All Amazing Babies

 

Tatyana was wiping dust off the chest of drawers in the living room when she heard the familiar sound of keys in the lock. Her husband had come home from work an hour earlier than usual, and that could mean only one thing—more news about his sister Marina.

“Tanechka,” Igor called from the hallway, “we’re going to have a guest. Marina is coming the day after tomorrow.”

Tatyana froze with the rag in her hand. The last time her husband’s sister had stayed with them was three years ago, and those two weeks had forever remained in her memory as one of the most tense periods of their family life.

“For long?” she asked carefully.

 

“Mom’s asking us to get her settled in the city. Marina is already twenty-seven and still can’t find her place in life. I think a big city will give her more opportunities.”

Tatyana sighed. She remembered Marina—a tall blonde with a sulky mouth and a habit of treating everyone around her like hired help. The girl had never worked, lived with their mother in a small town, where the older woman supported her on her pension and the money her son sent.

“Fine,” Tatyana said, realizing she had no choice. “I’ll make up a bed for her in the living room.”

Marina arrived on Thursday morning with two huge suitcases and a bag stuffed with cosmetics. She was just as striking as before, but in her eyes Tatyana could read the weariness of provincial life and a hunger for change.

“Igoryok!” she exclaimed joyfully, hugging her brother. “I’ve missed real civilization so much!”

Tatyana silently watched the reunion of the siblings. Marina barely nodded in her direction in greeting, as if her brother’s wife were just another piece of furniture.

“Show me my room,” Marina asked. “I’m so tired from the road. And is there anything to eat? I didn’t have breakfast.”

The following days settled into a certain rhythm. Marina got up around noon, spent a long time getting herself ready, and then demanded breakfast. Tatyana, who worked from home remotely, was forced to interrupt her work to cook for their guest.

“Tanechka, don’t you have any better coffee? This one is kind of sour,” Marina complained, grimacing.

“Tanechka, can you wash my blouse? I want to go downtown for a walk today.”

“Tanechka, do you have an iron? My dress is all wrinkled.”

Igor could see his wife was on edge, but preferred not to notice. Moreover, every day he gave his sister spending money—sometimes for a taxi, sometimes for lunch at a café, sometimes for shopping at the mall.

“Igor,” Tatyana began cautiously one evening when Marina had gone out to meet some new acquaintances, “maybe you should talk to her about getting a job? She’s been here two weeks already and she just keeps having fun.”

“Give her time to settle in,” her husband waved her off. “She’s spent her whole life in a small town. Let her get to know our city first, figure out what suits her.”

Tatyana fell silent, but inside everything was boiling. She watched their family budget melt before her eyes, watched their home turn into a hotel for a spoiled girl who couldn’t even manage a proper “thank you.”

A week later Marina came home in high spirits. She had met her old school friends Alyona and Sveta at the mall. Both had married well and now lived in comfort.

“Can you imagine,” she told her brother excitedly, “Alyona married a businessman, they have an apartment in an upscale neighborhood. And Sveta married a doctor, he opened a private clinic. Every year they vacation somewhere—Turkey one year, Greece the next.”

“That’s wonderful,” Igor replied absently, scrolling through the news on his tablet.

“They invited me to go with them!” Marina blurted out. “To Cyprus! They say it’s beautiful there now, not as hot as in the summer. We can buy a twelve-day tour.”

Igor lifted his eyes from the screen. Silence hung in the room.

“Marina,” he said slowly, “but you don’t have any money for such a trip.”

“Igoryok,” Marina sat down next to her brother and took his hand. “You understand the position I’ll be in if I tell my friends I can’t go. They’ll think I’m a pauper. And then they’ll spread those rumors all over our town.”

“Marina, that’s serious money. A tour to Cyprus, plus spending money…”

“But you’re my brother!” Marina’s voice trembled with tears. “There’s no one else I can ask. Mom already gave me all her savings so I could move here. And I… I was so hoping to start a new life.”

Tatyana heard this conversation from the kitchen, where she was washing dishes. Her hands were shaking with outrage. She understood perfectly well where this was heading.

“How much will it cost?” Igor asked.

“The tour is about eighty thousand. And maybe twenty thousand for spending money. I can’t show up there empty-handed when my friends will have the best of everything.”

A hundred thousand rubles. Tatyana knew they had exactly that amount in their account—they had been saving for repairs on the dacha she had inherited from her grandmother.

“Alright,” Igor sighed. “I’ll help you.”

When Marina, overjoyed, ran off to call her friends, Tatyana came out of the kitchen. Her face was pale with anger.

“Igor, have you lost your mind?” she said quietly but clearly. “A hundred thousand rubles for your sister’s whims?”

“Tanechka, you see what state she’s in. Who will help her if not me? If I refuse, she’ll throw a fit and go back home. Then all our efforts will be in vain.”

“What efforts? She isn’t even looking for a job! She’s turned our home into a hotel and me into a maid!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Igor winced. “She just needs to get used to the new place.”

“Get used to it? In three weeks? Igor, we were putting that money aside for the dacha. The roof leaks, the veranda is falling apart.”

“The dacha can wait. But the chance for Marina to start a new life might not come again. She needs connections to help her find a good job.”

“A new life?” Tatyana felt a lump rise in her throat. “Igor, do you hear yourself? We’re about to blow all our savings so she can play rich lady in front of her friends for two weeks!”

“My sister is going on vacation, even if I have to sell your dacha! Get that through your head,” Igor snapped in a fit of temper, and at once realized he had gone too far.

Tatyana stared at him, eyes wide. She couldn’t believe that the man she’d lived with for five years could say such words.

“I see,” she said quietly. “So my dacha is just small change to be traded for your sister. Got it.”

She turned and walked to the bedroom. Igor tried to stop her, but she closed the door behind her.

Tatyana did not sleep all night. She lay there thinking about how her husband, without batting an eye, had been ready to sacrifice her property for his sister’s whims. In the morning, when Igor left for work and Marina was still asleep, she sat down at the computer.

Tatyana opened a popular classifieds website and posted an ad to sell Igor’s car—a black Škoda he had bought two years earlier. She set a very attractive price—significantly below market value. In the description she wrote that the car was in excellent condition, the sale was urgent, and she left her husband’s phone number. Confirming it while he slept had been easy. She knew the password to his phone.

The first call to Igor came at seven in the morning. Then at eight-thirty. By lunchtime his phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Hello, are you the one selling the Škoda? I’m calling about the ad,” buyers asked.

“What ad?” Igor was puzzled. “I’m not selling my car.”

“But there’s an ad on the internet with your phone number.”

“There must be some mistake.”

By evening Igor was exhausted. He had counted more than thirty calls from potential buyers.

At home he was met by his wife, calmly making dinner. Marina was sitting at the kitchen table, animatedly talking about her plans for the trip.

“Tanechka,” Igor addressed his wife, “all day people have been calling me about selling my car. Do you know what that might be?”

“I do,” Tatyana replied calmly, without looking up from the frying pan. “I posted an ad to sell your car.”

“What?!” Igor turned pale. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Not at all. I’m helping you raise money for Marina. Your sister is more important than your car. You can take the bus to work.”

Marina stopped chewing and looked closely at her brother.

“Tanechka, this isn’t funny,” Igor said.

“I’m not laughing,” his wife turned to him. “Yesterday you said you were ready to sell my dacha for Marina’s vacation. I figured it was only logical to start with your property.”

“I lost my temper. That’s not what I meant.”

“No, Igor, that is exactly what you meant. You’re ready to sacrifice everything for your sister’s whims. Then sacrifice your own car.”

Marina realized she was becoming the cause of a family quarrel and tried to intervene:

“Igoryok, maybe you shouldn’t fight over this?”

“No, Marina,” Tatyana said firmly. “Your brother thinks your vacation is so important that he’s ready to sell my dacha. So he can part with his car too.”

“Take down the ad,” Igor asked. “People won’t stop calling.”

“I will, once you apologize to me and give up this crazy vacation idea.”

“But I already promised Marina!”

 

“And you promised me you would love and respect me. Where is that respect when you’re ready to sell my property?”

Igor looked helplessly at his sister, then at his wife. For the first time in all these weeks he saw the situation from the outside. His sister really had turned into a spoiled freeloader who thought of nothing but her own pleasures. And he, trying to help her, had been ready to destroy his relationship with his wife.

“Marina,” he said quietly, “I won’t be able to give you money for the trip.”

“What?” Marina jumped up from her chair. “But you promised! I already told the girls I’m going! They’re already buying tickets!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t spend all our savings on your vacation.”

“You’re a traitor!” Marina screamed. “I never thought my own brother could do this to me! Mom will be horrified!”

“Mom will understand,” Igor replied calmly. “She’s always said that family is the most important thing. And my family is Tatyana and me.”

“I’m not staying in this house!” Marina ran to her room. “I’m going back home tomorrow!”

The door slammed shut. Tatyana turned off the stove and looked at her husband.

“Forgive me,” Igor said quietly. “I let myself be led by her manipulations and almost destroyed everything we have. Take down the ad,” he asked.

“I’m already doing it.”

The next day Marina packed her suitcases and ostentatiously called a taxi. She didn’t say goodbye to Tatyana, only gave her brother a frosty nod.

“Don’t think I’ll forget this,” she said at the last moment. “Mom will find out how you treated me.”

“Tell Mom I love her,” Igor replied. “And that I’m always ready to help my family. But only in a sensible way.”

When the taxi disappeared around the corner, Tatyana took her husband’s hand.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

“No,” Igor shook his head. “I realized I almost lost what’s most precious for the sake of someone who doesn’t value it.”

That evening, as they sat in the kitchen over tea, Igor said:

“I will never again let anyone, even my relatives, tell us how to spend our money.”

“Family is important,” Tatyana said gently. “But family is you and me. Everyone else is just relatives.”

“Exactly,” Igor agreed. “And I swear I’ll never confuse those concepts again.”

A week later they received a message from Igor’s mother. She apologized for her daughter’s behavior and asked them not to be angry with her. Marina had told her version of events, but their mother was not as naive as the girl thought.

“I know my daughter,” she wrote. “She’s used to everyone around her fulfilling her wishes. Thank you for trying to help her. Maybe this lesson will do her good.”

Their savings remained untouched. In the summer Igor and Tatyana repaired the dacha, and after that they could comfortably spend weekends there. And Marina, according to rumors, got a job as a sales assistant in a clothing store in her town and rented a room. Perhaps life really did teach her to value what she had.

But most importantly, Igor realized that a real family begins with respect for one’s wife, not with indulging the whims of spoiled relatives. And he would never again put his marriage at risk for someone else’s caprices, even if those caprices came from his own sister.

Anna lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm her wildly pounding heart.

Just a few minutes ago she had gone through one of the most frightening moments of her life — a confrontation with her own husband Alexander and his mother, Olga Petrovna.

Their little daughter Sonya was sleeping peacefully in her crib, unaware of the chaos that had been raging around her.

Three days earlier, Anna had come home from the maternity hospital after a difficult delivery. She felt deeply exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but she knew that now she had to care for her newborn daughter.

Her mother-in-law came the next day, having promised to help the young mother cope with the first difficulties.

“Get some rest,” she told Anna with a gentle smile. “I’ll look after the baby.”

The daughter-in-law was grateful for the offer — she really did need to rest.

But she had no idea how far this “selfless help” would go…

When the young mother woke up, the first thing she did was look at the clock. It had already been two hours since Olga Petrovna had taken the baby out for a walk.

Why so long?

At last the door opened, and her mother-in-law came into the room, holding Sonya in her arms. Anna hurried to the stroller to make sure everything was fine with the child, and then something astonishing caught her eye: in the tiny ears of the baby glittered two delicate earrings.

“What is this?!” the daughter-in-law exclaimed, barely holding back tears.

Olga Petrovna shrugged in puzzlement.

“Well, we were out walking, we dropped by a salon… I decided to give our little beauty a present.”

Anna felt the blood rush to her face. Her heart started pounding madly, her breathing grew heavy.

 

“She’s only a week old!” she almost screamed. “Do you even understand what you’re doing?!”

But her mother-in-law only rolled her eyes and waved her hand.

“Oh, come on, dear. We did that with all our girls. Nothing wrong with it!”

That last remark finally threw Anna off balance. She grabbed the baby and headed for the door.

“Leave immediately! I don’t need your help anymore!”

Olga Petrovna looked at her angry daughter-in-law in bewilderment. Not wanting to get into an argument, she silently left the apartment.

Alexander came home late in the evening, exhausted after a long day at work.

When he saw his wife sitting in the living room with a troubled expression on her face, he immediately realized that something serious had happened.

“What’s wrong?” Alexander asked cautiously.

Anna got up to meet her husband; her eyes were shining with tears.

“Your mother had our daughter’s ears pierced,” she whispered, trying to speak quietly so as not to wake the baby.

“Mom? Why would she do that?” he frowned.

“Because she felt like it,” Anna replied sharply. “Without my consent, without your permission. She just went and decided it on her own.”

Her husband hesitated, not knowing what to say. Finally he said:

“Mom has worked with children all her life. She’s experienced…”

These words were a real blow to his wife. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure in front of her husband, even though inside her anger and fear for the newborn’s health were boiling.

“Alexander, listen to me carefully,” Anna began, her voice trembling with emotion. “Right now, when our daughter is only one week old, her body is extremely vulnerable. Her immune system isn’t formed yet, and any intervention, especially something as drastic as piercing her ears, can have catastrophic consequences.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts, and then continued:

“Infections, metal allergies, possible inflammations and complications… Do you realize what risks your mother’s action carried? If she had used her head, she would have understood how dangerous this is!”

Anna tried to speak calmly despite her inner anxiety.

“You know,” she added, seeing her husband’s confusion, “in the future, when Sonya is older and can understand and choose her own jewelry, then yes, we can discuss it together. But right now it’s important to protect her health and avoid any reckless actions.”

“You talk as if my mother is some kind of monster! Nothing will happen to Sonya, you’re exaggerating everything,” Alexander suddenly said.

“So you’re taking her side?” his wife asked; her voice was quiet but firm.

“Why are you making an elephant out of a fly? Mom gave her granddaughter a gift from the bottom of her heart, and you’re reacting so violently. Let’s just stop talking about this, and better yet, we’ll go to her this weekend and thank her for the present,” he said coolly and headed to the kitchen.

Anna stood in the middle of the room, watching Alexander walk away with a disappointed look.

She had hoped for support and understanding, but instead she ran into condemnation and indifference.

A few hours later, when the house had sunk into silence, the young mother began to think about her future.

The life she had been building next to the man she loved suddenly seemed like a fragile illusion.

She remembered the happy moments they had shared, their dreams of a bright future, their plans for raising children.

But reality turned out to be cruel: her husband preferred to support his own mother, ignoring his wife’s feelings and her concern for their newborn daughter’s safety.

“What happens next?” Anna asked herself, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Her eyes were dry, her thoughts tangled. Her only desire was to protect little Sonya from any possible danger.

Having finally decided to talk openly with her husband, Anna waited for the next morning.

