, skipped expensive cafés, didn’t go on vacation. Every saved thousand went to the account.

Mikhail didn’t contribute to the savings. He spent his salary on personal needs—clothes, gadgets, outings with friends. Anastasia didn’t object—let him live as he wished. The main thing was that he didn’t interfere with her saving.

The money grew slowly. In a year she saved about a hundred and fifty thousand. In five years—seven hundred and fifty thousand. A lot, but not enough. Houses in a decent area started at three million.

Anastasia studied the real estate market, browsed listings, compared prices. She dreamed of a house in the suburbs, in a quiet area with good ecology. With a ten-hundred-square-meter plot where she could set up a garden.

But the dream felt far away. Another ten years of saving at least.

And then something unexpected happened.

Anastasia’s grandmother died. The elderly woman had lived alone in a village, in an old house. When the will was opened, it turned out the grandmother had left all her savings to her granddaughter. Two million three hundred thousand rubles.

Anastasia couldn’t believe it. That kind of money. Such good fortune. Her grandmother had saved all her life, put aside her pension, sold a plot of land. And left everything to her beloved granddaughter.

“Misha,” Anastasia ran home, unable to contain her joy. “Can you imagine—Grandma left me money! More than two million!”

Mikhail tore himself away from the computer.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” she twirled around the room. “Now we can buy a house! A real house!”

“Wow,” her husband nodded. “That’s good.”

Mikhail’s joy was restrained, but Anastasia didn’t mind. She immediately began searching for options—scrolling listings, going to viewings, comparing offers.

A month later she found the perfect option. A house in the suburbs, forty minutes from the city. One hundred and twenty square meters, three rooms, a spacious kitchen–living room. A ten-hundred-square-meter plot, an old garden, a small bathhouse. Price—three million. With Anastasia’s savings, it was enough.

She went to see it. The house was old and needed cosmetic repairs, but it was solid. The foundation was intact, the roof new, the utilities installed. They could move in immediately and fix things up gradually.

 

“Misha, I found it!” Anastasia showed her husband the photos. “Look how nice it is!”

Mikhail flipped through the pictures.

“It’s far from work.”

“But it’s our own house,” she put her arms around his shoulders. “Can you imagine? Our own home!”

“Well, if you like it,” he shrugged. “Buy it.”

Anastasia closed the deal quickly. The sellers were in a hurry and were ready to drop the price to two million nine hundred thousand. She agreed, paid the deposit, and signed the documents two weeks later.

The house became hers. Legally registered in Anastasia’s name. Her money, her dream, her property.

She devoted the next month to setting it up. She went to the house every weekend and did cosmetic repairs. She painted the walls in light tones, laid new laminate, replaced the doors. Her husband sometimes went with her, but mostly sat in the car on his phone.

“Misha, at least help bring in the furniture,” Anastasia asked.

“Yeah, just a minute,” he replied without looking up from the screen.

She didn’t press. She managed on her own and hired workers for the heavy lifting. Gradually, the house transformed.

A bright kitchen with new cabinets. A living room with a comfortable sofa and a big TV. A bedroom with a wide bed and a sliding-door wardrobe. The second room was still empty—Anastasia planned to make it a home office.

In the garden, she pruned the old trees, planted flowers, and set up a bench. The plot came to life and turned cozy.

“When are we moving?” Anastasia asked one evening as they drank tea in the apartment kitchen.

“Soon, I guess,” Mikhail shrugged.

“Maybe this weekend?” she looked at him hopefully. “I’ve almost got everything ready. Just need to pack and move our things.”

“Let’s make it in a week,” he avoided her gaze. “I’ve got a crunch at work right now.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “In a week then.”

Over the next few days she packed. She boxed up dishes, folded clothes, sorted books. The apartment gradually emptied.

On Saturday morning Anastasia got up early and started packing the last boxes. Mikhail slept until ten, then came into the kitchen and had some coffee.

“Misha, help me carry the boxes out,” she asked.

“Wait,” he sat down at the table. “I need to talk to you.”

She set the tape aside and looked at him. His face was serious, even tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“About the house,” he stirred his coffee. “My mother will live there.”

Silence. Anastasia stood holding a box of dishes, not understanding what she’d just heard.

“What… what did you say?”

“My mother will move into the house,” Mikhail repeated, staring into his cup. “Her apartment is small, ground floor, damp. The doctors say she needs a dry climate. The house is perfect.”

Anastasia slowly set the box on the floor.

“Misha, you’re joking, right?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m serious. Mom will move there permanently.”

“But… it’s my house!” Anastasia’s voice trembled. “I bought it for us!”

“So what?” Mikhail finally looked up. “My mother needs housing. She has health issues.”

“And I have an issue with some stranger living in my house!” Anastasia felt herself boiling inside. “Without my consent!”

“A stranger?” he frowned. “That’s my mother!”

“She’s a stranger to me!” Anastasia raised her voice. “I did not consent!”

Mikhail stood up from the table.

“Nastya, be reasonable. Mom really needs a house. Her apartment isn’t livable.”

“Then let her sell the apartment and buy another one!” Anastasia stepped toward him. “What does my house have to do with it?!”

“The point is, there’s a house,” he said evenly. “And it’s standing empty. Why shouldn’t Mom live there?”

“Because it’s my house!” Anastasia screamed. “I saved for five years! I got an inheritance from my grandmother! I bought it with my own money!”

“So what?” he crossed his arms. “Does that mean you get to be selfish?”

Anastasia froze. Selfish? She was selfish?

“Misha, do you hear yourself?” she forced herself to speak slowly. “I dreamed of this house. I saved for years. I set it up. I planned our life there.”

 

“You planned,” he nodded. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want to move.”

“You didn’t ask?” She felt the ground slipping away. “You agreed! You said it was a good idea!”

“I said it so you wouldn’t get upset,” Mikhail shrugged. “But to be honest, I’m fine in the apartment.”

“So this whole year I was killing myself with repairs and you didn’t care?” Anastasia’s voice shook.

“You wanted it yourself,” he turned away. “I didn’t insist.”

Silence. Anastasia stood, trying to grasp what was happening. Her husband didn’t want the house. He had never wanted it. He just kept quiet to avoid conflict.

“And now you’ve decided to give my house to your mother?” she asked slowly.

“Not give—let her live there,” Mikhail corrected her. “Temporarily.”

“How long is ‘temporarily’?”

“Well… until she finds another option.”

“So, indefinitely,” Anastasia gave a short laugh. “Wonderful.”

“Nastya, don’t dramatize,” he turned to her. “Mom is elderly. She needs help.”

“Help is one thing,” she stepped forward. “Moving her into someone else’s property is another.”

“Someone else’s property?” he frowned. “We’re a family.”

“A family?” Anastasia felt a wave of rage rise inside. “Is that what you call it when you make decisions without me?!”

“I didn’t make a decision, I just informed you,” he said calmly.

“Informed me!” she nearly choked with indignation. “That my property will now be occupied by your mother!”

“Stop it,” Mikhail waved a hand. “So you bought it. So what! Mom needs that house more than you do now!”

The words came out cold and peremptory. Anastasia stared at him, unable to believe she’d heard that.

“What did you say?” she asked quietly.

“I said the truth,” Mikhail looked her in the eye. “Mom needs the house more. She has health problems. And you’re fine in the apartment.”

“Needs it more,” Anastasia repeated mechanically. “Your mom needs it more.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And you should understand that.”

Anastasia exhaled slowly. Inside, everything seethed—rage, resentment, pain. Five years of saving. Dreaming. Planning. Fixing the house with her own hands. And now her husband was saying his mother needed it more.

“Misha,” she made herself speak calmly. “Why should I think about your mother? Why not you?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that caring for parents is a child’s responsibility,” Anastasia crossed her arms. “If your mother needs housing, you should provide it. Not me.”

“But you have a house!”

“I have a house that I bought for myself!” Anastasia shouted. “For my family! Not for your mother!”

“My mother is part of the family!”

“No!” She stepped closer. “Your mother is your responsibility! If you want to help her—sell your car, take out a loan, rent her an apartment! But don’t touch my property!”

Mikhail turned pale.

“You… you’re a monster! How can you talk about my mother like that?!”

“I’m not talking about your mother!” Anastasia was almost gasping. “I’m talking about my rights! About my property! About my dream that you want to take away!”

“No one is taking anything away!”

“You are!” she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You want to give my house to your mother! The house I bought with my grandmother’s money! The house I poured my soul into!”

“Nastya, calm down…”

 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she backed away. “I won’t calm down! Because you’re betraying me! You’re spitting on my dreams! You’re putting your mother above your wife!”

Silence. Mikhail stood with his head down, not knowing what to say.

“Nastya, my mother really needs—”

“And I didn’t need anything?” Anastasia cut him off. “For five years I saved! I denied myself everything! To buy this house! And now you say your mother needs it more?!”

“She’s elderly…”

“So what?!” she was almost crying with fury. “I am not obliged to provide her with housing! She’s your mother! Your responsibility!”

Mikhail looked up.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes!” Anastasia screamed. “I refuse! Your mother will not live in my house!”

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” he said coldly.

“Agreed,” she nodded. “Pack your things. Leave.”

Mikhail froze.

“What?”

“I said—pack your things and leave,” she repeated. “This is my apartment. And I don’t want you to stay here.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

“Yes,” she looked him in the eye. “I am. Because you betrayed me. Because you don’t respect my rights. Because you tried to take my dream.”

“Nastya, you’re insane!”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just realized who you really are.”

He wanted to say something, but Anastasia raised her hand.

“Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”

He stood there for another minute, then turned sharply. He went into the room and began shoving things into a bag—clothes, shoes, documents. He packed quickly, angrily.

Twenty minutes later he was ready. He picked up the bag and walked to the door.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

 

“Leave.”

The door slammed. Anastasia was alone in the apartment.

She went into the room and sat down on the couch. Her hands were shaking, her breathing uneven. But inside—calm. A strange, cold calm.

The decision was made. Final and irreversible.

Anastasia spent the next week dealing with practicalities. She filed for divorce and submitted the paperwork to the court. Mikhail didn’t object, he only demanded half of the house. But the house had been bought with Anastasia’s money, so the court rejected his claim.

She also decided to rent out the apartment. She found tenants—a young married couple, quiet and tidy. She rented it for twenty-five thousand a month. That covered the house’s utilities and groceries.

Anastasia moved into the house. Alone, with her things, with her dreams. The house greeted her with silence and space.

She walked through the rooms, touching the walls, opening the windows. This was her life. Hers alone. No one else could lay claim to this space.

Anastasia turned the second room into a study. She set up a desk, a bookcase, a comfortable armchair. She now worked partly remotely, going to the office twice a week.

In the garden, she planted roses, put up a swing, and set up a barbecue area. She got a dog—a Labrador named Jack. He ran around the plot, rejoicing in his freedom.

In the evenings Anastasia sat on the terrace with tea, watching the sunset. Jack lay nearby with his muzzle on his mistress’s knees. Quiet, peace, freedom.

For the first few weeks Mikhail tried calling. He asked her to come back, said they could talk everything over. But Anastasia didn’t answer. She understood there was nothing to return to. Her husband had shown his true face. There would be no second chance.

Life went on. Work, the house, the garden, the dog. Simple joys that once seemed unattainable. Now all of it belonged only to Anastasia.

She stood by the window of her house, looking at the garden. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, painting the sky in pink and orange. Jack raced through the grass, chasing butterflies.

Anastasia smiled. This was freedom. This was her home. Her dream that no one managed to take away.

And it was the best decision of her life.

A warm May day wrapped the park in golden light. Lyova and Misha, both wearing identical school trousers and blue shirts, sat on the grass, and nearby, stretched out at full puppy length, lay Rex — a large, shaggy Alabai with a wet nose and kind, almost human eyes.

“Look what he can do!” Lyova exclaimed proudly, extending his palm. “Rex, give me your paw!”

The puppy immediately jumped up, joyfully nudged his nose into the hand, and clumsily placed his massive paw on it. Misha laughed, and sensing the fun, Rex dashed over, knocked him onto his back, and began tickling his face with affectionate licks. The boys squealed with delight, tangled together in a wild, playful heap where it was impossible to tell where the dog ended and the boy began.

“You spoil him too much,” Misha said, out of breath, smiling as he brushed grass from his hair.

“How else?” Lyova brushed sand off his knee. “He’s my friend. And besides — the smartest dog in the world.”

Rex, as if agreeing, nudged Misha’s hand with his nose and wagged his tail happily over the grass.

“It’s a pity I never had a dog,” Misha said softly, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head.

“But now you have me and Rex,” Lyova patted his friend on the shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll bring him treats from home. Let him be happy too.”

The sun slowly tilted toward sunset. Lyova stood up and carefully brushed off his pants.

“I have to go. Dad gets worried if I’m late. But you come tomorrow, okay? I’ll definitely be waiting.”

Misha nodded, but inside, a strange premonition tightened his chest. He watched his friend leave, leading a bouncing Rex behind him. Staying alone on the empty clearing was always a little sad. Misha headed home, hoping tomorrow would bring something good, though anxiety lingered in his soul.

The apartment door creaked. Misha carefully entered, taking off his shoes at the threshold. The air was heavy with the smell of medicine, old wood, and a vague mixture of sorrow and hope. On the couch, wrapped in a blanket, lay his mother — Marina. She held a book, but her gaze wandered out the window.

“Hi, Mom,” Misha said quietly, trying not to disturb her thoughts.

“Back already? How was your walk?” Marina smiled, tired but with a warm spark in her eyes.

“Great. Lyova showed me how Rex gives his paw. He’s such a funny puppy.”

“It’s good you have a friend,” Marina gently stroked her son’s hand. “You know I’m always here.”

Other times came to mind. When Dad brought ice cream home, when the apartment smelled of fried potatoes, when they watched movies and laughed together. It was warm, it was peaceful.

Then everything changed. One day Mom slipped on the stairs and hurt herself badly. Hospital, white walls, doctors in masks, anxious talks. The home became different: medicine appeared, silence, the nighttime rustling of pills in their boxes. Dad was home less and less, then just packed his things and left, slamming the door. Marina cried, and Misha didn’t know how to hug her so the pain would go away.

Grandma Valentina Nikolaevna came over, scolded Dad, baked pies, but didn’t stay long. So the family shrank to two — mother and son. They learned to survive together, holding on to each other.

The next day Lyova came back different. His usually lively face was tense, worry in his eyes.

“Things are bad at home,” he said quietly as Misha approached. “Dad’s leaving on a business trip, and Inga is moving in. She’s terrible. Loves no one but Dad. She scolds me, even Tamara Semyonovna.”

“Maybe she just isn’t used to it yet?” Misha tried to comfort, though he didn’t believe it himself.

“No,” Lyova shook his head. “She does it on purpose. She can’t stand Rex either. Says he’s dirty trouble. But Dad gave him to me for my birthday. I wanted a dog for so long!”

He fell silent, staring into the distance, then perked up:

“You know, at night Rex quietly climbs into my bed. We’re like real brothers. But now Inga forbids everything. She won’t even let me walk him.”