They met in the kitchen, each busy with their own tasks. When his wife asked Alexander to discuss what had happened, he answered coldly and distantly:

“I think your reaction is excessive. Mom wanted to make our daughter happy, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Anna bit her lip, holding back sharp words.

“It’s important to me that you understand what I’m feeling. My main concern right now is our child’s safety. Is that really so wrong?”

Her husband shrugged.

“Maybe your worries are exaggerated. It would have been much better if you had given my mother the opportunity to show her love for her granddaughter.”

Anna’s breath caught. Her pain turned into a firm resolve to put an end to a relationship that had been destroyed by distrust and lack of mutual understanding.

“Listen,” she said firmly, looking Alexander straight in the eye. “Over these past days I’ve realized one important thing: our views on raising and caring for a child are fundamentally different. It seems our values are so far apart that living together has become impossible.”

“What are you talking about? You want to break up?” her husband froze, stunned by her words.

The woman nodded slowly, knowing she was making an important decision.

“Unfortunately, yes. I feel I can no longer trust you or rely on you as a partner. We both need to think about the consequences of our choices, but my position won’t change.”

Alexander stood motionless, like a statue. His face showed a mix of confusion and anger. After a few seconds of silence, his emotions burst out:

“This is absurd! How can you destroy a family over one minor incident?”

But Anna remained unmoved.

“This ‘incident’, as you call it, was the last straw. For a long time I’ve endured your mother’s disapproval and constant pressure from her. But now this is about our child, and I am ready to fight for her well-being at any cost.”

Alexander let out a heavy sigh, realizing that their marriage was falling apart and that any attempts at reconciliation seemed pointless.

Their conversation dragged on late into the night, full of mutual accusations and reproaches. Each tried to prove they were right, and neither wanted to back down.

Finally, the next morning Anna told her husband that she had submitted an application for divorce through the Gosuslugi online portal.

Her face was calm, but despair and exhaustion could be read in her eyes. Her husband listened in silence; his heart was torn by pain and resentment.

A month later the court hearing took place. The judge listened to both sides, weighed their arguments, and delivered a verdict: the divorce would be granted in Anna’s favor.

The child would stay with the mother, and the father would have the right to see his daughter according to a set schedule.

 

Alexander left the courtroom empty and crushed. He felt defeated, deprived of the most precious things — the love and support of his family.

Yet deep down, a small hope still flickered that one day they might be able to restore their broken relationship for the sake of their daughter

 

“Andrew, please bring me some water…” Marina’s voice sounded чужим—dry and brittle, like last year’s leaves. It barely pushed through the cottony blanket that had covered her completely.

Her body had turned into one solid, aching clot of pain. Everything throbbed—from her fingertips to the roots of her hair. Her skin burned, but underneath it a prickly, icy chill seemed to be running. The thermometer she’d barely managed to shake down half an hour earlier had shown 39.8°C. This was no longer just an illness—it was an altered state of consciousness, a half-delirium in which reality mixed with nightmares.

From the next room came an annoyed, muffled sound, as if someone had lifted their head off a pillow. Andrew didn’t appear in the bedroom doorway right away. First he pulled a medical mask over his face, carefully smoothing it across the bridge of his nose, and only then came in. He looked as though he were entering a chamber with biological weapons. He stopped a couple of meters from the bed, eyeing his wife warily.

“Marin, what is it now? I just brought you some,” he said with not a drop of sympathy—only a dull, almost childish irritation. “I’m going to catch it from you. I have work tomorrow. My project is on fire, you know that.”

“My mouth is so dry… please,” she rasped again, trying to push herself up on her elbows, but her head immediately spun and she collapsed back onto the pillow, wet with sweat.

He let out a heavy sigh, making it clear what an unbearable burden had fallen on him. He shuffled to the kitchen, loudly dragging his slippers on purpose. A minute later he returned with a cup only half full and set it on the very edge of the nightstand—so far away that, God forbid, it might touch the bed.

“Here. But do it yourself, okay? I don’t want to spread your germs around.”

Marina stared at him through the cloudy veil of fever—at that dissatisfied, disgusted face behind the stupid blue mask, at how carefully he kept his distance. This was her husband. The man she’d said “yes” to at the registry office three years ago. The man who had sworn to be there “in sickness and in health.” Apparently the flu with a high fever fell into some other category—one not included in the vows.

“Andrew… we need the pharmacy. The fever meds are gone. And buy lemons and ginger. I can’t even stand,” her request sounded pathetic, like a whimper.

“Oh God, the pharmacy again… It’ll be packed with sick people, a breeding ground for infection,” he grumbled, backing into the hallway. “I’ll see what’s going on with work. Maybe I’ll go later. If I have time.”

And he left. Just went into the other room and shut the door tightly behind him. Marina heard the lock click. He locked himself in. From her. As if she weren’t a sick loved one but a leper. A few minutes later, muffled gunshots and shouted commands came through the door—he’d sat down at the computer. Put on his headphones so he wouldn’t hear her. To wall himself off from her illness, her groans, her existence.

The hurt was sharp, physical—almost as strong as the headache. She lay staring at the ceiling, listening to those distant, unreal sounds of a computer war while her own body fought a real battle with a virus. She felt endlessly alone. Not just alone—abandoned. Left to die in her bed by the person who had chosen virtual battles over real help. Time stretched like melted cheese. It felt as if hours had passed. The water in the cup had long run out. The fever became unbearable, reality dissolved, and in her feverish delirium she saw Andrew’s face more and more clearly—alien, cold, behind the blue mask of indifference. She began to sink into a heavy, sticky sleep, and her last clear thought was: He hates me.

A sharp, nagging trill yanked Marina out of oblivion. The sound was insistent, demanding, and came from the part of the apartment where her husband was. At first she didn’t understand what it was. A phone call. Someone was calling Andrew. Through the cottony haze of illness she heard the gunfire in his room stop, and then his voice—surprisingly lively and clear. He’d taken off his headphones.

“Yeah, Mom, hi! Did something happen?” His tone was pure concern. No irritation, no fatigue.

Marina listened. She couldn’t hear her mother-in-law’s voice, of course, but from Andrew’s replies the picture began to form—and it was ugly.

“What do you mean ‘not good’? Blood pressure? What does the monitor say? One-forty over ninety? Well, that’s not critical, but it’s unpleasant, yeah… Dizzy? Badly?” Real anxiety crept into his voice—the very anxiety Marina had been waiting for all day. “Did you take your pills? Which ones? And you didn’t put anything under your tongue? Got it. Sit down, don’t do anything. I’m coming right now.”

I’m coming right now. Those two words hit Marina like a slap. She even pushed herself up in bed, forgetting her weakness. The room swayed, but she held on, gripping the headboard.

His door flew open. Andrew burst out like he’d been scalded. He’d already ripped off the mask and thrown it somewhere on the floor. His face was focused, worried. He darted around the apartment like a man whose house was on fire. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

 

He yanked open the fridge and started grabbing things, shoving them into a bag. Marina made out the oranges she’d bought yesterday for herself, a couple of yogurts, a pack of cottage cheese. Then he lunged at the wall-mounted first-aid kit in the hallway. He jerked the door so hard it nearly came off. His hands frantically sorted boxes and blister packs. He snatched an expensive heart medication they’d bought “just in case,” then something for blood pressure. And then his gaze landed on the last blister pack of fever reducers—the only one left in the house. The very one she’d begged him for.

“Andrew…” she whispered, but he didn’t hear her.

Without a moment’s hesitation he tossed those tablets into the bag with the rest of the medicine. He was going to take away the last thing that could bring her temperature down and ease her suffering.

Only then—already pulling on his shoes in the hallway—did he seem to remember she existed. He leaned into the bedroom, shrugging into his jacket as he spoke.

“Marin, I’m going to Mom’s. She’s really bad—seems like a pre-stroke situation.”

“She has one-forty blood pressure, Andrew,” Marina’s voice suddenly gained strength. “That’s not ‘pre-stroke.’ And I have forty fever. You took the last tablets.”

He grimaced as if she’d said something stupid that got in the way of his heroic rescue mission.

“Marin, don’t start. Mom’s fifty-eight, she has a heart condition. And you’re young—strong body. You’ll lie down and get through it. You’ll be fine. I can’t leave her alone like this. That’s it, I’m running.”

He didn’t listen to her answer. He just turned and rushed out, leaving the door open. She heard him thunder down the stairs, the entrance door slam. And that was it. Silence.

She stared at the open bedroom door, the mask tossed on the floor, the chaos by the medicine cabinet. He’d left. He’d raced across the city because his mother “felt dizzy.” And he’d left her here alone, burning with fever. Without medicine. Without food. Without a drop of water. And it wasn’t even about the pills. It was about the screaming, monstrous contrast: his disgusted indifference toward her—and his instant, panicked care for his mother. In that moment Marina understood her illness had been nothing but litmus paper. A test her husband had failed spectacularly. And the price of that failure was far higher than ruined relations.

Time lost its shape. It either collapsed into one endless second of pulsing pain in her temples or stretched into a murky eternity filled with scraps of nightmare dreams. Marina drifted under and surfaced again, not knowing whether it was day or night. In one of those moments of clarity she realized she couldn’t endure anymore. Her mouth tasted of dust and bitterness. Her tongue had swollen and stuck to her palate. The fever was so strong it felt as if her blood were about to boil. The glass on the nightstand—filled by Andrew an eternity ago—had long been empty.

Her gaze wandered aimlessly around the room. Empty. Andrew wasn’t there. At first she couldn’t even remember where he’d gone. Then her memory obligingly supplied the image: his worried face, his hurried packing, the bag with oranges and—most of all—the last blister pack of fever reducer disappearing into that bag. He’d gone to his mother. Leaving her. That thought no longer brought pain. It was simply a fact—cold and sharp as a shard of glass.

She had to get to the kitchen. To water. That idea became the only lighthouse in the fog of her mind. She threw off the damp, heavy blanket. Her body wouldn’t obey. Muscles twisted by illness refused to cooperate. Marina sat up, and the room immediately pitched like the deck of a sinking ship. She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to the mattress, waiting out the wave of nausea and dizziness. There was no strength to stand. None.

So she slid off the bed onto the floor. Her knees struck the laminate, but the pain was far away, muted by the main torment—thirst. She crawled. On all fours, like a wounded animal, slowly moving hands and knees that felt чужими—like numb prosthetics. Every meter was torture. In the dim hallway, where the air was stale and motionless, her shoulder caught on the doorframe. Losing balance, she toppled onto her side and slammed her knee hard against the sharp corner of the tiled threshold that separated the hallway from the kitchen.

The pain was sharp, piercing, sobering. It tore through the fever fog like a bolt of lightning. Marina cried out, but it came out quiet and hoarse. She pulled her leg toward her. Through the thin fabric of her pajama pants a dark, quickly spreading stain appeared. Blood. She’d split her knee open. To the blood. In her own home. Because her husband had gone to save his mother from “dizziness.”

That moment became the point of no return. Sitting on the cold kitchen floor, pressing a hand to her bleeding knee, she looked at her apartment and saw it with completely different eyes. It wasn’t their cozy nest. It was the place of her humiliation. The place where she’d been left alone, helpless, like an unwanted thing. Fighting through the new, sharp pain, she crawled to the sink, somehow reached the faucet, turned on cold water, and drank greedily straight from the stream, choking and coughing. It was the best thing she’d felt in twenty-four hours.

Once she’d come to a little, she found the strength to stand, bracing herself on the countertop. Her legs trembled. Her phone lay on the kitchen table. The screen lit up: three missed calls from her mother. She didn’t call back—she didn’t want to scare her. Instead, with a trembling finger, she dialed Andrew.

The ringing went on for a long time. Finally he answered. His voice was lively, but edged with irritation, as if she’d pulled him away from something important.

“Yeah, Marin, is it urgent? I’m busy here with Mom.”

Something hummed behind him—maybe the TV. Busy, flashed through her mind.

Her own voice sounded unexpectedly steady and cold. No weakness, no pleading.

“Andrew, I fell. I crawled to the kitchen for water and I split my knee. There’s blood. I’m really unwell.”

For a second, silence hung in the line. She waited for some response—alarm, sympathy. But she heard only a heavy sigh.

“Marin, why are you acting like a child? Put antiseptic on it—brilliant green, whatever you’ve got. I can’t drop everything right now, do you understand? Mom’s having a serious crisis, she needs peace and attention. I can’t leave her. And you’re young—you’ll manage. I’ll call you back later.”

And something in her snapped. But it wasn’t hysterics. It was cold, concentrated rage poured into words she spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable:

“So while I was lying here with a forty-degree fever, you couldn’t even pour me tea, but the moment your mother sneezed you raced across the city with medicine? Fine—stay there treating your precious mommy, and don’t come back to me, traitor.”

She hung up without waiting for his reply and tossed the phone onto the table. That was it. Something inside broke—the last thread connecting her to this man. She looked at her split knee, at the drops of blood on the pale tile, and for the first time in days she felt nothing. No pain, no hurt, no heat. Only icy, absolute emptiness—and a decision as hard as granite.

Two days passed. The fever retreated, leaving a hollow weakness throughout her body and a strange, unfamiliar clarity in her head. The crisis had passed—both physical and emotional. On the second day Marina, barely moving around the apartment, called her neighbor, Aunt Valya, an elderly but lively woman from downstairs. Seeing Marina—pale, with huge bruised shadows under her eyes and dried blood on her bandaged leg—she gasped and immediately brought hot chicken broth and a first-aid kit. She treated the wound properly, grumbled about “men these days,” and left Marina her number, ordering her to call if anything happened.

That simple human care from someone almost a stranger became the final counterargument against Andrew. While the neighbor fussed in her kitchen, Marina acted. Her movements were slow, but methodical. First she found online the number of a service that opened and replaced locks. A technician arrived within an hour. A brief rasp of tools—and a new set of keys was in her hand. The old lock cylinder went into the trash. That was the first step.

Then she moved on to Andrew’s things. This wasn’t a hysterical flinging of clothes. It was methodical, almost ritual. She opened the wardrobe and began pulling out his shirts, suits, T-shirts. She packed them into large black construction trash bags. His shoes from the hallway went in too. His laptop from the desk, his gaming console, his disc collection, the headphones that mattered more to him than her moans. His shaving things from the bathroom, his favorite mug, even a half-used bottle of cologne. She was clearing the space, burning his presence out of the apartment. When three huge bags were filled, she forced herself, one by one, to drag them out to the stairwell and leave them by the trash chute.

Evening came unnoticed. Marina sat in the kitchen, drinking tea with lemon she’d brewed for herself. She felt nothing—no gloating, no regret. Only emptiness and exhaustion. And then, finally, she heard the familiar sound: Andrew’s steps on the staircase. Then the scrape of a key in the lock. Once. Twice. A quiet, bewildered curse.

Then a hesitant knock.

“Marin? Are you home? What’s wrong with the lock?”

Marina stayed silent, staring at one point.

The knocking grew louder, more insistent.

“Marina, open up! What kind of joke is this? My key doesn’t work!”