The boys were silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

Lyova left earlier than usual and didn’t come for several days. Misha wondered what had happened but hoped his friend would return soon.

Misha couldn’t get the thought out of his head: sooner or later, Lyova would have to walk Rex. One day he set his alarm for five in the morning and went to the river. The park was empty, only birds chirped among the bushes.

He hid behind a bush and waited. Soon a silver car pulled up to the shore. A tall woman with a bright scarf, cold eyes, and sharp makeup got out. Without looking back, she pulled a heavy bag from the trunk, which oddly moved, and with effort threw it into the water.

Misha froze. His heart sank. But without thinking, he plunged into the icy water, found the bag, and pulled it ashore. Shivering with fear, he untied the knot. Inside, with tape over its muzzle, lay Rex — scared but alive.

“Quiet, little one,” Misha gently removed the sticky tape, pressing the puppy to himself. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you.”

Rex trembled but licked Misha’s cheek. At that moment, the boy made a decision: he would never give this dog away.

At home, Marina met her son with concern — there stood a wet, shivering Misha holding a huge puppy wrapped in a blanket.

“What happened?” Marina hurried to him worriedly.

“It’s Rex… someone tried to drown him!” Misha sobbed, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head. “I saw the woman throw him in the river. I couldn’t leave him there…”

Marina knelt down, hugged her son, and pressed the trembling dog to herself.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered. “But now we have to find out everything. Who was that woman? Did you remember her?”

“Yes. Tall, with a bright scarf. In a silver car. We need to tell Lyova. He has to know.”

Marina sighed, stroking Misha’s hair.

“We’ll keep Rex here. Until we figure things out, he’ll live with us.”

The next morning Misha went to Lyova’s house. He stood a long time behind the wrought-iron fence, watching the windows. Soon Lyova came out onto the porch with his father — Herman Arkadyevich. Stern, in an impeccable suit, he tried to calm his son.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Maybe Rex just ran away. We’ll find him for sure.”

“No!” Lyova clenched his fists. “It’s Inga! I saw her angry at him yesterday. And today he’s gone!”

Herman frowned but shook his head:

“Don’t make things up. Inga wouldn’t do that.”

Then Misha couldn’t hold back and ran out of hiding:

“I saw everything!” he shouted. “The woman in the bright scarf, in the silver car. She threw a bag into the river, and Rex was inside! I saved him. Now he’s at my place.”

Herman sharply turned to his son:

“Are you sure it was Inga?”

Lyova nodded, wiping away tears. At that moment a silver car pulled up to the house. Inga stepped out in her signature scarf. Seeing them, she froze.

“Inga,” Herman’s voice was icy, “we need to talk. Now. Let’s go inside.”

She tried to say something, but Herman was firm.

“Wait here,” he told the boys and disappeared behind the door.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, pale but resolute.

“Where’s Rex?” he asked Misha. “Show me.”

At home, Marina met them reservedly. Herman suddenly recognized her and unexpectedly smiled:

“Marina? Is that really you? We went to school together. Remember the wooden doghouses in the yard and the apples from the neighbor’s garden?”

Marina was slightly embarrassed but smiled too:

“Of course, I remember. You were always the top student.”

While the adults recalled their school days, the boys and Rex had a real celebration of joy: running, laughing, hugging. Everyone was thankful that the puppy was alive, and the friendship only grew stronger.

In the kitchen, Marina and Herman continued their conversation.

“Sometimes it seems life will never get better,” Marina said quietly. “And then suddenly someone appears, and everything begins to change.”

Herman nodded, looking at her carefully:

“The main thing is not to give up. Everything can start anew.”

Their eyes met longer than usual — there was more in them than memories.

Herman gave the boys some money:

“Buy something tasty for tea. And come to us. Today we have a celebration!”

Misha and Lyova rushed to the store, returning with chips, ice cream, and candy. At Herman’s house, Marina helped Tamara Semyonovna cut salad, and the housekeeper baked her famous pies. At the table, everyone laughed, shared stories, and no one even remembered Inga — her things had disappeared as if she had never been.

The atmosphere was warm, homely, almost magical. It seemed all difficulties were behind.

Late at night, while the adults still sat drinking tea, Misha and Lyova settled in the room.

“Do you think if our parents were together, we’d be better off?” Lyova asked thoughtfully.

“Of course,” Misha smiled. “You’d be my brother, and Rex would be our dog.”

“Let’s test their feelings,” Lyova conspiratorially suggested. “We’ll write a note: we ran away and will only come back if they agree to get married.”

The boys giggled, wrote the message, and carefully placed it on the kitchen table.

In the morning, Marina couldn’t find her son. The house was in a bustle. Herman searched every room until he noticed the note.

Reading it, he laughed:

“Those rascals… Looks like we have no choice.”

They went outside, and Herman saw the boys behind the bushes.

“Well,” he smiled, “shall we make a deal?”

Marina nodded shyly, but hope and joy shone in her eyes.

Tamara Semyonovna, laughing, called the kids home:

“Hey, rascals! Come back! The adults have already decided everything!”

Misha and Lyova ran to their parents, Rex jumped around, barking happily. Everyone hugged and laughed, and outside, as if especially for this moment, the sun shone brightly.

And life became kind again.

— Mom, what’s wrong?

Nikita walked into the kitchen, drawn by a sharp, medicinal smell that overpowered even the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Marina Gennadyevna sat at the table, deliberately slowly dripping a dark liquid from a bottle into a faceted glass. Corvalol. Her battle standard, her shield, her weapon. She didn’t look at her son, but everything about her—from her mournfully pursed lips to her tense shoulders—screamed of universal suffering.

“I didn’t sleep all night,” she complained at last, lifting her eyes to him. Her gaze, usually keen and piercing, was now veiled with the misty film of martyrdom. She took a small sip and winced as if she were swallowing poison.

“Why?”

“Son, make your wife moan less at night! I didn’t move in with you to listen to such indecency! My heart is weak—I need peace!”

Nikita froze halfway to the coffeepot. Blood rushed hot and thick to his face, scorching his ears and neck. He felt naked, caught off guard. His mother’s words, spoken in an ostentatiously quiet, suffering tone, struck like a sniper’s bullet. They were meant not to provoke anger but shame—sticky, paralyzing shame about what was most personal, most intimate in his life and was now being publicly discussed at the breakfast table. He wanted to say something, to object, but his mouth went dry.

At that very moment Alla entered the kitchen as if woven from the morning light. She wore a light silk robe, her hair carelessly gathered at the back of her head, and a shadow of a content, relaxed smile played on her lips. She looked as if she had just woken up in paradise, and that look was the fiercest dissonance with the mourning atmosphere his mother had so diligently created.

Seeing her, Marina Gennadyevna straightened, her lips tightening into a thin, spiteful line.

“Good morning, Alya. Slept well, I suppose?” The venom in her voice seemed concentrated enough to burn through the tabletop.

Alla paused for a moment; her gaze slid over the Corvalol bottle, over her mother-in-law’s suffering face, over her husband, red as a boiled crawfish. She assessed the disposition of forces in a split second. No embarrassment or anger crossed her face. Instead, her smile only widened, turning from relaxed into dazzling and defiant.

“A most excellent morning to you, Marina Gennadyevna!” she sang. “And the same to you.”

She went up to Nikita, ran her hand over his tense back, and kissed him lightly on the temple. Then she turned to her mother-in-law, looking her straight in the eye.

“Nikit, darling, you didn’t forget we’re going today to pick out new lace lingerie for me, did you? I saw a stunning set yesterday. I think we’ll get something red. To make the nights even brighter.”

 

She playfully winked at her petrified husband, mischief sparkling in her eyes. It was a return shot—precise and merciless. She didn’t justify herself. She didn’t defend herself. She accepted the challenge thrown at her and raised the stakes to the heavens, turning the accusation of “indecency” into the announcement of even more unabashed pleasure to come. She left Nikita in complete stupefaction, mouth open and heart pounding, and left his mother, flushed with impotent rage, alone with her useless Corvalol and the utter failure of her morning assault.

The frontal attack with Corvalol had failed, but Marina Gennadyevna wasn’t one to retreat. She was a strategist, and the battlefield—her son’s apartment—offered endless tactical possibilities. She changed tactics from a cavalry charge to a measured guerrilla war. The pretext was “helping around the house.” Like a caring shadow, she slipped through the rooms while the young couple were at work, dusting where there was no dust and rearranging perfectly placed vases. Her target was the bedroom. The holy of holies, the enemy’s citadel.

And she waited for her moment. One day, coming back from the store, Alla carelessly left a branded paper bag with the logo of an expensive lingerie boutique on the dresser. From the hallway, Marina spotted it, and her heart beat with a predatory, triumphant rhythm. Waiting until Alla went to shower, she slipped into the room. Her fingers, accustomed to wool socks and laundry soap, unfolded the crinkling wrapping paper with disgusted curiosity. Out came that very red set. Bright scarlet, almost screaming silk; the finest black lace—it wasn’t just lingerie. It was a manifesto, a challenge, the very weapon her daughter-in-law had so brazenly struck her with days earlier. Marina didn’t look at it as an article of clothing but as the face of an enemy. And she struck.

That evening, when Nikita and Alla came home, they were met by the biting smell of bleach and demonstrative cleanliness. In the center of the kitchen, hanging over a chair like the flag of a conquered state, was… something. A gray-brown rag marred by ugly streaks, in which the outline of that scarlet set could barely be discerned. The lace had shriveled and yellowed; the silk had faded and looked stiff. Next to it, for contrast, hung an old checkered dishcloth. The tableau spoke louder than any words.

“Mom, what’s this?” Nikita asked, the first to break the silence. There was no anger in his voice, only bewildered confusion.

“Oh, Nikitushka, I was tidying up, decided to wash everything,” fussed Marina Gennadyevna, wiping perfectly dry hands on her apron. Her face portrayed pure innocence. “Found it in the laundry basket, so I tossed it in with the towels. Must’ve bled a lot. Chinese, I suppose—the quality these days is no good.”

Nikita looked at Alla. He expected her to explode, to start yelling, and that he’d have to, as always, dash between two fires, trying to calm everyone down. But Alla was silent. She wasn’t looking at the ruined item—she was looking straight at her mother-in-law. Her gaze was calm, cold, and so piercing that Marina involuntarily shivered.

“Mom, come on…” Nikita began conciliatorily. “That’s silk, an expensive thing. You have to wash it separately, by hand…”

Without a word, Alla slowly walked up to the chair. She didn’t examine the pitiful remains of her purchase. She picked up the ruined set with two fingers, as if touching something vile, walked past her stunned husband and mother-in-law to the trash bin, opened the lid, and, without looking, dropped the rag inside. The metal lid slammed shut with a dull, final sound.

She turned. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her lips.

“It’s all right, Nikita. We’ll buy a new one. An even better one. Apparently, some people take huge pleasure not in wearing beautiful things but in touching other people’s underwear—even if that means rummaging in a dirty laundry basket.”

The mask of the innocent busybody fell from Marina’s face in an instant. Her eyes on Alla were full of pure, undiluted hatred. She had lost this round, too. And she understood that this war would be waged to total annihilation.

The lost battle with the ruined lingerie didn’t break Marina; it only convinced her that all means were fair in this war. Alla was not just a daughter-in-law—she was an enemy who didn’t follow rules, didn’t feel shame, and wasn’t afraid of open confrontation. Fighting such an opponent alone was pointless. Marina realized she needed heavy artillery. And she summoned it.

The heavy artillery was her husband, Gennady Arkadyevich, Nikita’s father. A solid, heavyset man with a face fixed in an expression of perpetual rightness. He rarely interfered in family matters, preferring the role of a silent patriarch whose opinion was law by default. He arrived on Sunday, and a “family dinner” was arranged. This was not an invitation; it was a summons to a tribunal. The special-occasion china was set out, and in the center stood Marina’s signature dish—duck baked with apples. The aroma of celebration mixed with the oppressive sense of a trap.

Nikita sat between his father and mother, his head drawn into his shoulders. With unnatural diligence he cut his portion of duck into microscopic pieces, as if his life depended on it. He didn’t look up, feeling like the accused even though no charges had yet been voiced. Alla sat opposite, straight-backed and calm. She ate slowly, with regal dignity, as if she were not at a trial but at a reception at an embassy.

 

“Nice evening,” rumbled Gennady Arkadyevich after dabbing his lips with a napkin. His low, booming voice filled the kitchen, making the air vibrate. “The family gathered—that’s what matters. A family’s strength, Alla, rests on respect. Respect for elders, respect for tradition. And on feminine modesty.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Marina nodded approvingly, looking at her daughter-in-law with triumph. This was it. You can’t argue with fatherly authority.

“A woman is the keeper of the hearth,” Gennady went on, staring somewhere above Alla’s head. “Her behavior, her manners—they’re the family’s face. And when there is no quiet and decorum in the home, when nights turn into… ahem… a circus, that means the hearth has cracked. That must not be allowed. A man needs peace to work, to be the head. Not all this…” He waved his heavy hand vaguely.

Nikita shrank even more, wishing he could sink through the floor. He braced for an explosion, for a cutting retort from Alla. But she finished chewing a piece of apple, carefully set down her fork and knife, lifted her clear, limpid eyes to her father-in-law, and smiled slightly.

“You are absolutely right, Gennady Arkadyevich. Family is sacred. And I’m very glad you brought up such an important topic.”

Marina and her husband exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected such compliance. It seemed the plan was working.

“You speak of passion, of nights,” Alla continued in a soft, insinuating voice with not a hint of sarcasm. “That’s precisely the spark that keeps a family alive, rather than just a union of two people under one roof. I’ve always wondered how people of your generation—after so many years together—manage to keep that passion. You must know some secret for carrying that fire through the decades, so it doesn’t go out—so the nights stay bright and the feelings sharp. That’s true respect for each other, isn’t it?”

Silence fell over the kitchen. But it wasn’t the oppressive silence Nikita’s parents had been aiming for. It was a deafening, paralyzing awkwardness. Alla hadn’t argued. She hadn’t been rude. She took their hypocritical moral lecture and, with an innocent air, turned it back on them, asking a direct, devastatingly personal question about their own intimate life. Five minutes earlier, Gennady had been a fearsome judge; now he sat, face dark red and mouth open, not knowing what to say. Marina looked at her daughter-in-law as if she had turned into a snake before her eyes. They’d wanted to stage a public flogging; instead, they themselves were stripped naked in the middle of their own kitchen. The only sound was the gentle clink of Alla’s fork on porcelain as she resumed her meal.

Dinner didn’t end in scandal. It ended in emptiness. Gennady, whose patriarchal grandeur had been punctured and deflated by one innocent question, retreated to the living room and the television, taking the last shreds of his dignity with him. Three people remained in the kitchen. Dirty dishes, cooling duck, and tension as thick as grease. The masks were off. Theatrical Corvalol scenes, helpful laundry, edifying speeches—none of it had been more than a prelude. Now the real game was beginning—without rules and without anesthesia.