She kept silent. She savored the sound—his helplessness.

“Wh—what the hell is going on?!” Now he wasn’t knocking, he was pounding the door with his fist. “Marina! Open up right now!”

At that moment, through the peephole she saw the curious nose of their neighbor Uncle Vitya poke out from the next apartment. He looked at the bags by the trash chute, then at Andrew, and a sly grin spread across his face. He walked over to one of the bags, untied it, and with interest pulled out a nearly new branded hoodie. Tried it on. Fit perfectly.

“Hey! That’s mine! Put it back!” Andrew yelled when he saw it through the crack on the landing.

“Well, it’s been thrown out,” Uncle Vitya replied calmly, digging through the bag further. “Ownerless.”

Andrew howled with rage and hammered the door again.

“You—! Marina, I’ll break this door down! What are you doing?!”

And then she came to the door. Without opening it, she said loudly and clearly, so he and the neighbors—already gathering at the noise—could hear:

“Go away, Andrew. This isn’t your home anymore.”

“Have you lost your mind?! This is my apartment too! I’m calling the police!”

 

“Call them,” her voice was ice. “You’ll explain how you left your sick wife to die and ran to Mommy because she ‘felt dizzy.’ You’ll tell them how I crawled across the floor with a forty-degree fever and smashed my knees while you told me I’d ‘manage on my own.’ Go on—call. Let everyone hear.”

At that moment his phone rang in his pocket. He answered without stepping away from the door.

“Yeah, Mom… No, I can’t talk!.. What?! She won’t let me in, she changed the locks, she threw my stuff out!”

And then Marina heard Nina Petrovna’s shrill, screeching voice blaring from the speaker.

“What do you mean she won’t let you in?! Who does she think she is?! Andryusha, tell her to open immediately! She’s got no shame! I almost died here, and she’s putting on a show!”

Andrew pressed himself to the door again.

“You hear that?! Mom almost died because of you, because of your nerves! Open up!”

Marina smirked—coldly, silently.

“Tell your mother she now has a wonderful chance to take care of you around the clock. You can live with her. Treat her dizzy spells and bring her oranges. And don’t touch my things or my apartment again.”

“You’ll regret this!” he snarled. “You’ll dance for me!”

But his threats were already drowning in the general roar. The neighbors, emboldened, were dragging his things away. Someone grabbed the console, someone hauled off a bag of clothes. Uncle Vitya was already strutting in his jacket. It was the finale—loud, humiliating, public.

Andrew kept shouting, his mother kept shrieking into the phone, but Marina wasn’t listening anymore. She stepped away from the door and returned to the kitchen. Sat at the table. The noise outside gradually faded into retreating curses. He was leaving. Defeated. Left with nothing.

And she sat in the silence of her—now only her—apartment, slowly sipping cold tea. She felt no victory, no joy. Only emptiness—and a steel-hard certainty that she had done the right thing

 — Yesterday I saw it myself: your “poor” mom was striding cheerfully down the alley with her friend, laughing her head off. And today—on my birthday—she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!

Larisa was a Scorpio. Not just by horoscope, but by her very nature—prickly, closed-off, unable to tolerate hypocrisy and lies. She was already tired of how people, the moment they learned her birthday, would roll their eyes and say:

“Oh, a Scorpio. Well, that explains everything.”

They slapped labels on her: jealous, spiteful, dangerous. Maybe that was why she liked to celebrate her birthday—which fell on a gloomy November day—in a strictly family setting. Or rather, in the company of one single person: her husband, Nikita.

She had been married for three years. She loved Nikita with that loyal, steadfast kind of love. He was her quiet harbor—the man who could see a vulnerable soul behind all the spikes and wasn’t afraid of it.

 

But his mother, Olga Vladimirovna, had never been thrilled about their union from the very beginning. Larisa could clearly feel her cool, appraising attitude, but she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—do anything about it. She had her own full life: an interesting job at a design studio, a passion for embroidery and sports, and loyal, time-tested friends. She wasn’t going to prove anything to anyone.

After two years of marriage, she and Nikita finally scraped together enough for a down payment and bought an apartment. Small, but cozy—a one-bedroom right in the city center, in an old but solid building with high ceilings. Larisa was over the moon.

The moment Olga Vladimirovna heard the news from her son, she frowned at once.

“A one-bedroom?” she said with such contempt, as if they’d purchased a shed. “I told you, you should’ve gotten a two-bedroom—or even a three-bedroom—in a new district. The air is better there, and there’s space for children.”

“Mom, we like it here,” Nikita replied gently. “And it’s a five-minute walk to Larisa’s work.”

“To work!” his mother snorted. “She won’t be commuting for long. You should be thinking about children. In that place you probably won’t even have anywhere to park a stroller.”

Larisa, standing by her new fireplace (decorative, technically), felt that familiar shiver of irritation run down her back as she listened to her husband’s retelling. She took a deep breath.

“We agreed—no kids until we’re thirty. First we get on our feet and build a financial safety cushion.”

“I get it,” Nikita said with a sigh. “But Mom… she keeps pushing her way. What, are you trying to make us fight or something? I don’t get it…”

Larisa pressed her lips together stubbornly. She didn’t start a scandal. She simply held her ground—and thankfully Nikita was on her side. She looked around their small, bright apartment and then at her husband, who was smiling and holding her hand.

Olga Vladimirovna wouldn’t let up. Like a true strategist, she tested her son’s defenses again and again—calling to complain about loneliness, criticizing Larisa’s interior choices, hinting that “normal women” her age were already pushing strollers. But to her great disappointment, Nikita didn’t fall for the provocations. His love for his wife and their shared plans turned out to be stronger than his mother’s manipulation.

So the woman decided to strike at the most vulnerable spot: ruin her daughter-in-law’s birthday—that hated holiday they celebrated without her.

Two weeks before Larisa’s birthday, Olga Vladimirovna called her son with tragic sighs.

“Sonny, disaster! The fridge has completely broken down! The repairman looked and said it’s pointless to fix. And how am I supposed to live without a fridge? All the food will spoil! And your father’s salary has been delayed too, would you believe it.”

After complaining about her bad luck and hinting at being broke, she wrangled a new, fairly expensive refrigerator out of Nikita. The cost hit Larisa and Nikita’s budget hard, and the gift Nikita had planned for his wife—an elegant gold pendant—had to be forgotten.

Then Larisa’s birthday finally arrived. That morning, there was another call from his mother. Olga Vladimirovna’s voice sounded weak and sickly.

“Nikitushka, I feel so bad… My heart is stabbing, my head is spinning. Could you come? I’m scared to be alone. Your father will be late today. He doesn’t think about me at all…”

Of course the son rushed over almost immediately. He asked to leave work, ruining all plans, and sat by his mother’s bed until evening—bringing her water, checking her blood pressure, listening to her quiet moans and complaints. Every time he got ready to leave, Olga Vladimirovna suddenly got worse: clutching her chest, complaining of weakness, begging her son not to abandon her.

Nikita was visibly anxious. He kept looking at the clock, his throat tight with worry. Larisa was waiting at home. They were supposed to have a romantic candlelit dinner—and he still hadn’t bought flowers. In his pocket he had only a pathetic substitute for a gift: a cosmetics store gift certificate purchased in a rush at the nearest mall.

“Mom, I really need to go home…” he tried to protest, but the sight of her pale, suffering face always made him fall silent.

Finally, unable to take it, he stepped into the kitchen and quietly called his wife.

“Larisa, I’m sorry… Mom feels bad, I can’t leave her,” he began, guilt heavy in his voice.

At first there was silence on the line. Then Larisa, barely restraining her fury, hissed:

“Yesterday I saw it myself: your ‘poor’ mom was striding cheerfully down the alley with her friend, laughing her head off. And today—on my birthday—she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!”

Without listening further, Larisa slammed the call shut.

Nikita stood in the middle of his parents’ kitchen, torn between duty to his mother and the woman he loved. He felt trapped. Desperate, he called his father, Pavel Petrovich.

“Dad, could you leave work a bit early today? Mom’s not well, and I really have to get home… It’s Larisa’s birthday.”

His father gave a surprised snort.

“What’s she sick with? This morning she was perfectly healthy—stuffed her face with pancakes…”

But Nikita wasn’t listening anymore. The moment Pavel Petrovich crossed the apartment threshold, Nikita tossed a quick “Thanks!” over his shoulder, practically flew out the door, and raced down the stairs, clutching that cursed certificate in his pocket. He knew he was late. He knew the trust his wife had so carefully given him had cracked. And the reason wasn’t illness, but his mother’s well-planned performance.

 

“So why did you come crawling in?” Olga Vladimirovna asked her husband bluntly when he appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Olya, what’s with the theatrics? The boy’s happy with Larisa—so let him be. Why are you tormenting him? You’re not hurting Larisa—you’re hurting your own son.”

Nikita opened the apartment door. The entryway was dark, but warm light spilled from the kitchen. He froze on the threshold, holding his breath. Larisa was sitting at the table set for one. Two candles burned in front of her, a single wineglass stood nearby, and with calm appetite she was eating rolls and sushi—what they must have planned to eat together.

“Larisa…” he started softly, stepping closer.

She didn’t look up, continuing her meal. The air in the kitchen felt thick and icy despite the candle flames.

“Forgive me, I…” Nikita tried again, but the words stuck in his throat. He placed a luxurious bouquet of scarlet roses on the edge of the table, bought from a nearby flower shop. Larisa didn’t even glance at them. Then he pulled the gift certificate from his pocket and set it beside her plate.

Only then did Larisa slowly raise her eyes. There was no anger in them—only deep exhaustion and disappointment.

“You understand it’s not about the gifts,” she said quietly and evenly, without a single note of reproach—and that somehow hurt even more. “It’s about how you treat me. I wanted to spend this day with just you. And you chose to spend it with your mother, who was simply pretending to be sick.”

“I couldn’t just abandon her!” Nikita burst out, swept up by guilt and self-justification. “I wasn’t sure it was an act! What if she really was ill? I’d never forgive myself!”

Larisa sipped her wine and set the glass down with a soft tap.

“Want to call your father right now?” she suggested. “Ask what your gravely ill wife is doing at this very moment?”

Nikita stubbornly shook his head. He understood exactly where that conversation would lead—and he was afraid to hear the answer. Without another word, Larisa pushed her chair back, stood up, and left for the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She didn’t even put the roses in a vase. They stayed on the table like a silent accusation, slowly wilting.

For the next few days, an icy silence ruled the apartment. Larisa barely spoke to Nikita, answering in one-word replies, acting as if he didn’t exist. He felt like a ghost in his own home.

And the very next day, Olga Vladimirovna—glowing and pleased with herself—called her son.

“Sonny, thank you for not abandoning your old mother yesterday,” she purred. “All alone, sick… You’re my only support.”

Nikita listened in silence, staring out at the gray November sky.

“By the way,” his mother continued casually, with a faintly mocking tone, “how did Larisa’s birthday go yesterday? Did you celebrate well?”

And in that moment, everything finally clicked into one bleak picture inside Nikita’s head. It wasn’t the occasion itself that mattered to her—it was whether she had managed to ruin it.

“We celebrated well,” Nikita said very clearly—and hung up.

He stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the locked bedroom door. At last he understood. Understood that his mother had been waging war against his wife. And in that war she was ready to destroy everything in her path—including his own happiness. And he, with his blind obedience, had been helping her do it.

For several days Nikita tried to make up for it. He made breakfast, cleaned the apartment, attempted timid conversations, but Larisa remained cold and distant. Her silence drove him nearly mad.

So Nikita took a desperate step. One evening he drove to her office and waited right by the exit. When Larisa saw him, she tried to turn away, but he gently took her hand.

“Let’s just have dinner. No excuses—just dinner. Please.”

She agreed without a word. They went to a rooftop restaurant in a skyscraper, with a panoramic view of the city at night. The lights of the metropolis glittered below like scattered gemstones. At a table by the window, Nikita finally said what had been piling up in his soul.

“Forgive me,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I was blind and stupid. I let my mother manipulate me and I hurt you on the most important day. But I understand now, and I want to fix it.”

He paused and smiled.

 

“Let’s celebrate your birthday now. Right here. Again—properly.”

Larisa looked at him, and for the first time in days something warm flickered in her eyes. The corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Okay,” she agreed.

They ordered dinner—the most exquisite dishes on the menu. They talked about work, about plans, about everything except his mother. The tension slowly melted.

Then the waiter brought dessert—an elegant tiramisu with a single candle. Suddenly several staff gathered around their table and sang “Happy Birthday.” Larisa blushed, shyly lowering her eyes as warmth spread across her cheeks. It was the most spontaneous, unexpected—and in its own way, beautiful—birthday she had ever had.

That evening she truly forgave her husband. On the way home Nikita bought her a huge bouquet of white roses, and she climbed the steps to their apartment holding it to her chest, happy and at peace.

And at home one more surprise awaited her. On the doorstep sat a tiny fluffy bundle—a gray kitten with enormous green eyes. It looked at Larisa timidly and mewed plaintively. She had dreamed of a pet like that for a long time, but never dared to get one, afraid of responsibility.

“This is… your main gift,” Nikita smiled. “You’ve said so often you want a kitty.”

Larisa dropped to her knees, and the kitten immediately climbed into her arms and began to purr, settling comfortably on her lap. Not a drop of resentment toward her husband remained in her heart.

When Olga Vladimirovna heard about her son’s new “recklessness,” she instantly responded with a fresh serving of criticism.

“A kitten? In such a small apartment? Have you lost your mind? That’s dirt, fur everywhere! Throw it out in the street before you get attached! You need a child, not a kitten!”

But Nikita, for the first time in his life, answered calmly and firmly:

“Mom, this is Larisa’s and my home, and these are our decisions. We like our kitten. And yes—I’m not going to discuss our personal life with you anymore. Because I don’t want to lose my family.”

He hung up without listening to her outraged objections. For the first time he felt not like a boy being controlled, but like a man building his own happiness. And in the living room, Larisa laughed and played with their new family member. Her happy laughter was the best reward he could have.

“Don’t Like My Celebration? The Door’s Open—I’m Not Keeping You Here,” Vera Said Calmly To Her Mother-In-Law.
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— “Varvara Nikitichna, I’ve got everything ready, really. You don’t need to bring anything.”

Vera pinned the phone between her shoulder and ear and kept slicing cucumbers for the salad. It was eleven in the morning; there were eight hours left until the guests arrived, and her mother-in-law had already called for the third time that morning.

“Verочка, what are you saying! How could it be ‘don’t need’? I always make my jellied meat for the holidays. Zhenya loves it so much. You remember—last year yours turned out a bit runny, the gelatin didn’t set properly.”

“I used a different recipe this year…”

“No, no, I’ve already decided. I’ll bring aspic too, and a fish pie. Your oven is small—you won’t manage.”

Vera closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Seven years. Seven years of listening to these lectures, seven years of nodding and agreeing. But today was supposed to be different. For the first time in their marriage, they were celebrating New Year’s at their place, not at Varvara Nikitichna’s. Vera had spent three months preparing Zhenya for this conversation. Three months convincing him it was time to have their own traditions.

“Varvara Nikitichna, I really appreciate your care, but…”

“Perfect! Then I’ll be waiting for you at seven in the evening. Dress warmly—it’s minus fifteen outside.”

“Excuse me, what? We agreed it would be at our place today!”

A pause hung on the line. Then her mother-in-law laughed—strangely, tightly.

“Oh, Verочка, you’re so forgetful! We never agreed to anything like that. Zhenya himself told me last week you’d come. Right, Zhenya?”

Vera spun around. Zhenya was standing in the kitchen doorway in old jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt, holding a box of Christmas ornaments. His face looked guilty.

“Mom, I said this year we’re staying home…”

“What do you mean ‘staying’? I’ve already bought everything! I’m roasting a duck—your favorite! Kostya and Masha put presents under the tree, they drew pictures especially for Uncle Zhenya!”

“Mom…”

“And Oleg and Svetochka will come too. We’ll gather the whole family. Or are you refusing the family now?”

Vera watched Zhenya deflate before her eyes. Like always. Every time it came to standing up to his mother, he gave in—just dropped his hands and agreed.

“Varvara Nikitichna,” Vera gripped the phone tighter, “we’re staying home. If you want, come to us. I’ll be glad.”

“Are you mocking me? My table is already half set!”

“Then I’m sorry, but we won’t come.”

Vera ended the call. Her hands were shaking. The phone rang again immediately, but she declined. Then another call. And another.

“Why did you do that?” Zhenya asked quietly. “She’ll be upset.”

“And I won’t be?” Vera turned to him. “You promised me, Zhenya. Promised you’d talk to her. Explain.”

“I did talk! But she… you know her. She can’t do it differently.”

“She can’t—or you didn’t tell her?”

Zhenya put the box on the floor and ran a hand through his hair. Vera knew that gesture well—he always did it when he didn’t want to answer a direct question.

“I told her,” he repeated. “Just… maybe not clearly enough.”

“Not clearly enough,” Vera smirked. “Zhenya, you’re thirty-four. You’re married. We’ve lived together seven years. When will it finally be ‘clear enough’?”

“Ver, not now. Let’s just go to Mom’s, celebrate…”

“No.”

The word came out sharp, distinct. Vera surprised herself with her own resolve. Usually she gave in—because it was easier, because then Zhenya would spend three days gloomier than a storm cloud and call his mother every evening, apologizing for his wife. But today something clicked inside her. Like a switch.

“I told you back in September,” she went on. “We’re celebrating this New Year at home. I spent three days standing in lines buying groceries. Yesterday I made dough for pies until midnight. I want my own holiday. In my own home.”

“But Mom…”

“Your mom can come to us. As a guest. I’m inviting her.”

The phone rang again. This time Zhenya answered.

“Mom, enough… Yes, I understand… No, we’re not coming… Mom, please… Okay, then come to us… At seven… Yes… Deal.”

He hung up and looked at Vera.

“She’ll come to us. Oleg and his family too. But she’s furious.”

“I noticed.”

“She said she’s bringing her dishes anyway. She already cooked.”

Vera pressed her lips together. She wanted to argue, but she stayed silent. A small victory. Let it be that, at least.

By six in the evening, the apartment had transformed. A small two-room place on the fourth floor of an old five-story building gleamed with cleanliness. An artificial tree stood by the window, decorated with colorful baubles and a string of lights. In the living room, a white tablecloth Vera had begged from her mother, and a dinner set she and Zhenya had received at their wedding—still unopened until now.

Vera looked at her handiwork and felt a strange mix of pride and anxiety. The table really was pretty: Olivier in a big bowl, herring under a fur coat, sliced meats and cheeses, roast chicken with a golden crust. Not fancy, not a restaurant—but made with heart.

“Beautiful,” Zhenya said, hugging her from behind. “I’m sorry I… well, sorry.”

She leaned into him. She wanted to say it was fine, but she told the truth:

“I’m tired, Zhenya. Really tired. Every time it’s the same. Your mom decides, we obey.”

“I’ll try,” he promised. “Today I’ll try to be on your side.”

Vera wanted to believe him. She really did.

At half past six, the doorbell rang. Oleg and Svetlana arrived first. The kids immediately rushed to the tree; Svetlana swept the room with an appraising glance.

“Oh, what a small tree you have,” she said, taking off her coat. “Ours is two meters this year. We could barely get it into the room.”

“This one’s enough for us,” Vera replied, taking the gift bags from her.

“Well, sure, your apartment is small. We moved into a new build—three-meter ceilings. Gorgeous!”

Oleg slapped Zhenya on the shoulder.

“How’s it going, bro? Mom already called—warned me you’re rebelling.”

“What rebellion,” Zhenya forced a smile. “We just decided to stay home.”

“You’re a brave man,” Oleg whistled. “Mom doesn’t like that.”

At exactly seven, Varvara Nikitichna arrived. She stepped in with three huge plastic containers, her face unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Hello,” she said dryly.

“Hello, Varvara Nikitichna,” Vera tried to take the containers. “Let me help.”

“No. I’ll carry them myself.”

Her mother-in-law walked into the kitchen without taking off her coat. Vera followed, feeling her heart drop.

“Varvara Nikitichna, the coat rack is here…”

“I can see where the coat rack is.”

She set the containers straight on the kitchen table, then turned and surveyed the apartment again—like she was assessing flood damage.

“Where are we putting all this?” she finally asked, nodding toward her containers.

“Varvara Nikitichna, my table is already set…”

“Oh, Verочка. It’s no burden, it’s a joy. Zhenya!” she raised her voice. “Come here, help clear space on the table.”

Zhenya appeared in the doorway. Looked at Vera, then at his mother, then back at Vera.

“Mom, we’ve got everything ready…”

“I can see what’s ready. And what, you think I’m supposed to take my dishes back home? I stood at the stove all day!”

“But I stood at the stove too,” Vera said quietly.

“Wonderful! Now there will be more choice. Zhenya, take this,” she handed him a container of jellied meat, “and put it in the center of the table. And move the chicken somewhere to the edge.”

Zhenya took the container. Vera watched him carry it into the living room, watched him obediently push her chicken to the side, freeing the central place for his mother’s jellied meat. Everything inside her tightened into one hard knot.

Varvara Nikitichna followed into the room, finally took off her coat. Then sat at the head of the table—in the seat Vera had prepared for Zhenya.

“Svetа, how are you? How are the kids doing in school?”

“Thank you, Varvara Nikitichna, good. Kostya got an A in math last week.”

“Good boy! And Masha?”

“Masha draws beautifully—the teacher praises her.”

“She takes after me,” Varvara Nikitichna smiled. “I loved drawing as a child too. And you, Sveta, didn’t cook anything? I thought you’d bring something.”

“Well of course we did,” Svetlana pulled a container from the bag. “Here—crab stick salad. My signature.”

“Oh, perfect! Zhenya, put that on the table too.”

Vera stood in the doorway watching, as foreign dishes filled her table, on her tablecloth—watching her mother-in-law command her home like she was the hostess, and Zhenya silently comply.

“Vera, why are you standing there?” Varvara Nikitichna called. “Come sit with us. Or are you still busy?”

“No, I’m free.”

Vera sat down—farther from her mother-in-law, between Zhenya and Oleg. The kids made noise by the tree, inspecting presents. Kostya shook one of the wrapped boxes.

“Uncle Zhenya, what did you get us?”

“You’ll find out after the chimes,” Zhenya smiled.

“And we already know what Grandma got us!” Masha blurted happily. “A construction set!”

“Mashenka, that was supposed to be a surprise,” Varvara Nikitichna frowned, then immediately softened. “Oh well, the main thing is the kids are happy.”

Oleg poured champagne. Varvara Nikitichna pulled the salad closer and tasted it.

“Vera, did you add peas to the Olivier?”

“I did.”

“Strange. It turned out kind of pale.”

“The peas are green,” Vera replied evenly. “From a can.”

“I can see they’re from a can. But usually it’s brighter. And what sausage did you use?”

“Doktorskaya.”

“Yes? The taste isn’t right. I always buy only good doktorskaya—I don’t cut corners.”

“I didn’t cut corners either, Varvara Nikitichna.”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe you got a different kind.”

Svetlana chimed in:

“Yes, Varvara Nikitichna, your Olivier is always special. I can’t figure out the secret.”

“No secret. You just have to cook with soul,” Varvara Nikitichna smiled condescendingly. “And choose the right products.”

Vera clenched her hands under the table. Zhenya tensed beside her but stayed silent. Oleg poured himself more champagne, clearly not wanting to get involved.

“And your herring is good,” her mother-in-law continued, serving herself. “I would only cut the beets differently. Too big.”

“I like it bigger,” Vera tried to keep her voice steady.

“Well, taste is taste. But small is more delicate. And you needed more mayonnaise. It’s a bit dry.”

“Mom, enough,” Zhenya finally snapped. “Everything’s tasty.”

“Am I scolding? I mean well! Criticism should be constructive.”

“Mom…”

“Zhenya, don’t defend her. Vera’s a smart girl, she’ll understand everything correctly. Right, Verочка?”

Vera looked at her mother-in-law. She was smiling, but her eyes were cold.

“Of course, Varvara Nikitichna.”

About forty minutes remained until the chimes. The kids ran around; Oleg told Zhenya some work story. Vera got up and went to the kitchen—she needed to take the sliced meats out of the fridge.

Svetlana was already there, rummaging in her bag.

“Ver, do you have napkins by any chance? I forgot.”

“In the cabinet on the left.”

Svetlana reached for napkins, then turned back.

“Listen, you’re a champ for standing your ground. I wouldn’t dare. Varvara Nikitichna is so domineering.”

“Today’s not the best day to discuss it.”

“Oh, I’m not saying anything like that! Just… I’m telling you. I have a good relationship with her. I always listen, take her advice. Maybe that’s why we don’t have conflicts.”

Vera looked at her more closely.

“So you’re saying the conflicts are because I don’t listen?”

“Not exactly… It’s just, she’s older, more experienced. She knows better.”

“Svetlana,” Vera said, taking the platter from the fridge, “in my home, I decide.”

“Of course, of course! I’m not arguing. Just… you understand, it’s his mother. Zhenya’s kids will be her grandkids. Maybe you should be softer?”

“Maybe,” Vera agreed. “Only I’ve been ‘softer’ for seven years. You can see the result.”

She returned to the living room. Varvara Nikitichna was telling the children about her youth:

“…and I worked as vice principal then. A very responsible position, by the way. The whole staff depended on me. The principal only knew how to sign papers.”

“Grandma, did you scold everyone?” Kostya asked.

“I didn’t scold—I guided them onto the right path. Many should thank me, by the way. Take your dad—he was such a mischief-maker as a child. And I made a person out of him.”

Oleg laughed awkwardly.

“Mom, not in front of the kids.”

“And what’s wrong with that? Truth is truth. I raised you and Zhenya alone—your father left when you were little. And I managed! I brought up two sons, got both of you on your feet.”

Vera sat down. Zhenya touched her hand under the table, but she didn’t respond.

Outside, the first bursts of fireworks sounded—someone was rushing to congratulate the city early.

“The chimes are soon,” Oleg said. “Let’s get closer to the TV.”

They gathered near the screen. Kids climbed onto the couch, adults stood with champagne. Varvara Nikitichna settled into the armchair like a queen on a throne.

The last seconds of the old year. The chimes. Cheers, clinking glasses, popping party crackers. Kids shouted “Hooray!” and threw confetti. Oleg hugged Svetlana, Zhenya kissed Vera.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered. “Forgive me for everything.”

Vera nodded but said nothing.

After midnight, the table gradually fell into disarray: empty bottles, used napkins, scraps of food. The kids got their presents and now fussed with new toys in the corner. Oleg told a joke; Svetlana giggled.

Vera stood to clear dirty plates. In the kitchen, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her head buzzed from tension, from fake smiles, from constant control. Her holiday. Her home. Yet she felt like an unwanted guest at someone else’s party.

“Vera!” Varvara Nikitichna called from the living room. “Where are the salads? Bring more—Olezhek wants seconds!”

Vera clenched her fists. Counted to ten. Then took the bowl of Olivier and carried it in.

“Here you go.”

“And bring the herring too. And my aspic. Zhenya loves it so much.”

Vera went back and forth: aspic, bread, mustard, something else—she didn’t even remember what anymore. Just walked like a waitress at her own holiday.

“Verочка, you should tidy up a bit,” Varvara Nikitichna said when Vera appeared in the doorway again. “Trash is piling up—doesn’t look nice.”

“Varvara Nikitichna, it’s a holiday…”

“Even more so! In my home there was never trash on the table. I always cleaned immediately.”

“Mom, enough already,” Zhenya tried again, but his voice was uncertain.

Vera silently grabbed the dirty plates and carried them to the kitchen. She set them in the sink, braced her hands on the counter. Breathing got hard; her vision swam.

Seven years. Seven years of remarks. Seven years of being not good enough: cooking wrong, cleaning wrong, dressing wrong, even speaking wrong. And on top of that, she wasn’t giving him children, imagine that.

Svetlana appeared in the doorway.

“Ver, you okay? Want help?”

“No.”

“Oh come on. Don’t take it to heart. Varvara Nikitichna is just like that—you have to get used to her.”

“I’ve been getting used to her for seven years.”

“Well, a little more,” Svetlana tried to joke. “They say after ten years you don’t care at all.”

Vera spun around sharply.

“Svet, I don’t want to wait ten years to stop caring about my own life!”

“Lower your voice! They’ll hear.”

“Let them!”

But Svetlana had already gone back. Vera stayed alone in the kitchen among dirty dishes and the remains of the celebration.

When she returned, they were talking about children. Varvara Nikitichna was explaining how to raise them:

“The main thing is strictness. Without strictness, nothing works. I raised my sons… Zhenya, remember when you brought home a failing grade in fifth grade? I kept you from going out for a month. And there were no more failing grades after that.”

“Mom, that was thirty years ago,” Zhenya said tiredly.

“So what? Good methods are always relevant. Kids today are spoiled—parents indulge every whim.”

“We try to find a balance,” Svetlana said carefully.

“What balance? Kids need a firm hand. When Vera has children, she’ll understand right away.”

An awkward pause. Oleg cleared his throat. Zhenya stared at his plate.

“Varvara Nikitichna,” Vera said, “let’s not discuss my plans.”

“What’s wrong with that? How old are you? Married seven years? It’s time already.”

“Mom, that’s our business,” Zhenya said more firmly.

“Your business, fine. Only Zhenya is thirty-four. A man at that age needs to have kids. Later it’ll be too late.”

“Enough,” Vera stood. “Excuse me, I’m going out to the balcony for some air.”

“In this frost? Are you out of your mind,” her mother-in-law snorted.

But Vera was already walking to the balcony door. She had to get out—immediately. Or she would snap and say something she couldn’t take back.

It was truly cold outside. Minus fifteen had turned into minus twenty. Vera hugged herself and stared at the night city. Somewhere in the distance fireworks still exploded.