Marina silently gathered the plates. Her movements were sharp and precise. She didn’t look at her son, but every fiber of her being was directed at him. Nikita sat staring at his half-eaten duck, feeling as if the air around him had thickened into concrete, making it impossible to breathe. He waited.

“Well then, son,” she said at last. Her voice was even, without a drop of suffering—cold as steel. She set the stack of plates in the sink and turned, leaning on the counter. “I think it’s time you decided. This house will have either order—or her.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a verdict. She didn’t shout, didn’t reproach. She merely stated a fact, like a doctor announcing injuries incompatible with life. She placed him before a choice that wasn’t really a choice but an act of capitulation. Either he accepted her rules, her world order with her at the center of the universe and everyone else revolving on a prescribed orbit, or he chose chaos, shame, and debauchery—embodied by his wife.

Nikita lifted his eyes to her. There was pleading in them. He wanted her to stop, wanted everything to return to a time when he could simply live without choosing every second between his mother and his wife. But in her gaze he saw only a firm, unbending will. She would not back down.

 

And he did what all weak people do. He chose the path of least resistance. He got up and went not to his mother to put her in her place, but to Alla, who stood by the hallway window, looking at the city’s night lights. He approached her from behind, pathetic in his attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable.

“Alla, listen…” he began in a wheedling, quiet voice. “Mom… she’s an elderly person. She got carried away. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that to Dad? Maybe you could just… apologize? You know, for appearances. Just so there’s peace at home. Mom’s living with us now, and she really doesn’t need to hear… what we do in the bedroom…”

Alla turned slowly at that moment. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Not with anger, not with hurt—with the cold, dissecting curiosity of a researcher studying a strange, incomprehensible specimen. She looked at his darting eyes, his weak, pleading smile, and understanding dawned—final and complete. She hadn’t been fighting his mother. She’d been fighting for him. And she had just realized there was nothing to fight for. Before her stood not an ally, not a husband, not a protector. Before her stood a trophy begging her to surrender voluntarily to the enemy to spare him the inconvenience of battle.

She said nothing. Not a single word. Her silence was more frightening than any scream. She walked around him the way one walks around an obstacle on the road. She passed by Marina, frozen in the kitchen doorway in a victor’s pose, and went into their bedroom. Nikita hopefully thought she’d gone to cool off, that things would settle down.

But a minute later she emerged. In her hands she carried his pillow and a neatly folded blanket. She walked through the living room where her mother-in-law sat on the couch. A predatory, triumphant smile slowly blossomed on Marina’s face. Alla came up to the couch and, without looking at either her husband or his mother, simply dropped the bedding onto the leather upholstery. The dull thump of the blanket hitting the couch sounded in the apartment’s silence like a gunshot.

“Now you can sleep here. Or go make your bed next to your mommy, if her peace matters more to you than our family and our life. From the start I was against her moving in because I knew she meant to drive a wedge between us. And she succeeded. Congratulations, Marina Gennadyevna. When you go back home, you can take with you this spineless creature I used to call my husband.”

Then she turned and walked back. Nikita stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed, shifting his gaze from the couch—now his new bed—to his mother, and then to his wife’s retreating back. He watched her reach the bedroom door, grasp the handle, and close it. The soft click of the lock was the last sound he heard. He remained standing in the scorched desert of his living room, between his victorious mother and the door behind which his family life had ended…

Anna slowly stirred her coffee, feeling the tension build in her shoulders. Familiar voices echoed from the kitchen wall—her husband Sergey was explaining something to his mother, and she, as always, interrupted him with her admonishments.

“Sergey, you must control the family budget!” Valentina Nikolaevna’s voice pierced the quiet of the apartment. “The man is the head of the household; he earns the money, so he decides how it’s spent.”

Anna gripped her cup tighter. Three years of marriage, and every Sunday was the same record playing. Valentina Nikolaevna seemed determined to turn family dinners into sessions of psychological pressure.

 

“Mom, we agree on everything,” Sergey replied quietly.

“Agree? — scoffed the mother-in-law. — Then why does your wife buy expensive cosmetics when she could get them for half the price? Why does she order groceries for delivery when she could go to the market and save money?”

Anna set the cup on the table. Inside, a storm was rising with every word. Expensive cosmetics—a cream costing a thousand rubles she bought two months ago. Ordering groceries saved her time, which was catastrophically short between work and household duties.

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna entered the living room, trying to keep her tone controlled, “I work from nine in the morning until seven in the evening. Ordering groceries saves me three hours a week.”

Her mother-in-law turned to her with an expression Anna knew well—a mix of condescension and barely concealed irritation.

“Anya, dear,” Valentina Nikolaevna said the word “dear” as if speaking to a disobedient child, “a woman must be able to plan her time. And her money, too. You do understand Sergey earns for the family, so he should know where the money goes, right?”

“Mom,” Sergey began, but Anna interrupted him.

“I also earn for the family,” her voice grew firmer. “And I earn quite well.”

“Of course, of course,” Valentina Nikolaevna waved her hand dismissively. “But the main income is Sergey’s salary. And your job… well, that’s just a side gig.”

Anna felt something painfully tighten in her chest. Side gig. Her position as a financial analyst at a large company, earning one and a half times more than her husband, was reduced to a “side gig.”

“I think you don’t quite understand,” Anna sat opposite her mother-in-law, “just how much I earn.”

“Anyechka,” Valentina Nikolaevna smiled that smile that never reached her eyes, “it doesn’t matter how much you earn. What matters is that the man must control the family budget. That’s the foundation of a stable relationship.”

Sergey sat with his eyes downcast. Anna knew that gesture—how he reacted to any family conflict, hoping the problem would resolve itself if he stayed quiet enough.

“So what exactly do you suggest?” Anna asked.

“I suggest transparency,” Valentina Nikolaevna leaned forward. “Sergey should know how much you spend and on what. Better yet—control those expenses. The family budget cannot tolerate chaos.”

“Mom,” Sergey finally spoke up, “we live fine, we don’t argue about money…”

“You don’t argue because you don’t know what’s going on with the money!” Valentina Nikolaevna flared up. “What if Anya is hiding something? What if she’s spending on things you don’t know about?”

Anna felt a fire ignite inside her. Every Sunday, the same thing. Every family dinner turned into an interrogation. Any purchase became a scandalous cause. A new blouse — “why waste money on rags.” Books — “you’d better buy something useful for the home.” Even a gift to a friend on her birthday provoked angry comments about “wasting money.”

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna stood, feeling her hands begin to tremble with anger, “I’m not going to report to you on every kopek I spend.”

“To me?” the mother-in-law also stood. “I’m not demanding you report to me! I demand you be honest with your husband!”

“I am honest with my husband!”

“Then why are you against him controlling the spending?”

“Because I’m an adult and can decide for myself how to spend the money I earn!”

Valentina Nikolaevna narrowed her eyes. There was something cold, almost malicious in them.

 

“Money you earned? Anya, dear, you forget you live in an apartment your son bought. You eat the groceries he buys. You use the car he pays for. Maybe it’s time to face reality?”

Anna felt the ground give way beneath her feet. They had bought the apartment together, contributing equal shares to the down payment. Groceries were purchased from a shared budget. The car was on a loan they paid off together.

“Valentina Nikolaevna, you’re distorting the facts,” Anna said, trying not to raise her voice.

“What facts?” the mother-in-law smirked. “The fact that my son supports the family? That he is a responsible man who doesn’t let his wife squander money left and right?”

“Mom, enough,” Sergey finally intervened. “We’re not starving, we live normally…”

“Sergey, you’re too soft!” Valentina Nikolaevna snapped. “You let your wife walk all over you! What will happen when we have children? Who will control the family budget then?”

“You know what,” Anna grabbed her purse, “I think this conversation should continue when everyone has complete information.”

“What information?” Valentina Nikolaevna became wary.

“About the real state of affairs in our family,” Anna headed for the door. “Sergey, I’ll be home by evening. We need to talk.”

She left the apartment, feeling her pulse pounding at her temples. Three years she had held back. Three years she allowed herself to be humiliated. Three years enduring this pressure, hoping the situation would change on its own.

But now Valentina Nikolaevna had crossed the line.

The office was quiet—it was Saturday, few were working. Anna turned on her computer and opened her data analysis program. Her professional financial analyst skills were more needed than ever.

Methodically, she reconstructed the picture of the family’s finances over the last two years. Every transaction, every purchase, every money transfer. Bank statements, receipts, invoices—everything that could be found in the bank app, their records, and archives.

The numbers formed an unexpected picture. Anna earned forty percent more than her husband. Their joint expenses on the apartment, groceries, and utilities were covered evenly. But there were other expenses.

Gifts to Valentina Nikolaevna on birthdays, New Year, International Women’s Day—each time ten to fifteen thousand rubles. Payments for her medical treatments—massage, cosmetology, dentistry. “Loans” the mother-in-law requested for new furniture, summer house repairs, trips to her sister in another city.

Anna added figure after figure, and the total grew at a frightening pace.

In two years, she had spent four hundred eighty thousand rubles on her mother-in-law. Nearly half of her annual salary. And that didn’t count indirect expenses—groceries for family dinners, gas for trips to Valentina Nikolaevna’s summer house, gifts for her friends and relatives.

Anna leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen. Valentina Nikolaevna demanded control over the family budget without realizing she was living off her daughter-in-law’s money.

But a simple table was not enough. Anna created a full presentation—bright and clear. Charts, graphs, detailed category-by-category expense analysis.

One slide was titled “Investments in Family Relations”—that’s how she labeled the expenses for Valentina Nikolaevna. Gifts, loans, medical treatments, entertainment. All neatly structured and supported by documents.

Anna worked late into the evening, perfecting the presentation. Every number was double-checked, every fact documented.

 

When she returned home, Sergey met her at the door.

“Anyechka, forgive my mom,” he looked tired. “She’s just worried about us.”

“Worried,” Anna repeated. “Sergey, we really need to talk. Seriously.”

“About what?”

“Our family budget. About who earns what and spends what. About the real state of affairs in our family.”

Sergey frowned.

“Are you planning something?”

Anna looked at her husband—the gentle, kind man who never knew how to stand up to his mother. Who let his wife be humiliated every Sunday, hoping the conflict would exhaust itself.

“I’m planning to tell the truth,” she answered. “The whole truth. With numbers, facts, and documents.”

The next Sunday, Anna came to her mother-in-law with a laptop and a folder of documents. Valentina Nikolaevna greeted her with barely concealed triumph—apparently expecting the daughter-in-law to come apologizing.

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna said, setting the laptop on the table, “last week you spoke about the need to control the family budget. I prepared a full analysis of our finances.”

“What analysis?” the mother-in-law asked warily.

“A professional one,” Anna turned on the projector. “I’m a financial analyst, remember? It’s my job to analyze money.”

The first slide appeared on the wall: “Family Financial Status: An Objective Analysis.”

“What is this?” Valentina Nikolaevna squinted.

“This is what you asked for,” Anna calmly replied. “Full transparency of the family budget.”

The next slide showed the family’s income. Sergey’s salary, Anna’s salary, additional sources. The numbers were ruthlessly honest.

Valentina Nikolaevna was silent, staring at the screen. Sergey sat with his mouth open.

“Let’s continue,” Anna said, switching slides. “Mandatory family expenses: mortgage, utilities, groceries, transport. As you see, they are covered roughly evenly by our incomes.”

“Anna, why are you…” Sergey began, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Now, optional expenses,” a new slide. “Entertainment, clothing, gifts, travel. Here is some interesting statistics.”

Charts appeared on the screen showing the structure of expenses. Anna methodically went through each category, explaining who spent how much on what.

 

“And finally,” Anna’s voice grew especially calm, “the expense category ‘Family Support.’”

The new slide made Valentina Nikolaevna pale. On the screen were listed all gifts, loans, and expenses related to her—with exact amounts and dates.

“In two years,” Anna continued, “four hundred eighty thousand rubles were spent supporting Mom. That’s forty thousand a month. Or one hundred thirty percent of what remains from Sergey’s salary after mandatory expenses.”

A deadly silence fell over the room.

“Birthday and holiday gifts—one hundred twenty thousand rubles,” Anna switched to the details. “Loans that weren’t repaid—two hundred thousand. Medical treatments—eighty thousand. Entertainment and trips—eighty thousand.”

Valentina Nikolaevna opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water.

“Anna,” she finally managed, “this… this is unethical.”

“Unethical?” Anna turned to her mother-in-law. “Is it unethical to demand a report on every kopek spent? Or unethical to provide objective information?”

“You’re counting money spent on the family!” Valentina Nikolaevna protested.

“You’re right,” Anna agreed. “I’m counting money spent on the family. And here’s what it shows: in two years, I spent on you an amount equal to your son’s annual salary. While my income is forty percent higher than his.”

Anna paused, looking at her mother-in-law’s pale face.

“So who exactly should control the family budget, Valentina Nikolaevna?”

Her mother-in-law was silent. Sergey was also silent, shifting his gaze from his mother to his wife.

“And the last slide,” Anna switched the presentation. “Family budget forecast for the next year, taking into account expense optimization.”

A table appeared showing how much money the family could save by cutting “non-essential expenses.”

“Four hundred eighty thousand rubles a year,” Anna said. “Enough for a vacation in Europe, a new car, or a down payment on a summer house. The choice is ours.”

Valentina Nikolaevna stood up from the table. Her face was white as chalk, her lips trembling.

“You… you consider me a burden,” she whispered.

“I don’t consider you a burden,” Anna answered calmly. “I consider the numbers. That’s my profession. And the numbers show that the person demanding control over the family budget is herself the largest item of non-essential expenses in that budget.”

“Sergey!” Valentina Nikolaevna turned to her son. “Will you allow your wife to speak to me like that?”

Sergey sat with his head down. Anna saw him struggling inside—a lifelong habit of obeying his mother against obvious facts.

“Mom,” he finally raised his eyes, “numbers don’t lie.”

Valentina Nikolaevna stood in the middle of the room, looking at her son, then at her daughter-in-law, then back at her son. In her eyes, Anna saw something she had never seen before—confusion. Complete, absolute confusion.

“I… I meant well,” the mother-in-law muttered.

“I know,” Anna said, turning off the projector. “But control of the family budget is the responsibility of those who create that budget—not those who spend it.”

Valentina Nikolaevna silently gathered her purse and headed for the door. She paused there.

“Anya,” she said without turning, “you won.”

“This wasn’t a game,” Anna replied. “It was a necessity.”

After her mother-in-law left, Anna and Sergey sat in silence for a long time. Finally, her husband looked up.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked. “About the money you spent on Mom?”

Anna looked at him—the gentle, kind man who never knew how to say “no” to his mother.

“Because it wasn’t a problem,” she answered. “The problem was the demand for control over my spending while completely ignoring that a significant part of those expenses goes to your mom.”

 

“And now?”

Anna folded the documents into the folder. She felt a strange lightness—as if a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Now we live like a normal family,” she said. “Without weekly interrogations and demands to report every kopek. And with an understanding of who really controls our family budget.”