The door opened behind her. Zhenya.

“Ver, come back in. You’ll freeze.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just don’t pay attention. She’s like that with everyone.”

“Really?” Vera turned. “With everyone? Or only with me?”

“Well… yes, she’s stricter with you. But it’s because… she worries. She wants what’s best.”

“Seven years, Zhenya. Seven years your mother has treated me like a servant. I don’t cook well enough, clean well enough, look well enough, work well enough—and on top of that I’m not having your children, can you believe it?”

“That’s not what she meant…”

“Then what did she mean? What?”

Zhenya was silent. Vera waited.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “I don’t know what she meant. But she’s my mother.”

“And who am I? A random fellow traveler?”

“Ver…”

“You’ve never once taken my side. Not once, Zhenya. Every time she starts, you stay quiet. Or agree. Or tell me ‘don’t pay attention.’”

“I don’t want to choose between you!”

“And I don’t want to be an outcast in my own home!” Vera raised her voice. “This is MY apartment! MY holiday! I prepared for three days! And she comes in and turns everything upside down, commands, criticizes—and you let her!”

“What am I supposed to do?! Throw my own mother out?!”

“No. You’re supposed to stop her. Tell her that in our home I’m the hostess. That we have our own rules. That she is a guest and should behave accordingly.”

“She won’t understand.”

“Try explaining.”

“I did talk…”

“Not clearly enough!” Vera waved her hand. “You always talk not clearly enough—because you’re afraid of upsetting her!”

“But you’re not afraid of upsetting me, are you?”

The question hung in the freezing air. Vera looked at her husband and suddenly understood—he really believed that. That she could be upset. That she’d endure it, understand, forgive. Because she always had.

“Let’s go back inside,” Zhenya said tiredly. “The guests are waiting.”

“Guests,” Vera gave a bitter little laugh. “Your mom isn’t a guest, Zhenya. She’s a conqueror.”

But she still went back in.

At the table, the talk shifted to work. Oleg spoke about a new construction site, Svetlana complained about grocery prices. Varvara Nikitichna listened halfheartedly, occasionally inserting her comments.

“Olezhek, you should buy a plot outside the city. Lots of people do. You can have a garden, and kids can be outdoors.”

“Mom, I don’t have money for a plot.”

“If you saved, you would. Zhenya’s a good boy, he saves. Right, Zhenya?”

Zhenya nodded without looking up.

“And you could get a better apartment,” she continued. “This one is so small. In new buildings they sell three-bedrooms cheap.”

“Varvara Nikitichna,” Vera set her fork down, “we’re fine with our apartment.”

“What do you mean, fine? It’s a tiny two-room! When children appear, there’ll be nowhere to put them.”

“If they appear, we’ll decide then.”

“What ‘if’? They have to! Zhenya, you want kids, don’t you?”

“Mom, not now.”

“And when? You’re both over thirty! I had Oleg at twenty-four!”

“Times were different,” Svetlana remarked.

“Times, times,” Varvara Nikitichna waved it off. “There are always excuses. Then they regret it. You’ll see.”

Vera stood up slowly, calmly. Took her plate and carried it to the kitchen. Behind her she heard:

“Offended again. So sensitive.”

“Mom, stop already,” Zhenya tried again.

“What do you mean, stop? I mean well!”

In the kitchen Vera paused by the window. Fireworks still popped somewhere below; people laughed. Someone was having a real holiday—bright and joyful. And hers was… this.

The kitchen door opened. Varvara Nikitichna came in.

“Vera, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About you. And about Zhenya.”

Vera turned. Her mother-in-law stood in the doorway with arms crossed—a victor’s posture.

“I’m listening.”

“You don’t like me. That’s clear. I don’t expect love. But you must show respect.”

“I respect you, Varvara Nikitichna.”

“No. If you respected me, you wouldn’t argue back. I’m older, wiser. I raised Zhenya. I know what he needs.”

“And I’m his wife. And I also know what he needs.”

“Wife,” her mother-in-law smirked. “Do you even iron his shirts? I saw he goes to work wrinkled.”

“Zhenya is an adult man. He can iron his own shirts.”

“And that’s exactly your problem! You don’t understand what it means to be a wife! At your age I worked, ran the house, raised kids—and my husband always had a hot dinner. And everyone’s clothes were ironed. And you? You’re at work all day, come home tired…”

“I’m a nurse. I help people.”

“And that’s wonderful! But family has to come first! Zhenya needs a real homemaker, not a…”

“Not what?” Vera stepped closer. “Finish it.”

“Not a careerist who thinks only of herself!”

“A careerist?” Vera laughed. “Varvara Nikitichna, I’m a nurse at a district clinic. What career?”

“Still! Your job matters more to you than family!”

“My job gives us extra income,” Vera said evenly. “Or do you think we can live on Zhenya’s salary alone?”

“You can, if you economize! I raised two sons on my own!”

“On your vice principal salary,” Vera replied calmly. “Which was twice a regular teacher’s. And you had an apartment the state gave you. We rented for five years, saved for the down payment. Different times, Varvara Nikitichna.”

“You’re making excuses!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Always excuses! And the facts are: Zhenya lives in a tiny apartment, goes to work in unwashed shirts, eats tasteless food!”

Something inside Vera snapped—finally. Like the last thin thread breaking.

“Varvara Nikitichna,” she said very quietly, each word clear, “get out of my kitchen.”

“What did you say?”

“I said—get out. This is my kitchen. In my apartment. The one Zhenya and I bought with our money.”

“How dare you speak to your elders like that?”

“The way people speak to someone who doesn’t respect other people’s boundaries. Seven years, Varvara Nikitichna. Seven years I’ve listened to your remarks—that I’m a bad homemaker, a bad wife, unworthy of your son.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You did. Constantly. Every holiday. Every visit. Today I invited you as a guest. A GUEST. And you came in and started commanding. You brought your own food because you don’t like mine. You criticized everything you could reach—even my Olivier!”

“I wanted to help…”

“NO!” Vera raised her voice. “You wanted to show I’m worse than you. That without you we can’t cope. That you’re indispensable!”

Zhenya appeared in the doorway:

“What’s going on here?”

“Your wife is insulting me!” Varvara Nikitichna jabbed a finger at Vera. “She’s throwing me out!”

“I’m not insulting you,” Vera turned to her husband. “I’m just telling the truth. For the first time in seven years.”

“Ver, calm down…”

“NO! I won’t calm down! Zhenya, look around! This is our apartment! Our holiday! I prepared for three days! And your mother came and ruined everything—like always!”

“How can you…” Varvara Nikitichna whispered, turning pale. “I’m like family to you…”

“You’re NOT family to me!” Vera blurted. “Family respects each other! Rejoices in each other’s successes! And you only rejoice when I fail—when something doesn’t work for me—because it proves you were right!”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Varvara Nikitichna said, white-faced. “Zhenya, say something!”

Zhenya stood in the middle of the kitchen, confused, looking from his mother to his wife.

“Mom, you really do… go too far sometimes.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, the Olivier, for example. Why were you picking at it? It was fine.”

“I wasn’t picking at it! I was constructively—”

“Mom, you always do this. With every dish. Every little thing. Vera tried, and you…”

“Then both of you are against me!” Varvara Nikitichna clutched her chest. “She’s turned my own son against his mother!”

“Nobody turned anyone,” Vera said wearily. “You do it yourself.”

“I do it myself? I devoted my whole life to my children! Raised them alone! And now look—thanks!”

“Mom, stop with the ‘raised them alone,’” Oleg appeared behind Zhenya. “We’re adults now, stop playing that card.”

“You too?!” Varvara Nikitichna looked at both sons. “Both of you?!”

“Mom, you really do sometimes… overdo it,” Oleg said carefully. “Svetka was telling me the other day—”

“Svetka! So that’s what this is! You’ve all conspired!”

“Nobody conspired,” Vera stepped forward. “Varvara Nikitichna, I’m sorry, but I can’t anymore. I can’t keep enduring your remarks. Your control. Your constant dissatisfaction. I’m not perfect, but I try. And I have a right to respect—in my own home.”

“So what are you suggesting?” her mother-in-law threw up her hands. “That I never come to you again?”

“No. Come. But as a guest—who respects the hosts. You don’t like my holiday? The door is open. I’m not holding you.”

Silence fell. Somewhere in the living room the kids rustled softly. Outside, another firework burst.

“Zhenya,” Varvara Nikitichna turned to her son, “I’m leaving. Walk me out.”

“Mom…”

“I said—walk me out!”

Zhenya looked helplessly at Vera. She nodded.

“Go.”

They left. Varvara Nikitichna, Zhenya, Oleg with Svetlana and the children. The apartment emptied in five minutes. Oleg gave Vera a long look, as if he wanted to say something, but stayed silent. Svetlana hurriedly dressed the kids. Kostya asked:

“Why is Grandma crying?”

“Hush, sweetheart. I’ll explain later.”

The door closed. Vera was alone in the apartment, full of dirty dishes, leftovers, and a half-eaten holiday. She sat on the couch and just sat there. No tears. Just sat, staring at the tree lights.

Zhenya came back half an hour later. Quietly, sat next to her. Stayed silent for a long time.

“You went too far,” he finally said.

“I know.”

“Mom’s hysterical. Oleg barely calmed her down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Vera turned to him.

“No. If I’m honest—no. I’m sorry it happened like that. On a holiday. In front of everyone. But I don’t regret what I said.”

“Ver…”

“Zhenya, I can’t do this anymore. Do you understand? Not at all. Every time your mom comes, I feel… small. Worthless. Everything I do is wrong, everything I say is stupid. I’m tired of proving I’m worthy of you.”

“You are worthy.”

“Then why didn’t you tell her that earlier? Why did I fight alone for seven years?”

Zhenya dragged a hand down his face.

“I was afraid. Afraid of hurting Mom. She’s been through a lot. Raised us alone…”

“I’ve heard that story a million times,” Vera said wearily. “And yes, it’s hard. I respect her for it. But it doesn’t give her the right to control our life.”

“She just wants what’s best.”

“For whom? For you—or for herself?”

The question hung in the air. Zhenya stared at the floor.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “Honestly—I don’t know.”

They sat like that for another ten minutes. Then Vera stood.

“I’m going to clean up in the kitchen.”

“Let me help.”

They cleaned in silence—packed leftovers into containers, washed dishes, wiped the table—mechanically, not looking at each other. Around three in the morning they finished.

“Go to bed,” Vera said. “I’ll sit a little longer.”

“Ver…”

“Go. Really. I need to think.”

Zhenya went to the bedroom. Vera stayed in the kitchen, boiled the kettle, made tea, sat by the window and watched the sleeping city.

The phone was silent. Usually after fights Varvara Nikitichna would call Zhenya, cry, complain. But today—silence.

Maybe she really had gone too far. Maybe she should have stayed quiet, like always. Swallowed one more holiday, one more portion of criticism, one more evening as the failure.

No. Enough.

In the morning she was woken by a call—Toma, a colleague from work.

“Ver, happy New Year! How did you celebrate?”

“Fine.”

“Seriously? Your voice sounds odd.”

“Just tired.”

“Got it. Listen, how are you really? I ran into Oleg yesterday at the store. He told me about your… well, situation.”

Vera closed her eyes. Of course. Small town—by evening the whole neighborhood would know.

“Toma, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not calling for that! I just wanted to say—you did great. Honestly. If I were you, I would’ve blown up five years ago.”

“Really?”

“Ver, come on! Varvara Nikitichna ruins everybody’s life! Oleg and Svetka can’t divorce for three years now—his mom won’t let them. Says it’s shameful. She calls my Anton too, gives unsolicited advice. Good thing we live in another district.”

Vera smirked.

“So I’m not the only one.”

“You’re a heroine! The first who told her the truth to her face. Respect.”

After the call, Vera felt a little better. She got up, went to the kitchen. Zhenya was already there, with the morning face of someone who hadn’t slept all night.

“Mom called,” he said. “Three times. I didn’t pick up.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what to say.”

Vera sat across from him.

“And what do you want to say?”

“That you’re right. About everything. Mom… she’s like that. Controls everything. Controlled our whole life. First me and Oleg. Now you—wives. She’ll control grandkids too. I’m used to it. But you shouldn’t have had to get used to it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ll call her. Talk. Seriously talk. Explain this can’t go on.”

“She won’t understand.”

“I’ll try. At least try.”

He called that evening. Vera heard fragments from the other room:

“Mom, listen… No, I’m not choosing… Mom, let me finish… This is our home… Mom, please… I love you both…”

The conversation lasted more than an hour. When Zhenya came back, he looked exhausted.

“How is she?”

“Bad. She cried. Shouted. Threatened never to come again.”

“And what did you say?”

“That it’s her choice. But if she comes—then as a guest. With respect for the hosts.”

“And?”

“And she hung up.”

Vera hugged him. He leaned into her and she felt him trembling.

“I’m scared,” Zhenya whispered. “She’s my mother. The only one. And I hurt her so much.”

“You didn’t hurt her. You finally told the truth.”

“What if she really doesn’t come again?”

“Then that’s her choice. Not yours.”

They sat like that, holding each other, until it grew completely dark outside.

Two weeks passed in an odd silence. Varvara Nikitichna didn’t call. Oleg sent Zhenya short messages—“Mom’s offended,” “Mom’s crying,” “Mom says you abandoned her.” Zhenya stayed quiet, grew darker each day. Vera stayed quiet too—but didn’t give in.

Then, in the third week of January, the doorbell rang. Vera opened it and saw Varvara Nikitichna with a pie in her hands.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.”

They sat in the kitchen, drank tea. The pie sat between them—apple, still warm. Varvara Nikitichna worried the edge of a napkin.

“I… wanted to say,” she began. “Maybe I really do… sometimes allow myself too much.”

“Not sometimes. Constantly.”

“Vera, I’m trying to apologize.”

“I know. And I appreciate it. But ‘sometimes’ isn’t true.”

Her mother-in-law sighed.

“All right. Constantly. I’m used to controlling everything. At work it was necessary. At home too. I raised kids alone. I gave an order—they did it. I don’t know how to do it differently.”

“But I’m not your child, Varvara Nikitichna.”

“I understand. Zhenya explained that… very thoroughly. Two hours of explaining.”

“And?”

“And I thought about it. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I really do try to control what doesn’t belong to me.”

Vera watched her carefully. Varvara Nikitichna looked tired—older. For the first time in seven years, she looked like an elderly woman, not a formidable judge.

“I don’t promise I’ll change immediately,” she continued. “I’ll be sixty soon. My character is set. But… I’ll try. At least not to say every thought out loud.”

“That’s already good.”

“And your pie wasn’t bad,” Varvara Nikitichna suddenly added. “On New Year’s. The chicken was juicy. I tried to make it the same way at home—it didn’t work.”

Vera choked on her tea. A compliment—from her mother-in-law? Miracles indeed.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It was genuinely tasty.”

They finished tea, ate a slice of pie each. Then Varvara Nikitichna stood.