Valentina Nikolaevna never again brought up the issue of financial control. Moreover, family dinners became much calmer. Sometimes Anna caught her mother-in-law’s studying gaze—but it no longer held that aggressive superiority that once poisoned every meeting.

And one day, as she was leaving after another Sunday lunch, Valentina Nikolaevna stopped Anna at the door.

“Thank you for the birthday present,” she said quietly. “A very beautiful scarf.”

“You’re welcome,” Anna replied.

“And for… for not telling everyone else. About the presentation.”

Anna looked at her mother-in-law. In her eyes, she saw something new—recognition. Not gratitude, not apology, but recognition. Recognition that sometimes the truth, presented in an undeniable form, is stronger than any emotional manipulation.

“Family matters should stay in the family,” Anna said.

And at that moment, she understood: victory is not in humiliating a person. Victory is in restoring balance, showing the real state of affairs, and giving everyone the chance to draw conclusions. Sometimes the best way to respond to pressure is not an emotional reaction, but cold, objective facts.

Valentina Nikolaevna nodded and left. Anna remained standing by the door, finally feeling like an equal member of this family.

— “I sold EVERYTHING I had and bought an APARTMENT — what did YOU BUY?” Galina asked her bewildered husband, her voice sharp. “So this apartment is MINE!”
October 19, 2025 by admin

— Galka, are you out of your mind? We’ve been married eight years! — Yura looked at his wife in bewilderment as she methodically packed his things into a duffel bag.

— Exactly! Eight years I’ve put up with your rudeness and your buddies! And now — ENOUGH!

— What rudeness? What are you even talking about?

— About the fact that an hour ago your pal Kostya told me I should get out of my OWN apartment because he and you are going to watch football!

— He made a bad joke, that’s all!

— A BAD JOKE? Was that before or after your Vitya ate the food I’d prepared for a presentation at work? Or after your Lyokha parked his wreck in my spot and mouthed off when I asked him to move it?

 

There was an impatient knock at the door.

— Yurets, open up! The beer’s getting warm! — Konstantin’s voice rang out.

— Perfect! Go to your Kostya then! Go live with him, since you’re so inseparable!

A month before that blow-up, Galina was sitting in her office going through the quarterly report. As CFO of a construction company, the job demanded everything she had, but she handled it brilliantly. The phone on her desk buzzed — a message from her husband: “The guys are coming over today, don’t cook dinner, we’ll order pizza.”

Galina rubbed the bridge of her nose. “The guys” — that was sacred. Every Friday, and sometimes more often, the apartment turned into a men’s club. Konstantin, Vitaly, Alexei — Yura’s childhood trio who acted like they were still eighteen, not thirty-five.

When she got home around nine in the evening, Galina could hear loud laughter and clinking bottles from the stairwell. The usual chaos reigned inside: pizza boxes piled on the table, beer cans, cigarette butts stubbed out in saucers pressed into service as ashtrays.

— Oh, Galka’s here! — Kostya announced from where he sprawled on the couch. — Hey, bring us some more beer from the fridge, will ya?

— Konstantin, the kitchen is three meters away from you, — Galina replied calmly, taking off her coat.

— Come on! You’re walking past it anyway!

— I’m going to the bedroom. To change and rest after work.

— That’s the spirit! — Vitaly chimed in. — No need for women at a guys’ hangout!

Yura laughed along with his friends, without even thinking to stand up for his wife.

— Galin, can I put Kostya up for a couple of days? — Yura asked a week later at breakfast. — He had a falling-out with his wife, nowhere to stay.

— “A couple of days” means exactly how many?

— Well, three or four days max.

— Yura, we have a two-room apartment. Where’s he going to sleep?

— On the couch in the living room. He’s not picky.

— Fine. Three days. NO MORE.

— Thanks, honey! I knew you’d understand!

Konstantin showed up that very evening with a huge duffel, clearly counting on a longer stay.

— Hi there, missus! — he greeted her familiarly, walking in without an invitation. — Where can I set up?

— The living room couch folds out, — Galina answered coolly.

— And where’s the shower? Got anything to eat?

— Second door down the hall for the shower; we have dinner at eight.

— At eight? That’s early! I’m used to eating around ten or eleven. And I’m on a special diet — no veggies, only meat and potatoes.

— Kostya, this isn’t a restaurant. You’ll eat what’s been cooked.

— Yurets! — the guest protested. — Your wife doesn’t know the first thing about hospitality!

— Gal, come on. The guy’s in a tough spot, we can bend a little.

Three days turned into a week, a week into two. Kostya made himself at home: left his stuff everywhere, left dirty dishes, smoked on the balcony despite the ban, and constantly brought friends over.

— Kostya, your three days ended ten days ago, — Galina reminded him one morning, finding him eating the last yogurt — her breakfast.

— Relax! Yurets said I can stay as long as I need. Right, bro?

— Well… yeah, I said we’d help him through a rough patch, — Yura confirmed uncertainly.

— A rough patch? — Galina turned to her husband. — Is that what you call him bringing some girl over yesterday and “having fun” in the living room until three in the morning?

— Not “some girl,” Alena! — Kostya objected, offended. — Great chick, by the way!

— DON’T you dare talk like that in my house!

— Your house? — Kostya burst out laughing. — This is Yura’s house! He’s the man here!

— Actually, the apartment is in my name. I bought it.

— So what? You’re married, so it’s joint property!

— NO. Bought BEFORE the marriage. With MY money. It’s MY apartment.

— Yurets, you hearing this? Your woman’s totally lost her bearings!

Yura kept silent, staring at his plate.

— Hey, Vit? Come over, let’s hang! — Kostya phoned openly from the apartment. — Don’t worry, Galka’s at work and Yurets doesn’t mind!

By evening the place had turned into a men’s club again. Vitaly and Alexei made themselves at home, turned the music up, and ordered delivery.

— Guys, let’s invite some girls? — Alexei suggested. — I know a couple of fun ones!

— Let’s do it! — Kostya agreed. — Yurets, you don’t mind?

— Well… Galia might get upset…

— Oh please! Who’s the boss of the house? Show some backbone!

When Galina came home at ten, the apartment was unrecognizable. In clouds of cigarette smoke two heavily made-up girls sat on the couch, giggling and drinking wine straight from the bottle. Wrappers, cans, and butts littered the floor.

— What is going on here? — she asked in an icy tone.

— Oh, the wife’s here! Party’s over! — Vitaly sighed theatrically.

— Gal, don’t blow up! — Yura tried to hug her; she pulled away. — We’re just relaxing!

— In MY apartment? With THESE… ladies?

— Hey, watch it! — one of the girls protested. — We’re decent girls!

— OUT! All of you OUT! NOW!

— Galka, what’s your problem? — Kostya was surprised. — We just got started!

— OUT, I said! Or I’m calling security!

— What security? — Alexei laughed.

— The local officer! And I’ll file a complaint for unlawful entry!

— Yura, calm your hysterical woman down! — Kostya snapped.

— Gal, take it easy… Guys, let’s call it a night, it’s late anyway…

The guests started getting their things together reluctantly, grumbling about the hostess’s “weird” behavior.

— Yura, this is the LAST warning, — Galina said when they were alone. — Either Kostya moves out TOMORROW, or both of you do.

— Galya, why so harsh? He’s a friend!

— A friend who’s turned my home into a DEN! Who’s rude to me in MY OWN apartment!

— Don’t exaggerate!

— I’m exaggerating? Fine, then tell me — who pays the utilities? Who buys the groceries your friends devour? Who cleans up their pigsty?

— We could chip in…

— We COULD? We’ve been married EIGHT years and you’ve NEVER even paid the internet bill!

— I… I have expenses…

— What expenses? Beer with the guys? Computer games? You work in sales, you make a decent salary, and you blow it all God knows where!

— It’s my money!

 

— Exactly! YOUR money! And the apartment is MINE! So choose — either Kostya leaves, or you BOTH do!

In the morning Galina woke up to the smell of burnt eggs and loud swearing from the kitchen. Kostya had tried to make breakfast and managed to ruin a frying pan.

— Yurets! Where’s your decent cookware? This junk is useless!

— That pan costs fifteen thousand rubles, — Galina said coldly, walking in. — Nonstick coating, which you just destroyed with a metal spatula.

— Big deal, a frying pan! You’ll buy a new one!

— NO. YOU’LL buy a new one. Right now.

— Why would I?

— Because YOU RUINED it!

— Yura, your wife’s gotten real uppity! — Kostya fumed.

Yura appeared in the doorway, sleepy and disheveled:

— What’s all the yelling this early?

— Your FRIEND destroyed a pan and refuses to pay for it!

— Gal, it’s just a pan…

— Fifteen thousand rubles is “just a pan”?

— HOW MUCH?! — Kostya jumped. — For a pan?

— For a GOOD pan. Which I bought with MY OWN money for MY kitchen!

— You’re a big spender, huh! — Kostya whistled. — Yurets, how do you put up with this?

— A man shouldn’t be dealing with women’s chores! — Kostya declared.

— Wonderful! Then GET OUT of my “women’s” domain! TODAY!

— Yura! — Kostya turned to his friend. — You hearing this?

— Gal, maybe let’s not fight…

— We’re ALREADY fighting! Konstantin, you have THREE hours to pack!

But Kostya had no intention of moving out. By lunchtime he’d brought Vitaly and Alexei “for support.”

— Galka, you have no right to kick a person out onto the street! — Vitaly proclaimed, lounging in an armchair.

— This is private property. I HAVE THE RIGHT to decide who is here.

— But Yura’s your husband! He also has the right to invite guests!

— Guests, yes. Not TENANTS!

— We talked it over, — Alexei cut in. — And we decided you’re acting irrationally. Maybe you should see a psychologist?

— WHAT? You DECIDED?

— Yeah, — Kostya nodded. — Yura’s our friend, we worry about him. A wife should support her husband, not throw tantrums!

— Where’s Yura?

— At work, — Vitaly replied. — But he knows about this conversation.

— So my HUSBAND sent his buddies to TEACH me how to live in MY house?

— Not teach — bring you to your senses! — Kostya corrected. — You’ve really let yourself go! No respect for your man, throwing out his guests!

— And you figured you’d hold a council? — Galina pulled out her phone. — Excellent! Then I’ll call some REAL professionals!

— Who? — Alexei asked warily.

— A security company. I’ve got an emergency response contract. You can hash out your “rights” with them!

— You’re bluffing! — Kostya smirked.

Galina dialed:

— Hello, Galina Voronova, contract 31847. I need a rapid response team immediately. You have the address. There are uninvited guests in my apartment refusing to leave… Yes, I’ll wait.

— You’re serious? — Vitaly turned pale.

— DEAD serious. You’ve got fifteen minutes.

The friends cleared out in ten, taking some of Kostya’s things with them. Kostya left last, promising to “talk to Yurka.”

By evening a wound-up Yura showed up:

— Galina, ARE YOU CRAZY? Calling security on my friends?

— On YOUR friends who decided they can tell me how to live in MY home!

— They meant well!

— For whose good? Theirs?

— Galya, this isn’t what we agreed on! When we got married, you knew I had friends!

— Friends are people who visit and then leave! Not those who live for weeks, mouth off, and hold “disciplinary talks”!

— Kostya just got carried away…

— Kostya is a freeloader and a boor! And if you can’t see that — that’s YOUR problem!

— He’s my best friend!

— Then GO LIVE with him!

— What’s that supposed to mean?

— It means choose! Either you’re a husband who respects his wife and her right to her own home, or you’re a “bro” who cares more about what his buddies think!

— You’re giving me ultimatums?

 

— I’m setting RULES in MY house! Don’t like it — the door is RIGHT THERE!

The next two days passed in tense silence. Yura ostentatiously refused to talk to his wife, slept on the couch, left early, and got home late.

On the third day Galina came back from work and found… Kostya, Vitaly, Alexei, and three unfamiliar men in the apartment. They were sitting at the table, playing cards, drinking beer, and smoking right in the room.

— What is going on here? — Galina’s voice trembled with restrained anger.

— Oh, the wife’s here! — Kostya didn’t even look up from his cards. — Yurets said we could hang here. He’ll be along soon.

— Yura has NO RIGHT to invite guests without my consent!

— Oh, come on! — one stranger waved her off. — Don’t bother the guys when they’re relaxing!

— This is MY home! EVERYONE OUT!

— Listen, lady, — another stranger stood up. — Yurka said it’s fine. So get out of here and don’t get in the way.

Galina took out her phone and started recording video:

— October twenty-third, eighteen forty. There are unauthorized persons in my apartment refusing to leave the premises. I’m documenting this for the police.

— What are you doing? — Vitaly was alarmed.

— Gathering evidence for a report of unlawful entry into a dwelling. Article 139 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation.

— Yura’s your husband! — Kostya protested.

— Yura is NOT the owner! The apartment is in MY name! Here are the documents! — Galina pulled a copy of the ownership certificate from her bag.

— But you’re married! — one of the strangers still didn’t get it.

— So what? The apartment was bought BEFORE the marriage! With MY money! From the sale of MY previous apartment and my grandmother’s inheritance! It’s MY personal property!

Just then Yura appeared with bags of snacks:

— Oh, everyone’s here! Now we—

— Yuri! — Galina said in an icy tone. — What is the meaning of this?

— Well… the guys dropped by… to hang out…

— After I CLEARLY said — no gatherings in my apartment?

— Galya, don’t start in front of people…

— In front of WHICH people? The ones I DON’T WANT to see here?

— You’ve really lost it! — Yura exploded. — This is MY home too!

— NO! — Galina pulled out her phone. — Hello, Irina? Hi, it’s Galina Voronova. I urgently need a consult on housing law… Yes, right now… The situation is critical.

— Who are you calling? — Yura tensed.

— A lawyer. I want to clarify the procedure for evicting an ex-husband from MY apartment.

— Ex-husband?!

— Did you think I’d put up with disrespect and rudeness forever? I sold EVERYTHING I had and bought this apartment! And what did YOU buy? What have you put into our home in eight years?

— I… I…

— You put in NOTHING! Not a kopeck! You rarely even paid for groceries! But your buddies feel like they own the place!

— Galka, maybe let’s talk calmly? — Kostya tried to step in.

— NO! Talking time is over! EVERYONE OUT! You have FIVE minutes!

The guests scurried out, sensing the joke was over. Only Yura and Kostya remained.

— Gal, let’s discuss—

— Nothing to discuss. Tomorrow I’m filing for DIVORCE. And for eviction.

— You can’t evict me! I’m registered here!

— Temporary registration. It expires in a month. I won’t renew it.

— Galka, think this through! — Kostya pleaded. — Yurets is a good guy…

— For YOU he is. For me he’s a DOORMAT who can’t stand up for his family! Who lets his friends HUMILIATE his wife!

— I didn’t allow—

— NO? Who kept quiet when your pals called me hysterical? Who didn’t defend me when Kostya said I should wait on the guests?

— They were joking…

— I’m NOT laughing! Pack your things. BOTH of you!

— Galina, reconsider! — Yura begged. — We’ve been together eight years!

— For eight years I’ve supported you and your crew! ENOUGH!

She went to the bedroom and started packing her husband’s things into bags.

— You’ll regret this! — Kostya shouted.

— The only thing I regret is not doing it sooner!

An hour later the apartment was empty. Yura left for Kostya’s, taking the bare essentials. Galina changed the locks — she had wisely prepared them in advance.

The next days were the calmest she’d had in years. No drunken hangouts, no rudeness, no uninvited guests.

On the third day Svetlana, a colleague, called:

— Galya, is it true you kicked Yura out?

— It’s true. And I don’t regret it.

— But… the family… eight years…

— Svetlana, what kind of “family” is it when a husband lets his friends be rude to his wife? Where the wife is free house staff?

— Maybe you overreacted?

— No. I finally sobered up.

A week later Yura tried to come back. He arrived with flowers and a contrite look.

— Galochka, forgive me! I was wrong!

— Too late, Yura. The divorce papers are already in court.

— But I understand my mistakes now! Kostya… he really crossed the line…

— Crossed the line? He behaved like he owned MY home!

— I won’t see him anymore!

 

— You’re lying. In a week everything will be back to the way it was.

— Galya, give me a chance!

— You HAD chances. Eight years of chances. LEAVE.

— I’ll fight for our marriage!

— Fight. Just not here.

Another week later Konstantin called:

— Galina, we need to talk.

— We have nothing to talk about.

— We do. Yurka’s completely fallen apart. He drinks every day, skips work.

— That’s his choice.

— You ruined his life!

— Me? Was I the one who made him choose between his wife and his bros?

— We just wanted to be friends, as families!

— Kostya, you have a STRANGE idea of friendship. Friends don’t insult, don’t sponge off others, and don’t meddle in someone else’s family.

— Yurka will lose his job because of you!

— Because of HIMSELF. Because of his irresponsibility. And because of YOU!

— You’re heartless!

— No. I just won’t let myself be used anymore. All the best.

A month later the divorce hearing took place. Yura tried to claim a share of the apartment, but Galina’s attorney submitted all the documents: the apartment was purchased before marriage with Galina’s personal funds, there was no prenuptial agreement, and there was no jointly acquired property.

— But I lived there for eight years! — Yura protested.

— Residence does not grant ownership rights, — the judge explained calmly. — The apartment remains the property of Galina Sergeyevna.

After court Yura tried to talk:

— Galya, you’re throwing me out on the street!

— No. You threw yourself out when you chose your buddies over your family.

— Where am I supposed to live?

— That’s no longer my problem. You have Kostya, Vitaly, Alexei. Let them help.

Konstantin turned out not to be such a hospitable host. A week later, with Yura still living on his couch, the friend started hinting:

— Yurets, you do realize my Larisa is coming back from her business trip soon? She, uh, doesn’t exactly know you’re staying here.

— Kostya, just a couple more days! I’ll chip in for groceries!

— It’s not about the money, bro. It’s just… awkward.

And when Larisa did come back and found a strange man on her couch, the conversation was short:

— Konstantin, either he leaves right now, or you do. With all your buddies. For good.

— Larisa, he’s my friend! He has nowhere to go!

— I don’t care. I’m not supporting strangers.

Yura packed in half an hour.

Alexei welcomed him more warmly:

— Of course, Yurka, make yourself at home! I’ve only got a studio, but we’ll manage!

Three days went fine. On the fourth, Yura brought Kostya and Vitaly over — just to hang, drink beer, reminisce.

— Guys, keep it down! — Alexei was nervous. — The neighbors are already banging on the wall!

— Relax! — Kostya waved him off. — You only live once!

In the morning the district officer called Alexei — the neighbors had filed a complaint for noise and disturbance.

— Yura, — he said wearily. — Sorry, but you’ll have to move out. I don’t need this trouble. I’ve got a mortgage, a job, and my wife is threatening to leave if I don’t put an end to these hangouts.

— Lyokha, where am I supposed to go?

— I don’t know, man. Just not here.

 

Vitaly was the last hope. He lived in a three-room apartment with his wife Olga; they had no kids.

— Fine, — Vitaly agreed reluctantly. — But only for a few days. And Olga mustn’t find out!

— What do you mean, mustn’t find out? — Yura was surprised.

— We’ll say you just dropped by. And you’ll stay over when she’s asleep.

The plan failed on day one. Olga came home early and found Yura in the kitchen.

— Vitaly! — her shout echoed through the apartment. — What is the meaning of this?

— Ol, he’s just here temporarily…

— TEMPORARILY? Like that story with Kostya at your friend Yura’s place? Who then didn’t move out for two months?

— This is different…

— Nothing is different! — Olga turned to Yura. — Pack your things. Immediately.

— But…

— No “buts”! OUT! And you — she glared at her husband — are never, do you hear me, NEVER to bring your bros here again! Or you’ll be the one looking for a place to live!

Yura rented corners from a distant relative and worked two jobs to pay for lodging. Every week he called Galina, begged forgiveness, promised to change.

— Galya, I get it now! Friends aren’t what matters! Family is what matters!

— Yura, STOP CALLING.

— But I love you!

— You loved convenience. Free housing, ready-made meals, zero responsibility.

— No! I really—

— Yura, the man I once loved disappeared many years ago. You became someone I don’t even recognize. Goodbye.

Konstantin started having serious problems. After watching the whole saga with Galina, Larisa took a hard look at her own marriage.

— Konstantin, and what exactly do you do besides hanging out at your friends’?

— Larisa, come on, not this again.

— Again? This has been going on for years! I work, pay for the apartment, cook, clean. And you?

— I work too!

— And where does your money go? Beer with the guys? Cigarettes?

— So you’ve decided to kick me out too? — Kostya asked darkly.

— No. I’ve decided to leave myself. Live however you want. Alone.

A month later Larisa filed for divorce and moved in with her mother. The apartment was hers — inherited from her grandmother. Konstantin found himself on the street.

Alexei, having learned a harsh lesson, became a different man. His wife Marina had long complained about his buddies, but he’d brushed it off. Now, seeing the sad fate of Yura and Kostya, he quieted down.

 

— Marish, I won’t invite them home anymore.

— Seriously? — his wife asked skeptically.

— Absolutely. If I want to see my friends, I’ll go to a café. Or to them. But home — that’s our place, yours and mine.

— Alyosha… — Marina hugged her husband. — Thank you.

Vitaly banned his friends from calling his home at all.

— Vitia, maybe we can go out sometime? — Kostya phoned once.

— No. I’m busy.

— Tomorrow?

— Also no.

— Yurka says you never show up anywhere!

— He’s right. I’ve got a wife. A home. A job. No time for your hangouts.

— What’s gotten into you?

— Nothing. For once everything’s fine. Olga’s happy, I’m calm. I’m not risking it.

And Galina lived her life. She renovated the apartment — she’d wanted to for a long time, but Yura always said “why waste the money.” She enrolled in Italian classes. She went to Italy — alone, and it was wonderful.

At work she got a promotion. She adopted a cat — a mischievous ginger named Fira. In the evenings she read, watched films, met up with friends.

Sometimes she thought of Yura, but without regret. Only with relief — the way you remember the lifting of a heavy burden.

She forgot her ex-husband quickly. She’d spent too many years on him to waste even another minute.

And life finally became truly her own. And it was happiness — simple, real, and well-earned.

Anna stood by the window of her apartment, watching the rain turn the October evening into a blurred watercolor. Thirty is an age when you no longer expect miracles, but still remember what they’re supposed to be like. She worked at a consulting firm, earned good money, rented a spacious apartment in a respectable neighborhood. Life was predictable and calm.

Her phone vibrated behind her. Mom’s number. Anna sighed, turned down the TV, and picked up.

 

“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother’s voice sounded anxious, “are you home?”

“I’m home, Mom. What happened?”

“Your father and I are coming over. We need to talk.”

Anna felt her stomach tighten. When her parents came “to talk,” it always meant new problems with Artyom. Her younger brother, twenty-five years old, seemed to collect trouble on purpose.

Half an hour later they were sitting at her kitchen table. Her father was silent, studying his hands; her mother was nervously twisting a purse strap.

“Do you know about Artyom?” her mother began.

“Know what exactly?” Anna knew better than to fill in the blanks for them.

“He… he got himself into a situation. Remember, we gave him the money from selling the dacha? He bought a motorcycle…”

“Mom, we’ve talked about this already. I warned you that the money should’ve stayed on a deposit, not handed to Artyom all at once.”

“Sweetheart, he promised!” Her mother’s voice took on almost childlike notes. “He was going to rent an apartment, marry Lena…”

“But instead, he started burning through money in bars, Lena left him, and he bought a motorcycle to ‘heal his broken heart,’” Anna finished. “Am I close?”

Her father finally raised his eyes.

“He drove into a car in a parking lot. An expensive car. A Porsche.”

 

“No insurance?”

“No,” her mother answered quietly. “You know he always thought nothing would ever happen to him.”

Anna poured herself some tea, trying not to show her irritation. Artyom always thought nothing would happen to him because their parents always bailed him out.

“How much?”

“Three hundred thousand,” her mother exhaled. “The owner agreed to a payment plan, but we need to give half right away, otherwise he’ll go through the bailiffs.”

Anna nodded. It all tracked. Now the most interesting part would begin.

“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother took her hand, “we’ve decided to sell your car.”

“My car?”

“Well, technically it’s registered to your father,” her mother added hastily. “We gave it to you when we sold the dacha. But Artyom has problems now, and you can walk for a while. You’re young and healthy.”

Anna gently freed her hand.

“I don’t agree.”

“Sweetheart, we’re family,” her mother raised her voice. “Artyom is your brother! He’s suffering, he can’t sleep, he’s wasted away!”

“Mom, has he tried working? Or at least going to the employment office?”

“Anya, what job can he find in a week?” her mother looked at her in bewilderment. “He can’t earn that much right away!”

“But I can lose my car in a week?”

Her father finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm.

“Anya, we’ve already made up our minds. Your opinion doesn’t matter right now. The car is in my name; I can sell it at any moment. I don’t want to quarrel with you, but there’s no choice.”

Anna looked at her father. This was the man who taught her to ride a bike, read her bedtime stories, and was proud of her achievements at university. Now he was calmly saying that her opinion didn’t matter.

“Dad,” she said slowly, choosing her words, “and what about next time? When Artyom gets himself into trouble again?”

“There won’t be a next time,” her mother replied quickly. “He promised he’ll stop betting on sports, he won’t—”

“Mom, he’s promised that five times already.”

“Anya, how can you!” her mother began to cry. “He’s your brother! How can you be so cruel?”

Anna stood and went to the window. The rain was getting heavier. She thought of how six months ago Artyom had asked her for money “for the bare essentials,” and she’d given him twenty thousand. Later it turned out he’d spent it on new sneakers and a restaurant night out with friends.

“You know what,” she turned back to her parents, “I have news. I transferred the car to my name a month ago.”

Silence. Her mother stopped crying; her father looked up.

“How?”

“Very simply. I had a power of attorney from Dad when I was handling the sale of the dacha. I forged a gift agreement and re-registered the car to myself. I knew sooner or later you’d try to sell it for Artyom.”

“You… you forged documents?” her father stared at her in amazement.

“I did. And you know what? I don’t regret it. Because I’m tired of saving my brother from the consequences of his actions.”

Her mother clutched at her heart.

“Anya, how can you! We’re family!”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” Anna sat back down at the table. “Mom, Dad, you’re not helping Artyom. You’re turning him into an invalid. He’s twenty-five and can’t solve a single problem on his own, because he knows his parents will always find a way out.”

“But he’ll be ruined!” her mother cried. “They’ll put him in jail!”

“They won’t jail him for debts. At most they’ll restrict him from leaving the country—and he doesn’t travel anyway. But he’ll finally understand that actions have consequences.”

Her father was silent, staring at the table. Anna could see him struggling with himself.

“Anya,” he said quietly at last, “I beg you. Sell the car. We’ll buy you a new one later.”

“When later? When Artyom gets into trouble again?”

“He won’t!”

“He will, Dad. Because he doesn’t know how to live any other way. And you don’t know how to refuse him.”

“Sweetheart,” her mother took her hands, “what are you doing? He’s your brother!”

“That’s exactly why I won’t give him the money. Mom, look at him. Twenty-five, living with his parents, not working, betting his last money on sports. He’s deteriorating, and you don’t see it.”

“He just… he just hasn’t found himself yet,” her mother said helplessly.

“At twenty-five it’s time to have found yourself—or at least to start looking.”

Her parents left, having achieved nothing. Anna stayed alone, sitting in the kitchen, drinking cold tea. The phone was silent—obviously, they were driving to Artyom to break the bad news.

An hour later her brother called.

“Anya, are you out of your mind?” his voice shook with anger. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”

“I do, Tyoma. For the first time in a long time, I do.”

“They could lock me up!”

“They can’t. People aren’t jailed for debts.”

“Anya, I’m begging you!” now he was crying. “That guy is serious! It’s money! Where am I supposed to get it?”

“Where everyone gets money. At work.”

“What work? Who needs me?”

“Tyoma, you can drive. You can talk to people. You’ve got hands and a head. You’ll find a job.”

“In a week?”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll negotiate a longer payment plan with the car’s owner. Adults usually meet you halfway if they see you’re trying.”

“Anya,” his voice went quiet, “why are you so cruel? This could have happened to anyone!”

“Not to anyone, Tyoma. Only to someone irresponsible—someone who not only never learned to drive properly but couldn’t be bothered to buy insurance.”

He hung up.

The following months were hard. Her parents hardly called. When Anna visited them, there was always a heavy atmosphere in the house. Her mother sighed demonstratively; her father kept silent. They didn’t talk about Artyom, but his absence was felt in every word.

From snatches of conversation Anna gathered that her brother really was looking for work. At first he tried to find something simple: courier, driver, loader. Then he got a job at an auto shop—washing cars and handing over tools. The pay was laughable, but it was a job.

Oddly enough, the owner of the damaged Lexus turned out to be understanding. When he learned that Artyom was really working, he agreed to a payment plan. Artyom moved into an apartment shared with two other guys. His parents helped with the deposit, but refused to give him any more money—Anna had insisted firmly on that.

“Mom, if you give him money, he’ll quit his job immediately,” she said during one of her rare visits. “Let him get used to relying only on himself.”

“But he’s eating nothing but buckwheat,” her mother complained. “He’s all skinny and pale.”

“Then he’ll find a better job. Or a side job.”

And indeed, a few months later Artyom found side work. In the evenings he dismantled old cars for parts, and spent weekends helping acquaintances with small repairs. Turned out he had a knack for mechanics—his hands grew from the right place, and he had enough brains to figure new things out.

Anna learned about this in fragments, from parents who were gradually thawing. Her mother still thought she was cruel, but her father would sometimes, with cautious pride, tell her that Artyom had fixed a neighbor’s car or helped a friend with some electrical work.