“I should go. Only… Vera. I really didn’t want to hurt you. I was just… afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That they’d take Zhenya away from me. That I’d become unnecessary. I lived my whole life for them. First for my husband—he left. Then for the children. And now the children have grown up. And I don’t know who I am without them.”

Vera looked at her and suddenly understood—truly. Not excused her, but understood. Varvara Nikitichna wasn’t a villain. She was a frightened woman losing control over the only thing that gave her meaning.

“You are needed, Varvara Nikitichna,” Vera said softly. “Just… differently. Not as a boss. But as… a grandmother. An adviser. A friend.”

“I don’t know how to be friends with daughters-in-law.”

“You’ll learn. We still have a lot of time.”

Her mother-in-law nodded and left.

In the evening, Zhenya came home from work. Vera told him about the visit. He listened silently, then hugged her hard.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up. For not leaving. For giving us a chance.”

“It wasn’t me who gave the chance. Your mom took it.”

“Still. Without you, she wouldn’t have come.”

They stood in the kitchen hugging as winter night fell outside. The first snow of the new year began only now, in mid-January—soft, fluffy, beautiful.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Vera asked. “Fixing things?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll try. And Mom will try too. And that’s not nothing.”

“She’s inviting us to hers for March 8.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I’ll come—if she promises not to criticize my salad.”

Zhenya laughed. For the first time in two weeks—he laughed for real. Vera smiled too.

Yes, there would be new arguments ahead. New conflicts. Varvara Nikitichna wouldn’t change in a day. But something had shifted. Something important. For the first time in seven years, Vera didn’t feel like a stranger in this family. For the first time, her voice had been heard.

And it was only the beginning—of a long, difficult, but possible road

— The potatoes turned out especially good today. Just like in childhood,” Stas said, spearing a golden slice with his fork and popping it into his mouth with relish, his eyes closing in satisfaction. “And these cutlets of yours… pure magic.”

Lena smiled—not the tired, automatic smile after a long workday, but a genuinely warm one. She loved evenings like this. Just the two of them in their small but cozy kitchen. Outside the window, deep blue November twilight was gathering; inside, a soft light glowed, the air smelled of fried chicken and dill, and for a moment it felt as if all their problems were somewhere far away, beyond the borders of their little world.

“I tried,” she said, neatly cutting off a piece of cutlet. Fragrant juices ran onto her plate. “You know, today I counted everything again. And looked at apartment prices. If we save a little more, then by summer we’ll probably be able to start looking at options.”

She was talking about the money her grandmother had left her. It wasn’t just a sum in a bank account. It was a final greeting from her childhood, the last tangible expression of her grandmother’s love. Every time Lena thought about that money, she didn’t see numbers—she saw wrinkled, warm hands that baked the best pies in the world, and mischievous eyes looking at her from a faded photo on the dresser. She and Stas had decided right away that it was their shared ticket to a new life: a spacious two-bedroom apartment, with room for a nursery and a corner of their own.

“Yeah, that would be great,” Stas nodded, chewing thoughtfully. He set down his fork and looked at Lena. “It’s like she knew… your grandma. She wanted you to have something of your own, something reliable. So you’d feel more secure.”

Lena looked at him with gratitude. He understood. He felt the same way she did. That mattered. More than anything.

Stas was quiet a moment longer, staring at his plate, and then suddenly he looked up—something new and energetic lit up in his eyes.

“By the way, speaking of good things. It’s Irka’s birthday soon. Thirty—an anniversary. And I keep thinking what I should get her…”

Irka, his younger sister, was a delicate topic. A dragonfly flitting through life, changing jobs and boyfriends, constantly complaining about having no money and how cruel the world was. Lena felt neutral toward her, like toward an unavoidable weather event.

“Get her a spa gift certificate. She likes that stuff,” Lena suggested, her thoughts drifting back to their apartment plans.

 

Stas waved it off, as if she’d suggested giving the birthday girl a bunch of balloons.

“Come on, a certificate… that’s small stuff. This needs to be a gift that’s, like… wow. Something she’ll remember. Something that actually changes her life for the better. She’s always getting bounced around on those minibuses, spending her last money on taxis.”

He leaned across the table, his face turning conspiratorial and thrilled, the way kids look when they’ve come up with a genius prank. His voice dropped to a confidential half-whisper.

“Len, listen. What if…” He paused for effect. “What if we buy her a car with your money? Huh? Can you imagine? Not a new one, of course—something simple, used. Just so she can drive. Picture her face! She’ll lose her mind with happiness! Now that would be a gift!”

The fork in Lena’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. The warmth from the food that had been spreading comfortably through her body seconds ago evaporated instantly, replaced by an icy chill in her stomach. She stared at his beaming, completely sincere face and couldn’t understand. Was this some stupid, inappropriate joke? A test? Or did he really just say that?

Slowly, she set her fork down on the plate. The metallic clink against the porcelain sounded deafening in the sudden silence.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked. Her voice was even, almost calm—but there was steel ringing in it.

Stas didn’t even understand what had happened. His smile slid off his face, replaced by confusion. He genuinely didn’t get her reaction.

“What’s the big deal? We have the money. It would really help Irka. We’re family—we should help each other. What, are you stingy or something?”

“Stingy?”

That simple word hit Lena in the gut harder than a slap. It was so absurd, so monstrously out of place, that for a few seconds she couldn’t breathe. He sat across from her with the same sincerely bewildered expression and waited for an answer. He truly didn’t understand. Didn’t understand that with a single sentence he’d trampled the memory of her grandmother, their shared plans, her trust—everything at once. He had simply devalued what was sacred to her, turning it into a banal question of greed.

She slowly straightened in her chair. The kitchen table, which a minute ago had been the center of their little universe, now felt like a barrier separating two warring camps. The smell of dinner suddenly seemed cloying and nauseating.

“What does your sister have to do with the money my grandmother left me? Who is she to me? Why on earth would I buy her a car with it, Stas?!”

She said his name as if she were seeing him for the first time and trying to remember what he was called. It wasn’t a questioning “Stas?” but a final “Stas.” A period at the end of the sentence. At the end of their old relationship.

It finally began to sink in for him—not the rightness of her words, no. What sank in was that his brilliant plan had met resistance. His face started to flush.

“Lena, what are you starting for? We’re family. Irka’s my sister, so she’s your family too. Why are you talking like I’m taking the last thing you have? We just want to do something good for her!”

“‘We’?” Lena gave a bitter little smile. “There was no ‘we.’ There was your proposal—and for some reason you expected my automatic agreement. My family is my grandmother, who worked herself to the bone at two jobs so I could have a start in life! She never once even saw your Irka! It’s her money, do you understand? Hers. Not yours, and not even ‘ours’ to waste on gifts!”

The cutlet on his plate was cooling, a pale film of congealed fat forming on top. Dinner was ruined beyond repair.

“So that’s what it is…” he drawled, and accusatory notes crept into his voice. “So when it’s about paying off a mortgage and looking for a bigger apartment, the money is ‘ours’—but when it’s about helping my own sister, suddenly it’s ‘yours’ and ‘grandma’s’? I didn’t expect such pettiness from you. Such greed.”

That word hung in the air again. Greed. Now it wasn’t a question, but a verdict. And that verdict tore away the last of Lena’s self-control.

“Greed?” she laughed, but it was sharp, barking. “That’s what you call greed? I call it trying to latch onto someone else’s money! You’re acting like a freeloader, Stas! You want to solve your sister’s problems at my expense and look like a generous benefactor! It’s easy to be kind with someone else’s money, isn’t it? Maybe we should renovate your parents’ house too? Why not—there’s money, right?”

He sprang up so fast he knocked over his glass of fruit compote. The dark, sticky liquid spread across the white tablecloth, soaking in as an ugly brown stain.

“Have you lost it? Don’t drag my parents into this! I just wanted to do a good deed—and you turned it into money and insults!”

“And it is money!” she shouted, rising too. “It’s not just bills! It’s years of my grandmother’s life! It’s our future home! And you’re trying to blow it on a whim for your infantile little sister!”

They stood facing each other across the table, where their last peaceful dinner was cooling. The cozy kitchen had turned into a ring. And both of them understood the bell had rung, and the fight was only beginning.

The shouting hung in the air, slowly settling like dust after an explosion. Stas was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He still stood with his knuckles pressed into the table, staring at the dark stain on the tablecloth as if it were proof she was wrong. He expected her to keep yelling, arguing, proving her point. But Lena fell silent.

Slowly, with a kind of detached grace, she sat back down. The movement was smooth, deliberate—as if she weren’t a participant in this ugly scene, but an observer watching from the outside. She looked at Stas, and there was no anger left in her eyes, no hurt. There was something far worse—cold, analytical curiosity. The way an entomologist looks at an insect pinned to velvet. She studied his flushed face twisted with malice, his clenched fists, the posture of a cornered animal—and she saw not her husband, but a complete stranger, unpleasant to her.

“So what now? We’re going to sit in silence?” he finally forced out. The quiet was crushing him; it was louder than any scream.

Lena tilted her head slightly.

“And is there anything to talk about? You’ve said everything. I heard you.”

That only enraged him more. Her calm was insulting. He wanted a fight—emotion, argument—something he could win by overpowering her with stubbornness or authority. But she had simply removed him from the conversation, delivered her verdict, and closed the case. He felt the ground slipping out from under him. In this duel, he was losing. And then he did what people do when their own arguments run out—he decided to call for backup.

“Fine,” he hissed, yanking his phone from his jeans pocket. “Talking to you is pointless. There are people who’ll understand me.”

His fingers jabbed nervously at the screen. Lena watched with the same icy calm. She already knew who he was calling. His last, dirtiest move, saved for special occasions: bringing in the “heavy artillery.” His mother.

“Mom, hi. No, I’m not asleep…” He moved toward the window, instinctively turning his back to Lena, forming an alliance against her. “Lena and I are… talking. Yeah. Why I’m calling… Remember I told you about Irka’s birthday? I came up with something…”

Lena didn’t listen to his words. She’d heard them before, in other, less significant fights. That wounded-boy whine, that subtle manipulation where facts were twisted and other people’s words were presented in the ugliest, most convenient way. She stared at his back, at his tense shoulders, at the way he gestured with his free hand, complaining into the receiver about his own wife.

 

 

“…No, can you imagine? She thinks Irka doesn’t deserve it! That it’s only her money! She called me a freeloader! Yeah, she actually said that… that I’m trying to grab someone else’s…”

In that moment, everything fell into place for Lena. This wasn’t just her husband’s stupid impulse. It was the position of his whole family. They were one organism, tight-knit and united. And she was the outsider. An attachment with a useful resource—an inheritance. And now their clan, in the person of her husband and mother-in-law, was deciding how best to use that resource. The man she had married, trusted, planned a future with—right before her eyes, he had turned back into his mother’s son, whining about his “difficult” wife.

He talked for another couple of minutes, nodding at something being said on the other end. Lena didn’t look at him anymore. She looked at the cold cutlet on her plate. The dinner she’d cooked with love now felt like a disgusting mockery. Silently, she stood up, took her plate and Stas’s plate, and dumped the contents into the trash. The sound of food hitting the bin made him turn around.

“…Yeah, Mom, I’ll talk to her again. Okay, bye,” he threw into the phone and hung up.

He turned to her, and his face held a mix of righteous anger and confidence. He’d gotten support; his position had been approved. Now he was ready to continue the fight with renewed strength.

“Mom is shocked by you,” Stas began, and there was steel in his voice, hardened by his mother’s approval. He stepped forward, trying to regain control. “She said you just don’t understand what a real family is. That you need to be—”

He didn’t finish. Without a word, Lena turned around and left the kitchen. Her movement was so calm and purposeful that for a moment Stas was thrown off. He expected tears, screams, pleading—anything but this quiet, demonstrative exit. He stayed alone in the middle of the kitchen, an unfinished sentence on his lips, suddenly feeling stupid. What did it mean? Had she gone to the bedroom to dramatically go to sleep? Decided to ignore him? He snorted. Childish.

From the hallway came a soft rustle. Then another. He frowned, listening. He couldn’t understand what those sounds were. No cabinet doors slamming, no drawers being pulled out—just some quiet, methodical fussing. A minute later, she came back.

In one hand she held his bulky autumn jacket, in the other his worn boots. She walked to the table and carefully set the boots on the floor next to his chair. Then she draped the jacket over the backrest. After that she returned to the hallway and, a few seconds later, came back into the kitchen again. This time she was holding his car and apartment keys and his thick leather wallet. She placed them on the table, right on top of the sticky compote stain. The keyring clinked softly.

Stas stared at the little installation, and his brain refused to process it. It looked like some absurd performance piece.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice lost. The confidence he’d gained from calling his mother had vanished without a trace.

Lena sat down in her chair across from him. She didn’t cross her arms, didn’t take a defensive pose. She simply sat, relaxed and straight, and looked at him.

“These are your things,” she said in an even, colorless voice. “The ones you’ll need in the next ten minutes.”

It began to sink in—slowly, the way pain sinks in after a hard удар.

“You… you’re kicking me out? Because of a car? Are you serious?”

Lena allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

“No, Stas. Not because of a car. The car is just litmus paper. You just called your mom to complain about me. You brought her into our family so she could help you decide what to do with my money. You showed me there is no ‘us’ for you. There’s you and your family—and I’m a newcomer with a useful asset. You decided everything yourself. I’m just drawing conclusions.”

He stared at her, mouth open. He wanted to yell, to protest, to call her crazy—but the words stuck in his throat. Her calm paralyzed him. There was nothing left in her of the woman he’d lived with for five years. In front of him sat a stranger—cold, and absolutely resolute.

“You wanted to give your sister a generous gift,” she went on in the same flat tone, as if reading out contract terms. “I won’t get in your way. In fact, I’ll help you. You’re going to her place now. I’m sure she can find a couch for you. You can enjoy your nobility together.”

“You’ve lost your mind…” he whispered.

“On the contrary. I’ve never been more clear-headed,” she said, standing and taking his jacket from the chair back, holding it out to him. “If gifts for your sister matter so much, go to her and live there. And find yourself a wife with an inheritance you can squander. Mine, unfortunately, isn’t meant for that. You have five minutes to get dressed and walk out the door.”

She didn’t push him. Didn’t shout. She just stood there with the jacket extended, her gaze harder than stone. In that look, Stas read his sentence. He understood it was the end—not another fight they’d make up after. It was a full stop. Slowly, as if in a dream, he took the jacket. Took the keys and wallet from the table. Put on his shoes in silence. All his righteous indignation, all his certainty, crumbled into dust. He was crushed by her icy composure.

When he opened the front door, he turned back in a last, weak hope. But she was already walking back to the kitchen, not even granting him a goodbye glance. The door clicked shut behind him.

Lena was left alone in the apartment, filled with the smell of cold dinner. She took the tablecloth with the ugly brown stain, crumpled it up, and threw it into the trash. In the silence that followed there was no pain, no regret. Only cleanliness. And emptiness.