About a year after that kitchen conversation, Anna’s doorbell rang. She opened it and saw Artyom. He stood there with a bouquet of flowers, lean and sun-browned.

 

“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Anna silently stepped aside. Artyom went to the kitchen, set the flowers on the counter, and sat in the same chair where their father had sat a year before.

“Pretty flowers,” Anna said. “Chrysanthemums.”

“Thanks.” He paused, studying his hands. They were worker’s hands now—callused, scraped, with ingrained dirt under the nails. “I came to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving me the money.”

Anna sat down across from him.

“Well, tell me.”

“I opened my own shop. Small, in a garage, but it’s mine. I repair cars and sell parts. I’m earning okay. I paid off that guy long ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“You know,” Artyom lifted his eyes, “I hated you back then. I thought you were just greedy and mean. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t help your brother.”

“And now you understand?”

“Now I do. If you’d given me the money, I’d still be sitting at home waiting for our parents to solve my problems. But this way… this way I had to grow up.”

Anna nodded.

“Was it hard?”

“You can’t imagine how hard,” Artyom answered honestly. “For the first few months I thought every day about quitting. Working for pennies, living with strangers, scrimping on food… But then I got into it. And I realized I like working with my hands. I like fixing cars, figuring out how things work.”

“How are Mom and Dad—are they hovering?”

“Mom now tells everyone her son is an entrepreneur,” Artyom smirked. “And Dad drops by the garage sometimes and helps out. He says he’s proud of me.”

They sat in silence, looking at each other. Artyom looked older than his twenty-six years, but in a good way. There was a new steadiness in his movements, a calm in his eyes.

“Anya,” he said at last, “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I was a burden on everyone for so many years…”

“Tyoma,” Anna interrupted him, “you weren’t a burden. You were a spoiled child. That’s different.”

“Maybe. But I’m not a child anymore.”

“Not anymore.”

Artyom stood and walked to the window. The same rainy autumn—only a year later.

“You know what’s strangest?” he said without turning around. “I’ve become happier. I mean, I live better now, I have more money—yeah—and more responsibilities, but… but I’m happier. Do you understand?”

“I do. When you earn money yourself, you spend it differently. When you solve problems yourself, they don’t seem unsolvable.”

“Yeah. And also… I met a girl. Katya. She works at a bank, very serious, very grown-up. I like being with her. We’re planning to move in together.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He turned to her. “Anya, can I come by sometimes? Just to talk. I’ve missed you.”

“Of course you can.”

They hugged—tight, real, like in childhood, before there were cars, debts, and resentments.

“By the way, I have a car now too,” Artyom said, stepping back. “I bought a wrecked Toyota. Repaired it myself—now it’s like new.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you. For not letting me stay a child forever.”

After he left, Anna sat in the kitchen for a long time, studying the chrysanthemums. They were truly beautiful—yellow, lush, with a tart autumn fragrance.

She thought about how often love for those close to us makes us hurt them. How hard it is to refuse when someone asks for help. How important it is sometimes to say “no,” so that a person can say “yes” to themselves.

It was still raining outside, but now it seemed not dreary, but cleansing—washing away old grievances, fears, childish illusions. Making room for something new, adult, real.

Anna put the flowers in a vase and turned on the kettle. Tomorrow would be a new day, and today she was simply glad she had a brother. A real, grown-up brother who now knew how to solve problems—and bring flowers.

— I’ll burn it. Right here, in front of your eyes.

Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice—my mother-in-law—was dry as old parchment. She stood in the middle of the living room Rodion and I had furnished together, holding a thick, unmarked envelope.

Her face showed nothing. The icy mask she’d worn since the day of the funeral.

“You can’t,” I said, though my voice trembled. I knew she could. And would.

“I can, Ksenia. I’m his mother. And you are the mistake he made. A mistake that will not receive a single kopeck of my son’s estate.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked to the kitchen. I followed, feeling the room narrow and the air grow thick and viscous.

Alevtina Ignatyevna took a deep steel mixing bowl from the shelf—the one I usually used for dough. She set the envelope on the bottom. A click of the lighter.

The tiny flame bit greedily into the corner of the paper.

“Here’s your inheritance!” she hissed, watching the fire devour the heavy cardstock. “Ashes. You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

I watched the fire. The tongues of flame danced, reflected in her pupils. There was pure, unclouded triumph in them. She was sure of her victory. She was destroying her son’s last will to leave me penniless.

The smell of burning filled the air. My mother-in-law watched me, expecting tears, hysteria, begging. But I kept silent.

I remembered what Rodion had said a week before the end. His quiet, tired voice: “Mom will stage a show, Ksyusha. She’ll find a way to push you. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, prepared a special ‘document’ just for her. She’ll think it’s my last will.

Play along. Let her have her little fake victory.” I hadn’t fully understood his plan then, but now everything fell into place.

Alevtina Ignatyevna brushed the black ash into the sink and turned on the water.

“That’s it. Justice is restored,” she said, wiping her hands and looking down at me. “You can start packing. I’m giving you three days.”

She pivoted and marched out, each step pronounced. Certain she had just erased me from her son’s life for good. The door slammed behind her.

I was alone in the kitchen, heavy with the bitter smell of smoke. Slowly I walked to the bookcase. Among the books stood an old, battered, hardbound cookbook I’d inherited from my grandmother.

 

Alevtina Ignatyevna was drunk on her cruelty. She could never have imagined she had burned only the decoy, the fake her own lawyer had slipped to her.

And the real will—or rather, the key to it—every single word of it, was securely encoded in the recipes of that old book.

Rodion had thought of everything. He knew that a standard will would be challenged by his mother for years, draining me in court. So he chose another path.

The next morning, the phone rang. I knew who it was.

“Ksenia?” Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice oozed false sympathy. “I thought you might need help. With moving.”

I was silent, giving her room to savor her move.

“I’ve called an appraiser. He’ll come today at two. We need to understand the value of the apartment,” she paused. “For the notary, of course.”

She pressed. Methodically, mercilessly. Not giving me even a day to catch my breath.

“All right,” I answered quietly.

“And another thing. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, would like to meet with you. He’s ready to offer you a certain sum… as a gesture of goodwill.”

A gesture of goodwill. She was offering hush money for my life with her son.

I opened the cookbook to page 112. The recipe for “Tsar’s Fish Soup.” Rodion had circled it in pencil.

“Ingredients: Sterlet—1 pc. (large, fatty). Pike perch—2 pcs. (smaller). Onions—3 bulbs. Parsley root—40 grams.”

This was our cipher. Rodion, a programmer to the core, had turned my grandmother’s recipes into a key. Page number, line number, word number. Everything led to a bank safe-deposit box, where the originals lay—to accounts, to passwords.

“Ksenia, are you listening?” my mother-in-law asked impatiently.

“I hear you. I’ll be waiting for the appraiser.”

At two o’clock the appraiser arrived. Behind him, uninvited, came Alevtina Ignatyevna. She behaved like the owner.

 

“Look here, the parquet—oak,” she pointed. “And the windows face the sun.”

She led him through the rooms where our memories still hung in the air and hawked them, cynically, piece by piece. I sat in the kitchen, leafing through the book.

“Prokhor Zakharovich will see you at ten tomorrow at his office,” she tossed at me as she walked past. “Don’t be late. He doesn’t like to wait.”

The next day I went to her lawyer’s firm. An expensive office in the city center. Prokhor Zakharovich himself—sleek, in a perfectly tailored suit, with a predatory smile.

“Ksenia Arkadyevna, please, have a seat. As you understand, there is no will. By law, the sole heir is the mother, Alevtina Ignatyevna.”

He slid a document toward me.

“However, my client is a generous person. She is prepared to pay you one hundred thousand rubles. In exchange you sign a waiver of any and all claims.”

One hundred thousand. For an apartment worth tens of millions. For Rodion’s business. For everything.

I looked at him, playing the part of the grief-stricken widow.

“I… I need to think,” I whispered.

“Think faster, girl. Generosity has an expiration date,” the lawyer smirked.

Sitting beside him, Alevtina Ignatyevna added,

“This is more than generous. Rodion would approve of my care for you.”

I went home. The plan was working. They believed in my weakness. I opened the book. The recipe for “Kurnik” pie. “Puff pastry—500 g. Flour—1 cup. Eggs—3 pcs. Boil hard.”

“Boil hard.” That was the command. An instruction to act. I sat down at Rodion’s laptop. They didn’t know I was already preparing the main course.

On the third day, Alevtina Ignatyevna didn’t come alone. Two broad-shouldered movers stood behind her.

“I hope you’ve already packed your little things?” she asked. “Because I don’t have time to wait. The furniture stays for now. And this junk,” she nodded at the stack of my books on the table, “can be thrown out.”

Her gaze stopped on the cookbook lying on top. She smirked and picked it up by two fingers.

“And that trash as well. Always with your recipes. Did you think the way to my son’s heart was through his stomach? How primitive you are, Ksyusha.”

She drew her arm back to toss the book into a big garbage bag.

And at that moment, the act ended. No more role of the quiet, grief-stricken widow.

“Do not touch. That. Book.”

 

My voice sounded in a way that made even the movers freeze. There were no tears in it, no pleading. Only steel.

Alevtina Ignatyevna was taken aback.

“You’re going to give me orders? In my house?”

“This is not your house. And it never was,” I walked over slowly and took the book from her slackening fingers. I looked straight into her eyes. “Enough. We’re done.”

I stepped to the table, took out my phone, and dialed Prokhor Zakharovich.

“Good afternoon, Prokhor Zakharovich. This is Ksenia Arkadyevna. I’ve considered your generous offer. And I’ve decided to decline.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Moreover, I have a counterproposal. I’d like to discuss with you the recipe for ‘Easter Kulich’ on page two hundred and four. In particular, the ingredient ‘Imported candied fruit, twelve pieces.’”

It seems to me that ingredient has a direct connection to Rodion’s offshore account in Cyprus. The very one you, of course, know nothing about. Isn’t that right?”

Heavy silence hung in the receiver. My mother-in-law stared at me, her eyes fraying at the edges. The mask began to crack.

“You have twenty-four hours to contact me and discuss the terms of the real will. Otherwise my attorney will contact the tax authorities. And not only ours. Good day.”

I ended the call. I looked at the frozen mother-in-law and the two movers.

“Leave. All of you.”

They backed out. The door clicked softly. I was alone. The appetizers were over. It was time to serve the main course.

Prokhor Zakharovich called within an hour. The voice that had oozed smugness yesterday was now taut as a wire. The meeting was set for the next morning at his office.

I arrived at exactly ten. I wore a strict pantsuit. In my hands—only that same cookbook.

They were already waiting in the conference room. Alevtina Ignatyevna sat hunched, her face gray. Prokhor Zakharovich, on the contrary, tried to exude confidence, but his darting eyes gave him away.

“Let’s skip the formalities. We don’t have much time.”

 

I set the book on the polished table. Opened it at random. The recipe for “Mixed Meat Solyanka.”

“‘Beef kidneys—200 g. Soak in three waters,’” I lifted my eyes to the lawyer. “Three transactions to the Zurich account. Two years ago. Tell me, Alevtina Ignatyevna, did your son hide that money from you? Or were you hiding it from the tax authorities along with your counsel?”

My mother-in-law stared at her lawyer in shock. He turned pale.

“This… this is a misunderstanding.”

“This is not a misunderstanding. This is a criminal case,” I flipped the page. “The recipe for ‘Rasstegai with Viziga.’ ‘Dried viziga—1 pound. Soak overnight to draw out all the salt.’ A very interesting ingredient. Especially in the context of purchasing commercial real estate through a straw buyer, isn’t it, Prokhor Zakharovich?”

The lawyer pressed back into his chair. He understood. This book was not just a will. It was Rodion’s complete financial diary. His insurance against betrayal.

Alevtina Ignatyevna slowly turned her head toward the lawyer.

“You… you knew? You knew everything and kept quiet?”

“Alevtina Ignatyevna, this isn’t what you think…” he babbled, instantly betraying his client.

“Enough!” she barked at him, and in that shout was everything: rage, humiliation, and the dawning realization of total ruin. She understood she had been used.

I gave them a moment to absorb it, then spoke calmly.

“Rodion’s terms were simple. All his personal property, including this apartment and the accounts you now know about, passes to me. His share of the business—also.”

I looked at my mother-in-law. She no longer seemed a monster. Just a broken, unhappy woman.

“For you, Alevtina Ignatyevna, he left a lifetime stipend. Enough that you’ll want for nothing. But on one condition.”

She lifted her eyes to me, full of tears.

“You will disappear from my life. Completely. Any attempt to contact me, any attempt to contest his will—and the stipend is revoked, and Mr. Lawyer here,” I nodded toward Prokhor Zakharovich, “goes to prison. For a very long time.”

I stood. The meeting was over.

“All the documents will be sent to you tomorrow by my new attorney.”

I left the office, leaving them to deal with each other. The sun was shining outside. I didn’t feel euphoria. Only a cold, clear calm. Justice doesn’t bring wild joy. It simply puts everything in its place.

That evening I was home. In my apartment. I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the cookbook. This time—without any cipher. My eyes fell on the recipe for “Sharlotka.”

I took out flour, eggs, and apples. And for the first time in a long while, I began to cook. Just for myself. It was my quiet. My home. My new life.

Half a year later.

Six months passed. The low, golden autumn sun flooded the spacious office of Rodion’s IT company with light. Now it was my office. I hadn’t sold the business, as many advised. I took the helm.

The first months felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss. But even here, Rodion had given me a safety net.

On his laptop, alongside the encrypted accounts, I found folders with detailed instructions, plans, and notes on every key employee. It was as if he were guiding me by the hand from beyond.

I learned to speak their language—the language of code, deadlines, and startups. I was no longer just “Ksyusha with her recipes.” I became Ksenia Arkadyevna, and that name now carried weight, without any irony.

 

Alevtina Ignatyevna received her money regularly. Once a month. Not a day late. She never called.

I heard from mutual acquaintances that she sold her downtown apartment and moved to a quiet country residence. Alone.

Her lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, was less fortunate. After our conversation, he ran into serious trouble.

Several of his old real-estate cases suddenly surfaced. He was disbarred.

He lost everything. Sometimes you don’t have to cook revenge yourself—just nudge the right ingredients, and the dish cooks itself.

Today I came home earlier than usual. The apartment greeted me with the smell of fresh baking.

It wasn’t sharlotka. Today I was baking a complex, multilayered cake from that same book. A recipe Rodion and I never had the chance to try together.

On the kitchen table, next to the cooling cake, lay the open book. Over six months I had filled its margins with my notes.

Not ciphers. Just thoughts, ideas, new recipes. The book had stopped being a weapon and become what it was meant to be again—a source of warmth and creation.

I cut myself a slice of cake. It turned out perfect. The taste was complex, bittersweet. Like life itself.

I no longer played roles. Neither victim nor avenger. I simply lived.

Her mother, Klavdia Petrovna, froze with a glass of expensive wine in her hand. Grigory slowly set aside the tablet on which he’d been picking out a new watch — on his sister’s dime. His wife Evelina stopped photographing the interior for her Instagram.

— Ninotchka, what’s wrong with you? — her mother tried to feign maternal concern, but a flicker of worry flashed in her eyes. — Are you tired from work? Sit down, rest…

— DON’T tell me what to do in MY house! — Nina swept her gaze over the trio. — Three years! THREE YEARS I’ve been supporting all of you! And what do I get in return? NOTHING but new demands!

Grigory stretched lazily on the sofa — the very one Nina had bought a month ago after his complaints about his bad back.

— Sis, don’t get worked up. We’re family. Helping each other is normal.

— HELPING? — Nina laughed, but there was no humor in it. — You call this helping? You haven’t worked for two years! You live on my money, eat my food, use my things!

— I’m having a creative crisis, — Grigory said, offended. — I’m an artist, I need inspiration…

— An artist? In two years you haven’t painted a SINGLE picture! But you reliably burn through a hundred thousand a month of my money!

Evelina rose from the armchair, her perfectly painted lips curling in a contemptuous smirk.

— Nina, envy is an ugly feeling. The fact you don’t have a husband and children isn’t a reason to take it out on us.

— ENVY? — Nina couldn’t believe her ears. — I envy YOU? A woman who hasn’t earned a single kopeck in five years of marriage? Who only knows how to post selfies and spend her husband’s money… or rather, MY money!

 

— Sweetheart, — Klavdia Petrovna tried to take control, — we understand you’re under strain. But family must stick together. When you were little…

— STOP! — Nina raised a hand. — Don’t start telling me about my childhood! Yes, you raised me. That was your DUTY as a mother! I didn’t ask to be born!

— You’ve become so heartless, — her mother shook her head. — Your heart’s closed off. That’s why you’re alone…

— I’m alone because YOU SCARE OFF all my men! — Nina blurted. — Remember Maksim? You started telling him how clumsy I was as a child right in front of him! And Artyom? Grigory borrowed money from him and didn’t pay it back! And the last one, Vladislav? Evelina flirted with him right before my eyes!

— If a man leaves over such trifles, then he didn’t love you, — Grigory remarked philosophically.

— TRIFLES? You destroyed three of my relationships!

— We were protecting you from the unworthy, — her mother parried.

Nina pulled a folder of documents from her bag and threw it on the table.

— Here are the bills for the last year. Mom — three hundred thousand for your beauty procedures, two hundred thousand for clothes, one hundred fifty for restaurants. Grigory — electronics for four hundred thousand, clothes for two hundred, entertainment for three hundred. Evelina — beauty salons three hundred thousand, shopping five hundred thousand, fitness and yoga one hundred thousand. Total — TWO AND A HALF MILLION in a year! And that’s not counting food, utilities, and gas!

— So what? — Grigory shrugged. — You earn well. You own your clinic…

— I SLAVE like a cursed soul! Twelve hours a day! I perform the most complex surgeries! And you just BLOW my money!

— Nina, it’s unseemly to count money spent on family, — Klavdia Petrovna intoned.

— And is it seemly to PARASITIZE on your own daughter? — Nina looked her mother straight in the eye. — You’re sixty, healthy as an OX, and you haven’t worked for five years! You live on my money!

— I raised you!

— And I’ve repaid you! I’ve supported you for five years! I bought you an apartment, a car, I pay for all your whims! But ENOUGH!

Evelina gave a demonstrative yawn.

— Nina, your hysterics are tiring. We get it, you’re in a bad mood. Maybe you should see a psychologist?

— A psychologist? Great idea! I just saw one! And you know what she told me? That you’re TOXIC people! You exploit me! You manipulate my guilt and sense of duty!

— Nonsense! — Grigory snorted. — Those psychologists only know how to destroy families.

— No, it’s YOU who are destroying things! You’re destroying my life! I’m thirty-five, I have no family, no children, no personal life! Because all my time and money go to you!

— No one forces you to help us, — her mother said coldly.

— REALLY? What about the constant calls complaining of poor health? The tears about having nothing to eat? The reproaches that I abandoned my own family?

— We never… — Evelina began.

— QUIET! — Nina barked so loudly they all flinched. — You come here, eat my food, drink my wine, and then you CRITICIZE! Saying my cooking is bad, the wine is cheap, the furniture uncomfortable!

— We’re just giving our opinion… — Grigory tried to insert.

— I’m NOT INTERESTED in your opinion! This is MY house! I bought it with MY money! And I no longer wish to SEE you here!

— You’re throwing out your own mother? — Klavdia Petrovna pressed a hand to her heart.

— I’m setting boundaries! From today — NO money! At all! Not a penny!

— But how… I have loans… — Grigory mumbled.

— LOANS? — Nina couldn’t believe it. — You took out loans?

— Well… a little… For a car for Evelina…

— For a CAR? I gave you money for a car!

— We bought a more expensive model, — Evelina examined her manicure. — The one you suggested was too basic.

— Too BASIC… — Nina shook her head. — And who’s going to pay the loan?

— We thought you’d help…

— GET OUT! — Nina screamed. — OUT OF MY HOUSE! NOW!

— Ninotchka, calm down, — her mother tried to approach.

— DON’T TOUCH ME! You think I don’t know about your LOVER? About Aristarh?

Klavdia Petrovna turned pale.

— How did…

— A private investigator, Mom! I hired one! I know you’ve been seeing him for a year! And you spend my money on him! You rent him an apartment — on MY dime!

— That’s… that’s not true…

— Here are the photos! — Nina pulled out her phone. — You two at a restaurant, at the theater, at his apartment! And here are the receipts — all paid with the card I gave you!

Grigory stared at his mother, stunned.

— Mom, is this true?

— None of your business! — Klavdia snapped.

— And you know what’s the MOST DISGUSTING? — Nina went on. — Aristarh is MARRIED! He has a family! Kids! And you’re wrecking someone else’s family with MY money!

— Love doesn’t choose…

— LOVE? He’s twenty years younger than you! He’s using you… or rather, my MONEY!

— Jealous that your mother has a man and you don’t? — Klavdia shot back viciously.

That was the last straw. Nina walked to the front door and flung it open.

— OUT! All of you OUT! You have fifteen minutes to pack your things!

— You wouldn’t dare… — Grigory began.

— Security! — Nina called into the hallway.

Two guards appeared immediately.

— Escort these people out. They no longer LIVE here.

— Nina, come to your senses! — her mother pleaded. — Where will we go?

— I DON’T CARE! Go to Aristarh! And Grigory can finally start working!

— I’m depressed…

— You’re LAZY! Pathologically LAZY!

Evelina stood, chin lifted proudly.

— Let’s go, Grisha. We’re not welcome here. Your sister has shown her true colors.

— My true colors? — Nina laughed. — YOU’VE shown YOURS! GREEDY, SELF-SERVING, VILE!

 

With the guards watching, the trio reluctantly gathered their things. Klavdia sobbed, Grigory muttered curses, Evelina maintained icy composure.

— And leave the keys! — Nina shouted. — To the apartment, the car, the dacha!

— The dacha? But that’s… — Grigory began.

— MY dacha! Bought with MY money! The paperwork is in MY name!

Grinding their teeth, they left the keys on the entryway table.

— You’ll regret this, — hissed Klavdia. — You’ll end up all alone!

— Better alone than with VAMPIRES!

The door slammed. Nina leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding wildly, her hands were shaking. But inside there was a strange lightness. As if a heavy stone had fallen from her soul.

The phone rang five minutes later. Mother. Nina declined. Then Grigory. Declined again. Messages poured in one after another.

“Come to your senses!”

“We’re family!”

“You’re making a mistake!”

“Heartless!”

“We raised you!”

Nina blocked all the numbers. Then she called her secretary.

— Zlata? This is Nina Sergeyevna. If my mother, brother, or his wife call — tell them I’m unavailable. And don’t let them into the clinic.

— Understood, Nina Sergeyevna. Did something happen?

— Everything’s fine. I’m just putting my life in order.

That evening Nina sat in the quiet of her apartment. No one turned the TV up to full blast. No one demanded dinner. No one complained. She opened a bottle of wine — not the cheap stuff she bought for family get-togethers, but the expensive kind she loved. She poured a glass and raised a toast:

— To freedom!

A month passed. Nina blossomed. Colleagues remarked she looked ten years younger. There was a sparkle in her eyes; her smile became genuine. She signed up for dance classes, started going to the theater, meeting friends — things she previously had neither time nor energy for.

There was no word from the family. Only through mutual acquaintances did news trickle in: Klavdia had moved in with her sister out in the provinces, Grigory and Evelina had rented a studio on the outskirts.

Business at the clinic was excellent. Without the constant stress, Nina worked even more productively. New clients appeared, the staff expanded. She even met an interesting man — Timofey, the owner of a network of labs. He was intelligent, well-off, and most importantly, self-sufficient.

— You know, — he said over dinner one night, — I admire your strength. Not everyone can break off toxic relationships, even with family.

— It wasn’t easy, — Nina admitted. — But I don’t regret it.

— Good. Life’s too short to spend it on people who don’t value you.

They clinked glasses. Nina smiled. She was truly happy.

Then calls began from unknown numbers. Nina didn’t answer. But one day she picked up — the number had a different city code.

— Nina Sergeyevna? — an unfamiliar male voice. — This is Investigator Vorontsov. I need to talk to you about your brother.

— What happened? — Nina went cold.

— Grigory Sergeyevich has been detained on suspicion of fraud. He was taking out loans using forged documents.

— What?!

— He used your data, forged income statements. The total is more than five million rubles.

Nina sank into a chair.

 

— But how… I never gave consent…

— Precisely why you’re listed as the victim. We need your statement.

— I… I need to think…

— I understand. But keep in mind — if you don’t file a statement, the banks will still demand payment from you. The loans are in your name.

After hanging up, Nina grabbed her head. Five million! Grigory had run up DEBTS of FIVE MILLION in her name!

The phone rang again. Mother. From an unknown number.

— Nina! — Klavdia’s voice was full of panic. — Grisha’s been arrested! You have to help!

— I HAVE to? After what he did?

— He’s your brother!

— He’s a CRIMINAL! He forged documents! Took out loans in my name!

— He was desperate! You abandoned us!

— I stopped SUPPORTING you! That’s not the same thing!

— If you don’t help, he’ll go to prison!

— Let him GO! That’s his choice!

— Heartless! I’ll curse you!

— GO AHEAD! I stopped caring long ago!

Nina hung up. Her hands trembled with rage. Even now, when Grigory had committed a crime, her mother demanded she bail him out!

The next call was from Evelina.

— Nina, I know we’re not on good terms, but…

— NO! No “buts”! Your husband is a SWINDLER!

— He did it for the family!

— For the family? He was buying himself gadgets and you a car with STOLEN money!

— If Grisha is imprisoned, I’ll be alone… Pregnant…

— Pregnant? You decided to have a child with no means to live?

— We thought things would work out…

— You thought I would start supporting you again! NO! ENOUGH! That’s your problem!

— You’re killing your nephew!

— I’m killing no one! YOU are irresponsible! Having children without thinking how to provide for them!

Nina switched off the phone completely. Then she called her lawyer.

— Spartak? I need help. My brother took out loans in my name…

The proceedings dragged on for two months. Nina provided all documents proving the signatures were forged. The examination confirmed the forgery. Grigory was found guilty.

In court he looked pitiful. Gaunt, unshaven. When the judge read the sentence — three years in a general-regime colony — he burst into tears.

— Nina! — he shouted. — Forgive me! I was a fool!

She walked out of the courtroom without a word.

Outside the courthouse her mother waited. Aged, haggard.

— Happy now? — she hissed. — You had your brother locked up!

— He locked himself up.

— Because of you! If you hadn’t thrown us out…

— ENOUGH! — Nina turned on her mother. — Your whole life you BLAME everyone around you! But never yourselves! Grigory’s a thief not because I stopped supporting him, but because YOU raised him to be a loafer and a freeloader!

— I gave him everything…

— You gave him everything but the main thing — the ability to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY! And now he’s paying for it!

— Heartless witch!

— Yes, I’m heartless! Toward those who leeched off me for years! Toward those who betrayed my trust! Toward those who saw me as a cash cow!

— You’ll end up alone!

— GREAT! Better alone than with relatives like you!

Klavdia shouted something after her, but Nina didn’t listen. She got into her car and drove away.

Another year passed. Nina married Timofey. A modest wedding, only close friends. She invited none of her relatives.

They were happy. Timofey proved to be a caring, attentive husband. They traveled, grew their business, made plans for the future. Nina became pregnant. Life was settling into place.

And then a letter arrived. From Evelina. Handwritten, on cheap paper.

“Nina, I know you don’t want to see me. But I have to tell you something. About your mother and Grigory. About what they hid from you for years.

Your father didn’t die when you were five. He’s alive. He lives in Germany. He has a new family. Klavdia threw him out when she learned of his affair. But she kept getting alimony all these years. In your name. Only you didn’t know. The money went to a separate account your mother controlled.

Grigory knew. He and your mother shared the money. Over eighteen years a decent sum accumulated. Several million. But they spent it all. On their whims.

I found out by accident while going through Grisha’s papers before his arrest. I found old statements, correspondence with your father. He wrote you letters, but Klavdia intercepted them.

Your father is Veniamin Kryukov, the owner of a construction company in Munich. If you want, you can contact him.

I’m sorry I kept silent before. I was afraid. And now I have nothing to lose. Grisha is in prison, I’m alone with a child, scraping by with odd jobs. Klavdia is also in dire straits — Aristarh dumped her as soon as the money ran out.

I don’t know why I’m writing. I guess I want you to know the truth. You have the right.

Evelina”

Nina read the letter three times. Then she slowly sank onto the sofa. Her father was alive. ALIVE! And all these years he’d paid alimony, written letters, tried to contact her!

— What happened? — Timofey put his arm around her shoulders.

She silently handed him the letter. He read it, and his face darkened with anger.

— How vile! They stole not only money from you, but your father!

— Thirty years… Thirty years of lies…

— Will you contact him?

— I don’t know… Probably… I need time…

Timofey held her tighter.

— I’m here. Whatever you decide.

A week later Nina wrote to her father. A brief letter in German — fortunately, she knew the language well.

The reply came three days later. Veniamin wrote that all these years he had dreamed of seeing his daughter. That Klavdia had blackmailed him — threatened to tell Nina awful things, to turn her against him. That he kept every photo of her he could obtain through acquaintances.

He enclosed tickets to Munich. For two.

 

— Shall we go? — Nina asked her husband.

— Of course. This is important to you.

The meeting was emotional. Veniamin — tall, gray-haired, with kind eyes — wept as he hugged his daughter. His wife, Marta, and the children — Nina’s half-brother and sister — welcomed her warmly.

— I’m so sorry, — her father said. — That I didn’t fight harder. That I let Klavdia steal so many years from us.

— You didn’t steal them. She did. And Grigory.