— “Why Did You Transfer Fifty Thousand To My Mom? I Asked You Not To Do That!” Tatiana Stood In The Entryway, Clutching A Bank Statement In Her Hand
31.12.2025admin

“Why did you transfer fifty thousand to my mother? I asked you not to do that!” Tatiana stood in the middle of the entryway, clutching a bank statement in her hand. Her hands were shaking with anger, and tears of hurt glimmered in her eyes.

Dmitry froze in the doorway, not even having time to take off his jacket. His face showed a mix of surprise and irritation.

“Where did you find out? Are you checking my accounts?”

“The statement came to our joint email!” Tatiana waved the paper in front of his face. “We had an agreement! No money to your mother until she stops humiliating us!”

Dmitry let out a heavy sigh and walked into the living room, pulling off his jacket as he went. Tatiana followed, not intending to back down.

Their apartment in a new building was furnished modestly but with taste. Every item had been bought after long discussions and careful saving. Tatiana worked as an accountant at a small firm; Dmitry was an engineer at a factory. Together they earned enough for a normal life, but not so much that they could casually throw around sums like that.

“Mom asked for help,” Dmitry muttered, sitting down on the sofa. “She has health problems—she needs expensive procedures.”

“Procedures?” Tatiana sat down across from him, folding her arms over her chest. “Last time it was urgent medication for thirty thousand. The time before that—an operation for seventy. Dima, your mother is draining us!”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!” Dmitry flared up. “She raised me alone—she worked her whole life for me!”

Tatiana gave a bitter smirk. In five years of marriage she had heard that phrase hundreds of times. Her mother-in-law, Nina Petrovna, really had raised her son alone after the divorce. But she used it like a weapon, constantly reminding Dmitry of her sacrifices.

“You know what?” Tatiana stood up and went to the wardrobe in the bedroom. “I’m going to show you something.”

She came back with a folder where she kept documents. She pulled out several photographs printed from social media.

“Look. This is your mom two weeks ago at a spa resort in Kislovodsk. See that ‘sick’ smile? And here she is in a restaurant with her friends. That’s probably medical nutrition on our dime too, right?”

Dmitry took the photos, and his face fell. In the pictures Nina Petrovna looked radiant—tanned, in a new dress, with a professional blowout.

“Where did you get these?” he asked quietly.

“Her friend Valentina posts everything on Odnoklassniki. I stumbled on it by accident when I was looking up a recipe for that pie you like. Your mom is perfectly fine, Dima! She’s just manipulating you!”

Dmitry tossed the photos onto the coffee table.

“Maybe she got better after treatment? Did you think of that?”

“After what treatment?” Tatiana felt anger boiling up inside her. “She can’t even clearly name her diagnosis! One time it’s her heart, then her kidneys, then her joints! And every time she needs cash—no transfers to a clinic account!”

“That’s enough!” Dmitry jumped up. “She’s my mother! I’m going to help her whether you like it or not!”

“And I’m your wife!” Tatiana shouted. “Or does that mean nothing? We’ve been saving for two years for the down payment to get a bigger place! We’re supposed to have a baby, Dima! And you’re giving all our savings to your mother for her whims!”

“If you can’t understand that family is sacred, then maybe we don’t need a child at all!” Dmitry blurted out—and immediately fell silent when he saw how pale his wife turned.

Without a word, Tatiana turned around and went into the bedroom, slamming the door loudly. Dmitry stayed in the living room, sitting with his head in his hands. A heavy silence hung in the apartment.

The next morning they didn’t speak. Tatiana silently made breakfast; Dmitry silently ate and went to work. But as soon as the door closed behind him, the intercom rang.

“Tatiana? It’s me—buzz me in!” her mother-in-law’s commanding voice came through the speaker.

Tatiana grimaced. Nina Petrovna had a habit of showing up without warning, especially when she sensed her son and daughter-in-law had fought—like she had some special radar for family conflict.

Five minutes later her mother-in-law was already seated in the kitchen, critically inspecting everything.

“Porridge again for breakfast?” she snorted, peering into the pot on the stove. “Dima likes an omelet with bacon—I’ve told you a hundred times!”

“Bacon is unhealthy,” Tatiana replied dryly, pouring tea.

Nina Petrovna was around sixty but looked younger. Dyed chestnut hair styled neatly, manicured nails, light makeup. She was wearing an expensive suit Tatiana had never seen before.

“Health, health,” her mother-in-law mimicked. “A man needs meat! No wonder you still don’t have children. Dima probably doesn’t have the strength!”

Tatiana clenched her teeth to keep from snapping back. The subject of children was painful—they’d been trying for a year without success, and every hint from her mother-in-law hit the sorest spot.

“Why did you come, Nina Petrovna?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay calm.

“What do you mean, why? To check on you!” her mother-in-law threw up her hands theatrically. “Dimочка called yesterday—so upset. Said you’re fighting again over money. Tsk-tsk, Tanya! You can’t be so greedy!”

“Greedy?” Tatiana felt her cheeks flush. “I’m greedy? We give you half our family budget!”

“Don’t exaggerate!” Nina Petrovna waved her off. “And anyway, it’s my son’s money. He can do whatever he wants with it!”

“It’s our money. We’re a family!”

“Family?” her mother-in-law gave a contemptuous snort. “Family is blood relatives. And you… you’re a temporary phenomenon in my son’s life. Today you’re here, tomorrow you’re gone!”

Tatiana jumped up, knocking over her cup. Hot tea spilled across the table.

“How dare you say that? We’ve been married five years!”

“So what?” Nina Petrovna didn’t even move, watching as her daughter-in-law fussed with a rag. “Dima’s ex, Alyona, thought it was forever too. And where is she now? Exactly.”

Mentioning Dmitry’s ex-girlfriend was another favorite tactic. Alyona was the daughter of Nina Petrovna’s friend, and she still regretted her son hadn’t married her.

“Get out,” Tatiana said quietly, wringing the rag into the sink. “Get out of my house. Right now.”

“Yours?” her mother-in-law laughed. “Girl, this apartment was bought with money I gave Dima! So if anyone should leave…”

“What money?” Tatiana went rigid. “We saved the down payment ourselves! We put money aside for three years!”

Nina Petrovna smiled triumphantly.

“Then ask your husband where he got the last two hundred thousand for the down payment. Do you think an engineer’s salary lets you save that fast?”

Tatiana felt the ground slip out from under her feet. She remembered how Dmitry had happily announced he’d received a bonus at work—those exact two hundred thousand they’d been short.

“You’re lying,” she whispered.

“Check,” her mother-in-law said, standing up and straightening her jacket. “And think carefully before you start making demands. I can ask for that money back. I have an IOU.”

She headed for the door, then turned back in the doorway.

“And one more thing, dear. Dimочка will never choose you if he has to choose between us. Remember that!”

When the door closed behind her, Tatiana sank onto a chair and burst into tears. For five years she had been building a family, enduring nitpicks and humiliation, hoping things would get better with time. But it only got worse.

That evening, when Dmitry came home from work, Tatiana was waiting for him in the living room. The apartment documents lay on the table alongside a blank sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” he asked warily.

“Sit down,” Tatiana pointed to the chair across from her. “We need to have a serious talk.”

Dmitry sat, not taking his eyes off the documents.

“Your mother came by today. She said she gave us two hundred thousand for the apartment. Is that true?”

Dmitry went pale, then flushed red.

“Tanya, I can explain…”

“Just answer: yes or no?”

“Yes,” he forced out. “But it’s not exactly like she says! She offered to help—I didn’t ask!”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Tatiana tried to keep her voice steady, though everything inside her was raging. “You let me believe it was your bonus?”

“I didn’t want to upset you! I knew you’d be against it!”

“Of course I’d be against it! Because now your mother thinks she bought us! That she can come here like it’s her own home and tell us how to live!”

“She’s my mother, Tanya! My only real family!”

“And who am I?” Tatiana stood and walked to the window. Outside, the autumn evening was darkening, drizzle streaking the glass. “A stranger? A temporary phenomenon, like she said today?”

“She said that?” Dmitry frowned. “Mom goes too far sometimes, but she doesn’t mean harm. She just worries about me.”

“Worries?” Tatiana spun around. “She’s destroying our marriage—deliberately, methodically! And you’re helping her do it!”

“Don’t be dramatic!”

“I’m not being dramatic! Dima, look the truth in the face! Your mother is manipulating you! She isn’t sick—she doesn’t need money for treatment! She just wants you on a short leash!”

Dmitry sprang up, his face twisting with anger.

“How can you say that? She gave me her whole life!”

“And now she demands payment!” Tatiana shot back. “Normal parents don’t demand payback for raising their child!”

“If it’s that bad for you with me and my family, maybe you should leave,” Dmitry said coldly.

Silence fell. Tatiana looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. A stranger stood before her—his mother’s little boy, incapable of making independent decisions.

“Fine,” she said softly. “I’ll leave. But first we’re going to sort out the apartment. If your mother gave two hundred thousand, she can take it back. And we’ll sell the apartment and split what’s left fifty-fifty.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Dmitry went pale. “This is our home!”

“It was our home. Now it’s just real estate I can’t stay in anymore.”

Tatiana grabbed her purse and headed to the entryway.

“Where are you going?” Dmitry asked, bewildered.

“To my parents. To think. And you should think too—what you want: a family with me, or the eternal role of mommy’s boy.”

She walked out, closing the door softly behind her.

A week passed in silence. Tatiana stayed with her parents in their small two-room apartment on the outskirts of the city. Her mother, Elena Ivanovna, silently stroked her hair when she cried in the evenings. Her father, Mikhail Stepanovich, frowned and grumbled something about men these days, but didn’t offer advice.

Dmitry called every day, but Tatiana didn’t pick up. He wrote messages—she didn’t reply. On the fifth day a message came from her mother-in-law:

“Tanechka, let’s meet and talk like adults. The café on Sadovaya, tomorrow at three.”

Tatiana thought for a long time about whether to go. Curiosity won out.

Nina Petrovna was already waiting in the café, as always impeccably dressed and coiffed. In front of her stood a cup of expensive coffee and a plate with a pastry.

“Sit,” she nodded to the chair opposite. “Order something—I’m treating.”

“No thanks, I don’t want anything,” Tatiana sat down without taking off her coat.

“As you wish,” her mother-in-law shrugged. “So—have you come to your senses? Ready to come back?”

“What makes you think I want to come back?”

Nina Petrovna smirked.

“Girl, don’t play proud. Your parents’ apartment, no prospects. You’re thirty-two, no children. Who needs you?”

Tatiana clenched her fists under the table, but forced herself to smile.

“You know, Nina Petrovna, you’re right. I’m thirty-two, and I spent five years on a marriage with a man who can’t separate from his mother. But I have a job, an education, and my whole life ahead of me. And you…”

“What about me?” her mother-in-law tensed.

“You have a son who will never become a real man. Who will live with you until you die—and then he’ll be left alone. Because no normal woman will put up with what I put up with.”

Nina Petrovna turned red.

“How dare you!”

“And how dare you destroy my family?” Tatiana stood up. “You know what? Keep him. Live together. Wash his socks. Make him omelets with bacon. And when you’re gone, he’ll be a useless, unwanted infantile man. That will be on your conscience!”

She turned and headed for the exit, but her mother-in-law called after her:

“Tanya, wait! Maybe we can find a compromise?”

Tatiana turned around. Nina Petrovna looked shaken, as if she’d finally realized she’d gone too far.

“What compromise?” Tatiana asked wearily.

“Come back to Dima. I… I’ll interfere less. And I won’t ask for money!”

“Too late,” Tatiana shook her head. “You already showed Dima he can choose you over his wife. And he chose. Now live with that choice.”

A month later Tatiana filed for divorce. Dmitry tried to talk her out of it, came to her parents’ place, but she wouldn’t come out to see him. Finally he sent a long letter, begging, promising he would change, swearing he would put his mother in her place.

Tatiana replied briefly: “Too late.”

They sold the apartment. After repaying the debt to her mother-in-law and splitting what remained, Tatiana got enough for a down payment on a small one-bedroom place. She rented an apartment closer to work and started a new life.

Six months later Dmitry’s former coworker, Irina, called her.

“Tanya, hi! I heard you and Dima got divorced?”

“Yes. It’s been six months.”

“Listen, I’m not calling to gossip… I just thought you should know. Dima’s really bad. He barely shows up at work, looks awful. They say he’s started drinking. And his mother’s running around to everyone she knows trying to find him a bride. But nobody even agrees to a date once they hear what kind of mother-in-law she is!”

Tatiana was silent for a moment, then sighed.

“I feel sorry for Dima. I really do. But it was his choice.”

“You’re right,” Irina agreed. “By the way, how are you? They say you moved to another firm?”

“Yes—they offered me chief accountant. The salary’s twice as high!”

“Wow! Congrats! And your personal life?”

Tatiana smiled, looking at the bouquet of roses on the table—a gift from a new admirer, a grown, independent man whose mother lived in another city and didn’t meddle in his life.

“Slowly getting better.”

A year later, Tatiana ran into Nina Petrovna by chance in a shopping mall. Her former mother-in-law had aged and grown gaunt; the expensive suit had been replaced by a simple sweater and skirt.

“Tanya?” she called uncertainly.

Tatiana stopped. Beside her stood a tall man with kind brown eyes—her new husband, Alexander.

“Hello, Nina Petrovna.”

“How are you?” her mother-in-law looked at her with something like pity. “I heard you got married again?”

“Yes,” Tatiana looped her arm through Alexander’s. “This is my husband, Sasha.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alexander muttered, clearly having heard plenty about his wife’s ex-mother-in-law.

“And how’s Dima?” Tatiana asked out of politeness.

Nina Petrovna sniffled.

“Bad. He quit his job, sits at home all day. I get a small pension—we can barely make ends meet. And worst of all—his character’s turned awful! He yells at me, blames me for everything…”

“I’m very sorry,” Tatiana said—and it was true. She really did feel sorry for both Dima and his mother, who had ruined her son’s life with her own hands.

“Tanya, maybe you…” Nina Petrovna began, but Tatiana gently cut her off.

“No, Nina Petrovna. What’s done is done. All the best to you.”

She and Alexander walked on, while her former mother-in-law remained standing in the middle of the mall—small, lost, realizing far too late what price had been paid for the desire to control her son’s life.

Tatiana didn’t look back. A new life awaited her—with a man who chose her, not his mother. A man who could make his own decisions and take responsibility for them. A real family, where the mother-in-law had clear boundaries and the wife had respect and love.

And somewhere in an old apartment on the outskirts, two people continued living—an aging mother and her grown son, forever bound by a toxic love that wouldn’t let either of them truly live. The mother-in-law got what she wanted: her son stayed with her. But instead of joy, it brought only bitterness and loneliness together.

Tatiana’s story became a cautionary example for many of her friends who faced similar problems. She proved that sometimes leaving isn’t a defeat—it’s a victory. A victory over the fear of being alone, over the habit of enduring humiliation, over the illusion that everything will fix itself.

Life is too short to waste it on toxic relationships. And if you have to choose between being a wife and being an eternal daughter-in-law to a domineering mother-in-law, the choice is obvious. Because a real family is built by two adults—not a boy tied to his mother’s skirt and a woman trying to pull him away from it.