— I heard what became of them. Your stepmother… I mean Marta… found information online.

— And?

— Klavdia lives in a government nursing home. Aristarh not only left her, he cleaned her out. He emptied her accounts — she foolishly gave him access. And Grigory… After prison, there’s another case waiting.

— I don’t care, — Nina said honestly. — They chose their path.

— You did well. You managed to break free. To build your life.

— It wasn’t easy.

— But you did it. I’m proud of you, daughter.

They spent a week in Munich. Veniamin showed them the city, introduced them to relatives, told them about his life. When they said goodbye, he gave Nina documents.

— What’s this?

— A power of attorney to manage my stake in some Russian business. I still have assets there.

Nina severed her last ties with the past: she blocked her mother’s and brother’s remaining numbers, changed her address, and even took a new last name after marriage. Klavdia Petrovna spent the rest of her days in the nursing home cursing her “ungrateful daughter,” blaming her for all her misfortunes and never acknowledging her own mistakes. After his release, Grigory fled the city to escape creditors and a new criminal case, leaving Evelina and the child to fend for themselves. And Nina lived a full, happy life with her loving husband Timofey — they had a beautiful daughter, Sofya; the family business flourished; and every summer they visited Grandpa Veniamin in Munich, where little Sofya played with her German uncle and aunt in delight, and where Nina finally found the family she had always dreamed of.

Cody Wanted to Give His Dying Grandmother a Day Full of Love — The Kind She Spent Her Whole Life Giving Others. He Took Her on a Date, and She Was Delighted. But When He Brought Her to One Final Surprise, the Tears in Her Eyes Said It All.

The golden morning light spilled through Debbie’s bedroom window, casting a glow on the delicate purple petals of her beloved orchids. Spring had always been her favorite season — when her garden bloomed into a symphony of purples, pinks, and whites.

Cody, twenty-five, watched from the doorway as she carefully pinned back her silver hair, just as she’d done for as long as he could remember. Her nightstand overflowed with blooming orchids, all cared for by her patient hands.

“Grandma, you don’t have to worry so much,” he said softly. “It’s just a date.”

She looked at him in the mirror and smiled, crinkling the corners of her eyes with a warmth that wrapped around his heart. “A lady always dresses up for a date, sweetheart — even if it’s with her grandson.”

Her voice was weaker than it had been a week ago, but that mischievous spark still danced in her eyes. “Besides,” Debbie added, picking up her favorite coral lipstick, “you never know who you might run into. What if Joe’s already there waiting to take me with him?”

 

Cody’s throat tightened. He’d spent weeks planning this day ever since the doctors gave them the timeline. Three months, maybe four. Debbie’s cancer was spreading faster than anyone expected, and she had chosen to stop treatment.

“I’ve lived a good life,” she told everyone with her signature calm. “I’d rather spend what’s left of it making memories than fighting a losing battle in a hospital room.”

That day in the doctor’s office, Cody had held her hand as the oncologist laid out the options. He expected fear — but instead, she squeezed his fingers and said, “Well, that just means we’ll have to make every day count, won’t we?”

That night, Cody began to plan something extraordinary. He remembered her once saying she’d love to visit all the places she had shared with Grandpa Joe one last time. So he decided to take her on a date — a day full of memories and love, worthy of everything she had given him.

How many more mornings would he get to memorize the way she misted her orchids with such tender care? How many more chances to hear her laugh? Would there be enough time to hear all her stories, just one more time?

“All done,” Debbie announced, smoothing down her favorite lavender dress. “How do I look?”

“As beautiful as ever, Grandma,” Cody said — and he meant it.

Though illness had hollowed her cheeks and softened her once-vibrant complexion, she radiated a grace that transcended her physical state. The dress brought color back to her cheeks, and she wore the delicate orchid brooch Grandpa Joe had given her on their 40th wedding anniversary.

He remembered that day — how Grandpa’s hands trembled as he pinned it to her dress, eyes shining with pride. Debbie had laughed through tears, and he had sniffled, pretending it was nothing.

Then “Can’t Help Falling in Love” had played on the old record player, and without a word, Joe had pulled her close. They danced slowly in the living room, the brooch catching the soft glow of the lamp as they swayed, holding each other like they never wanted to let go.

“You’re such a sweet boy,” Debbie chuckled, picking up her cane. “Just like your grandfather.” But when Cody stepped forward to help her up, she waved him off.

“I can manage this part.”

He watched her rise from the vanity chair with careful but determined movements. He had to resist the urge to rush to her side when she wobbled slightly, knowing how much she valued these small victories of independence.

She had always been like that — strong and sure. Even after Grandpa Joe passed, she insisted on tending the garden alone, though she eventually let Cody help with the heavier work.

The ride to their first stop passed in a comfortable silence, occasionally filled with Debbie’s gentle humming — snippets of “What a Wonderful World,” the song she and Joe had danced to at their wedding.

Cody took the long route, passing places filled with memories: the elementary school where she’d picked him up every day when his parents were working, the ice cream shop where she’d treated him after every baseball game — win or lose — and the park where she taught him to feed ducks and told him stories.

When they pulled into the botanical garden parking lot, Debbie gasped. The spring orchid showcase was in full bloom, and through the glass walls of the conservatory, splashes of color lit up the inside.

 

“Oh, Cody…” her voice wavered. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did, Grandma. You used to bring me here every spring, remember? You’d tell me the name of every orchid and I’d pretend I could pronounce them all.”

He helped her out of the car. The morning air was crisp and clean, promising a beautiful day. As they approached the entrance, the first notes of a saxophone drifted toward them. Debbie’s steps slowed as she recognized the familiar tune — “What a Wonderful World.”

There, beside a stunning display of purple and white orchids, stood a saxophonist, his golden music winding through the morning light like sunlight through trees. Debbie brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears.

“May I have this dance, Grandma?” Cody offered his hand — just as he’d practiced with the hospice nurse, learning how to support her weight while still making it feel like a real dance.

Debbie placed her trembling hand in his, and he drew her close, letting her rest against him as they gently swayed to the music. She leaned her head on his chest, and he felt her tears dampen his shirt.

“Your grandfather and I danced to this at our wedding,” she whispered. “And every anniversary after. Even in the hospital that last week… he hummed it to me. Said as long as we could still dance, everything would be okay.”

“Tell me about your first dance with him,” Cody prompted gently, knowing how much she loved to share her memories.

“Oh, it was at the Mountain View Ballroom… long gone now. I wore a blue dress my mother made, and Joe… he looked so handsome in his Sunday best. He stepped on my feet three times, but I didn’t care. When the song played, he looked at me like I was the only girl in the world. Two weeks later, he proposed by the fountain.”

The music ended, and Debbie sighed. “Thank you for this, Cody. Today… it feels like I got a little bit of him back.”

But the date wasn’t over yet.

Cody took her to a quiet café where they used to go for tea, then to the scenic overlook where Joe had once promised her the world. And finally, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, Cody said, “One last stop.”

He led her into a cozy hall lit by soft fairy lights. Inside were all her closest friends, neighbors, and family. In the corner, a projector screen glowed to life. Cody stood beside it.

“I wanted you to know how much you’ve given all of us,” he said. “So… I asked everyone you’ve ever touched to share a memory of you.”

One by one, video messages began to play — children she used to babysit, now grown with families of their own. Former students who still remembered her kind words. Garden club friends. Nurses. Strangers she had helped.

Tears streamed down Debbie’s face.

And then, the final video played. A young woman held up a tiny baby.

“Hi, Debbie,” she said through tears. “I wanted you to meet the little girl you helped save. You held me while my mom recovered. You told her not to give up. She didn’t — and because of that, I’m here. Thank you.”

Debbie clutched Cody’s hand.

“How did you…?”

He smiled softly. “I just wanted you to see what you’ve done. What you’ve meant. You spent your whole life giving love, Grandma. Today, we gave a little back.”

Debbie looked around the room filled with laughter, tears, and flowers — the people whose lives she had shaped, hearts she had touched — and whispered, “Joe would’ve loved this.”

As the lights dimmed and Cody pulled her into one last slow dance, she laid her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Now I’m ready, darling. Whenever Joe’s ready for me… I’ll go with joy in my heart.”

And in that moment, surrounded by love, music, and blooming orchids — she truly was home.

Would you like this as a printable story or audiobook format?

After years of longing, Emily’s dream finally came true: she gave birth to beautiful triplet daughters. But one day later, her husband abandoned them, claiming they were cursed.

I looked at my three little girls, and my heart swelled as I took them in. Sophie, Lily, and Grace were perfect, each a miracle. I had waited for them so long—years of hope, waiting, and prayers.

And now they were here, sleeping in their cribs, their faces so peaceful. I wiped away a tear, overwhelmed by how much I loved them.

But then I looked up, and there was Jack. He had just returned from running errands, but something was wrong. He looked pale. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, and he didn’t come closer. He stood by the door, as though he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be in the same room.

“Jack?” I said softly, stroking the chair by the bed. “Come sit with me. Look at them, they’re here. We made it.”

“Yeah… they’re beautiful,” Jack murmured, barely glancing at the babies. He took a step closer but still wouldn’t look me in the eye.

 

“Jack,” I said, my voice trembling. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Emily, I don’t think… I don’t think we can keep them.”

It felt like the sky had fallen down on me. “What?” I choked. “Jack, what are you talking about? They’re our daughters.”

He grimaced in pain and turned his gaze away as though he couldn’t stand to look at my face. “My mom… went to see a fortune teller,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him right. “A fortune teller? Jack, you can’t be serious.”

“She said… she said that these babies… our girls…” He paused, his voice unsteady. “She said they would only bring bad luck. That they would ruin my life and be the reason for my death.”

I gasped, staring at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying. “Jack, that’s crazy. They’re just babies.”

He lowered his gaze, his face filled with fear. “My mom swears by this fortune teller. She’s been right before, and… she’s never been so sure about anything.”

I felt anger rising, hot and sharp. “So, because of some ridiculous prediction, you want to abandon them? Leave them here, just like that?”

He stopped, looking at me with fear mixed with guilt. “If you want to take them home… fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I won’t be there. I’m sorry, Emily.”

I stared at him, trying to process his words, but all I felt was shock. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” My voice cracked. “You’re going to walk away from your daughters over a story your mother heard?”

He didn’t say anything. He just lowered his gaze, shoulders slumped.

I gasped for air, trying to hold myself together. “If you walk out that door, Jack,” I whispered, “don’t come back. I won’t let you do this to our daughters.”

He looked at me one last time, his face twisted in agony, but then he turned and headed for the door. “I… I’m sorry, Em,” he said softly, and he left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

I sat there, staring at the empty door, my heart pounding in my chest and my mind spinning. A nurse came back in, saw my face, and placed a hand on my shoulder, offering silent comfort as she gathered my things.

I looked at my babies, tears blurring my vision. “Don’t worry, girls,” I whispered, stroking each little head. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
While I hugged my triplets, I felt a mix of fear and fierce determination growing inside me. I had no idea how I would manage on my own, but I knew one thing for sure: I would never abandon my daughters. Never.

Weeks had passed since Jack left, and every day without him was harder than I had imagined. Taking care of three newborns by myself was overwhelming.

Some days, I felt like I could barely hold on, but I pushed forward for Sophie, Lily, and Grace. They were my whole world now, and although Jack’s abandonment hurt, I knew I had to focus on them.

One afternoon, my sister-in-law Beth came to help with the babies. She was the only one from Jack’s family who was willing to stay in contact with me, and I accepted, thinking I might be able to convince Jack to come back. That day, I realized something was bothering her.

Beth bit her lip, looking at me with a pained expression. “Emily, I’ve heard something… I’m not sure if I should tell you, but I can’t keep it to myself.”

My heart raced. “Tell me.”

 

She sighed and took a deep breath. “I heard mom talking to Aunt Carol. She… admitted there was no fortune teller.”

I froze. “What do you mean there was no fortune teller?”

Beth’s eyes filled with sadness. “Mom made it up. She was worried that with the triplets, Jack would have less time for her. She thought… thought that if she convinced him the babies would bring bad luck, he would stay closer to her.”

The room seemed to spin. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt a wave of anger so fierce that I had to put Grace down before my trembling hands betrayed me.

“That woman,” I whispered, my voice thick with rage. “She destroyed my family for her own selfish reasons.”

Beth placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I don’t think she realized what she was doing to you, but… I thought you should know the truth.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. Part of me wanted to confront my mother-in-law, make her face what she had done. But another part of me wanted to reach out to Jack, tell him the truth, and hope he would come back.

The next morning, I called Jack. My hands were shaking as I dialed, each ring felt longer than the last. Finally, he answered.

“Jack, it’s me,” I said firmly. “We need to talk.”

He sighed. “Emily, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Just listen,” I insisted, struggling to keep my voice steady. “There was no fortune teller, Jack. Your mom made it all up.”

There was a long silence. Then he spoke, his voice calm but dismissive. “Emily, I don’t believe it. My mom wouldn’t make something so serious up.”

“She did, Jack,” I said, my anger bubbling to the surface. “She confessed it to Carol. Beth heard her. She lied to you because she was afraid of losing you.”

He scoffed. “Look, Em, that fortune teller has been right before. You don’t know her like I do. My mom wouldn’t lie about something this big.”

I felt my heart sink, but I forced myself to continue. “Jack, please, think about it. Why would she lie? It’s your family, your daughters. How can you abandon them over something like this?”

He didn’t answer, and finally, I heard him sigh. “I’m sorry, Emily. I can’t do it.”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, realizing he had made a decision. He was gone.

In the following weeks, I did everything I could to adjust to life as a single mom. Every day was a struggle, balancing meals, diapers, and my own pain over the life I thought I would have with Jack.

But little by little, things started to change. Friends and family stepped in to help, bringing meals and holding the babies so I could rest. And despite everything, my love for Sophie, Lily, and Grace only grew. Each smile, each coo, or each tiny hand wrapped around my finger filled me with a joy that nearly erased the pain of Jack’s absence.

Several weeks later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and there stood Jack’s mother. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with regret.

“Emily,” she began, her voice trembling. “I… I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

I crossed my arms, struggling to maintain composure. “You lied to him. You convinced him that his own daughters were a curse.”

Tears filled her eyes as she nodded. “I was scared, Emily. I thought… I thought he would forget about me if he had you and the girls. I never thought he would really leave.”
I felt my anger soften, but only a little. “Your fear destroyed my family.”

She lowered her gaze, her face twisted in guilt. “I know. And I’m so sorry.”

I watched her for a moment, but my mind was already with my daughters, sleeping in the next room. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

She left, and I closed the door, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness.

A year later, Jack appeared at my door, looking like a ghost of the man I once loved. He begged, saying that he had finally realized his mistake and wanted to come back, to be with us, and to be a family again.

But now I knew better. I looked him straight in the eyes and shook my head. “I already have a family, Jack. You weren’t there when we needed you. I don’t need you now.”

As I closed the door, I felt like a weight was lifted from me. After all, it wasn’t me or our daughters who ruined his life. It was him.