 

Okay then: the apartment is mine, the dacha outside Moscow is yours, the car is mine,” Andrey said, running his pen over the sheet without looking up. “You’ll get half of the bank deposit and my mother’s jewelry.”

I stared at the man I’d lived with for twenty-six years.

And I thought about how easily he was dividing up our life. Probably just as easily as, three months earlier, he’d told that girl from his department, “I love you.”

She was twenty-five. I remember being twenty-five—thinking I knew everything about life.

“It’s all fair under the law,” he added, finally lifting his eyes. “What we acquired during the marriage gets split fifty-fifty.”

Today Andrey was wearing a new shirt—white, with faint blue stripes.

We used to discuss purchases. Now he just showed up in new things. He’d even changed his cologne—from the one I’d given him for anniversaries to something sharp and youthful.

A folder of surprises

I nodded and pulled a folder of documents out of my handbag.

“You’re right, Andryusha. Let’s do it by the law, then.”

He frowned when he saw my folder.

He was probably expecting tears—or me begging him to come back. In twenty-six years he’d grown used to my predictability:

first I’d try to save the family,
then I’d accept his terms—
“for the children,” “to keep the relationship,” “for a sensible compromise.”

“What’s that?” he asked warily.

“Documents. You said: by the law. So let’s sort it out properly.”

Surprise number one

I opened the folder and took out the first page.

My mother’s will, notarized two years earlier, when she felt her strength fading.

A wise woman, my mother. She’d worked as a court secretary all her life. She knew paperwork settles more than emotions ever will.

“‘I bequeath to my only daughter, Lidiya Vadimovna Morozova, the apartment on…’” I read aloud slowly, savoring every word. “That’s the apartment, Andryusha. The very one you listed as ‘yours.’”

His face changed as the meaning reached him:

first confusion,
then bewilderment,
then something very close to panic.

“Lida, but we live there together…”

“Lived,” I corrected. “Legally, the apartment belonged to Mom. Now it belongs to me—by inheritance. It wasn’t acquired during the marriage.”

Surprise number two

“You kept quiet on purpose?”

“And why would I have said anything?” I shrugged. “We were a family. What difference did it make whose name it was in, if we were together? Now it turns out it does make a difference.”

Andrey reached for the will, but I slid it back into the folder.

“Show me again…”

“What for? It’s drafted properly. And the notary is reliable—Anna Vladimirovna Skvortsova on Krasnoselskaya. Remember? We went to her when we did the gift deed for the dacha.”

“What gift deed?” His voice went hoarse.

“Oh—you didn’t know?” I pulled out the second page. “The dacha is mine too. Mom gave it to me back in 1997, when we’d just gotten married. Looks like she sensed something.”

My mother’s wisdom

I remember that day.

She said, “Lidochka, a woman should always have a place she can go to.”

Back then it sounded strange—what young wife thinks about escape? Now I understand: Mom was smarter than I was.

“But we built the sauna together, added the veranda…”

“We did. And I’m grateful. We’ll have an expert assess the improvements—you’ll be compensated fairly.”

Andrey fell silent, scanning his notes.

His perfect division plan was crumbling. The apartment and the dacha were the main assets he’d counted on. That left the car, the deposits, and the furniture.

“Lida, this is… it’s somehow not right,” he said, and for the first time in months he wasn’t speaking in an ordering tone, but almost pleadingly. “I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“That everything we had was shared.”

“It was shared—until you decided to leave for Kristina.”

The name is spoken

He flinched at her name.

Yes, I knew what his new love was called. At the bank where I worked for twenty years, colleagues consider it their duty to warn you about things like that:

Lyudmila from the credit department saw them at a café.
Marina saw them at the mall.
For three months, city gossip tiptoed around me—until it finally reached my ears.

“How did you…?”

“Andryusha, I’m fifty-two. Do you really think that after all these years I wouldn’t learn how to tell when my husband…?”

He turned red.

It was strange seeing him embarrassed—Andrey usually kept his emotions on a tight leash. But now his plans were collapsing, and so was his control.

Surprise number three

“Lid, maybe we can talk sensibly? Not jump straight into paperwork…”

“We will talk,” I agreed. “But first we finish the property. I’ve got one more thing.”

A third page—an official bank statement for an account opened in my name.

The very deposit he’d so generously offered to split in half.

“You see, from the beginning I set some money aside in cash. Mom advised it—a woman needs a financial cushion. She was very wise, my mother.”

The number on the statement made Andrey whistle. It wasn’t as much as he’d imagined.

Twenty years of steady saving is serious money. But I didn’t put most of it into any joint account.

“You were saving… from me?”

 

“Not from you. For myself. And now I see—for this day.”

The moment of truth

He leaned back in his chair, staring at me as if I were a stranger.

“Lida, I don’t recognize you.”

“And I finally recognize myself,” I said. “For twenty-six years I was the convenient wife. I cooked, cleaned, raised the kids, didn’t ask unnecessary questions. And then I thought: what did I get in return?”

“You got a family. A home. Stability.”

“Stability?” I laughed. “Andryusha, you’ve been seeing a girl for three months who’s only a year older than our daughter. What stability are you talking about?”

After Mom died, I spent six months meeting with a lawyer, sorting out the inheritance.

That’s when I first learned:

what a will is,
what a gift deed is,
what ownership shares are.

Anna Vladimirovna explained patiently: “Lidiya Vadimovna, you’d be surprised how many women don’t know the basics of their rights.”

I didn’t know either. I thought my husband would arrange everything properly.

It turned out “properly” isn’t always “fair.”

Trying to regain control

He went quiet, absorbing this new reality.

I could see his mind at work—looking for loopholes, ways to challenge it, leverage he could use. But the paperwork was airtight, and he knew it.

“Do the kids know?”

“Know what exactly? That you’ve been lying to me? Or that I’m not as helpless as you thought?”

“Lida, why are you like this?” He rubbed his forehead. “We can settle this like human beings.”

“Like human beings—how? You leave for a younger woman, take the apartment and the dacha, and I nod gratefully?”

The worst part

“I didn’t want to upset you…”

“But you did. And you know what the worst part is? Not even your fling. It’s the way you spoke to me today—like I’m a stupid woman who doesn’t understand anything.”

Andrey stood and went to the window.

Outside, an October rain misted the glass. Yellow linden leaves stuck to the sill. In weather like this we used to drink tea together and talk about weekend plans.

A simple family life I valued more than he did.

One last attempt

“Lida… what if I stay?” he said without turning around. “We’ll forget it. Start over.”

“Start over?” I neatly stacked the documents back in the folder. “Andryusha—does Kristina know about your new plan?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Everything. Last night she called you four times. You think I didn’t hear? I was in the kitchen, listening to your tender little voice in the hallway.”

He turned around. His face was lost—almost childlike.

It’s interesting, watching a strong man unravel when his plans fall apart.

“I can explain…”

“No need. Do you know what I learned these past months? Explanations are just a way to shift blame. A wise woman doesn’t demand explanations. She draws conclusions.”

My conclusions

“And what conclusions did you draw?”

I stood and walked to the dresser where we kept our family photos.

I picked up a picture from five years ago—New Year’s at the dacha, the whole family around the tree. Back then I still believed in our fortress.

“That twenty-six years ago, I married a good man. And twenty-six years later I understood: a good person and a good husband aren’t the same thing.”

“Lida…”

“You know, Andryusha, when did I start suspecting?”

Not when I saw an unfamiliar girl’s number on your phone.
Not when I smelled someone else’s perfume on your shirt.
But when you stopped caring what I thought.

Remember how in spring you asked where I wanted to go on vacation? And by summer you simply announced: we’re going to Sochi—I already booked it.

A small detail, but it said everything.

“I thought you didn’t care…”

“Exactly. You decided I didn’t care. That I’m like furniture—there, not in the way, no need for special attention.”

A different life

He sat back down, resting his head in his hands.

“So what happens now?”

“Now you move out. You take your things, the car. No alimony—our kids are grown. I won’t stand in the way of your happiness with Kristina.”

“And you? What will you do?”

Good question.

I’d been thinking about it for weeks, once it became clear the divorce was inevitable. At first it terrified me—how do you live alone at fifty-two?

Then fear turned into curiosity.

What happens if I stop adjusting myself to someone else’s plans?

“I’ll live for myself. I’ll try to figure out what I actually like. For twenty-six years I knew what you liked, what the kids liked, what your mother liked, what the neighbors approved of. And what I like—I somehow never asked.”

Remembering our first date

“Lid, maybe we shouldn’t rush. Let’s think—”

“Do you know what I remembered when Lyudka from the bank told me about your café?” I said. “Not that you were cheating. But that you chose the very place where we met the first time. Remember? On Tverskaya, by the metro.”

He lifted his head; something like guilt flickered in his eyes.

“I didn’t think…”

“That’s the point. You didn’t think about me. And it’s not malice, not even a desire to hurt me. I just became invisible to you. And an invisible person can’t feel, grieve, dream. They’re simply there—or they’re not.”

Goodbye

“Lida, I—”

 

“Andryusha, don’t apologize. Apologies now are just a way to make your guilt smaller. I don’t need your guilt. I need my freedom.”

He gathered his papers and slipped the pen into his pocket. His movements were slow, as if he still hoped for something.

“The kids… how do we tell them?”

“The truth. That their parents are divorcing, but that doesn’t mean they stop being parents.”

“And if they ask who’s to blame?”

“We’ll say both of us. You—for cheating. Me—for letting myself become invisible.”

At the door he turned back.

“Lid… I really didn’t want to upset you.”

“I know. But you did. And now I know what I’m capable of. I got through this—so I’ll get through everything else too.”

The first evening of freedom

After he left, I brewed myself tea and sat by the window.

The rain had stopped; the sun was peeking out. On the table lay his pen—he’d forgotten it. Expensive, a company gift for his anniversary.

In the past, I would’ve run after him. Now I simply put it in a desk drawer.

My daughter understood

On my phone was an unread message from my daughter:

“Mom, how are you? I won’t call—probably you and Dad are having an important talk.”

A smart girl, my Anya. At twenty-eight she already understands more than I did at forty.

I wrote back: “I’m good. Dad’s moving out. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Her reply came quickly: “Finally. I didn’t want to push you because of appearances, but honestly I would’ve told you long ago—stop tolerating it.”

So that’s how it was. My daughter understood everything. She was waiting for me to ripen into the decision.

A friend approves

That evening Sveta, my college friend, called.

“Lid, I heard the news about Andrey and his secretary. How are you?”

“Good. I’m divorcing.”

“Finally! I’ve been looking at you two and thinking—when is Lidka going to wake up?”

“I woke up. Thanks to Mom’s paperwork.”

“What paperwork?”

I had to tell her about the documents, about today’s conversation. Sveta listened and laughed out loud.

“Lid, you’re incredible! So what now?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll live alone for a while. Get used to the quiet. Maybe I’ll get a cat—I always wanted one, but Andrey didn’t like animals.”

“And men? Any plans?”

“You know, Svet, right now I’m more interested in figuring myself out. Half a century, and I don’t even really know what music I like, what movies, even what kind of tea I prefer. I was always adjusting to the family.”

“So what do you like?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

A wish list

After the call, I sat down and wrote a list.

Not a list of chores—a list of wishes. The ones I kept postponing:

“later,”
“when there’s time,”
“when the kids grow up,”
“when Andrey retires.”

My new list:

Learn to drive.
Go to the sea—not on vacation, but just because I feel like it.
Read the books that have been sitting on the shelf for years.
Buy beautiful dishes—not practical ones, just beautiful.

And for the first time in many years, I didn’t feel exhausted by plans ahead of me—I felt curious about the future.

Outside, the streetlights came on.

For the first time in twenty-six years, the evening belonged only to me.

Sometimes the most important documents in a woman’s life aren’t a marriage certificate, but a wise mother’s will—and her own savings. And the most precious inheritance is the right to say “no” to anything that makes you invisible.

There are no victims here—only heroines with character

Marina slowly set down the calculator she had just used to total up the family budget. A ringing silence hung in their living room. Outside the March sun lit up the roofs of Moscow, but inside the room was half-dark—Igor had deliberately drawn the curtains before the talk.

“So you mean your mother is going to live in MY apartment?” Marina pulled the documents out of a folder. “Igor, do you realize how absurd your proposal is?”

“An absolutely NORMAL proposal,” he said, slouched in the armchair with one leg crossed over the other. “Formally the apartment will be yours—on paper. But Mom is old, she needs care. And I’ll come to her every day, help out. It’s convenient: you keep the apartment, as the law says, and Mom is looked after.”

Marina studied his face carefully. In fifteen years of marriage she had learned to read between the lines. Igor was hiding something, and that “something” was clearly connected to money.

“Valentina Petrovna lives perfectly well in her two-room flat in Khimki,” Marina remarked calmly. “She’s seventy-two, she does Nordic walking and runs knitting classes at the local community center. What care?”

“None of your business!” Igor snapped. “I’ve DECIDED, and that’s final. You sign the divorce agreement with that condition—or you won’t get anything at all. I’ll drag you through court for years, wear you down with proceedings.”

Marina took out a notebook and began writing something down. Igor twitched nervously.

“What are you scribbling there?”

“Calculating,” she replied curtly. “Your salary as a senior manager at a construction firm is one hundred eighty thousand rubles. My salary as a senior economist is ninety thousand. Over fifteen years of marriage I contributed to the family budget…”

“What does it matter!” Igor sprang up from the chair. “You didn’t work for three years when Alice was little!”

“Two years and seven months,” Marina corrected. “And even on maternity leave I did bookkeeping remotely for three sole proprietors. The income was thirty thousand a month. All receipts are saved, all transfers are recorded.”

“Are you out of your mind with your numbers!” Igor began pacing. “What receipts, what transfers! We were a FAMILY!”

“We were,” Marina agreed. “And that’s exactly why I documented every kopek. Do you know how many times your mother ‘borrowed’ money from us and never paid it back? Thirty-seven times. Total amount—eight hundred forty-three thousand rubles.”

Igor stopped in the middle of the room. His face turned a dark shade of red.

“DON’T YOU DARE talk about my mother! She helped us with Alice!”

“She helped fourteen times in fifteen years,” Marina said, flipping a page in the notebook. “Total time—forty-two days. At the average cost of a nanny in Moscow, that’s about one hundred twenty-six thousand rubles. That leaves a debt of seven hundred seventeen thousand.”

“You… you’re some kind of MONSTER!” Igor exhaled. “Who even keeps statistics like that in a family?”

“I do. Because I’m an economist. And because I noticed a strange pattern—your mother’s money always ‘disappeared’ two or three days before your ‘corporate parties.’ Remember that August when she urgently needed two hundred thousand for surgery? And the next day you bought a new watch. A Breitling Navitimer, model AB0127, price—two hundred twelve thousand rubles.”

 

Their daughter Alice peeked out from her room.

“Mom, Dad—why are you yelling?”

“Go do your homework, sunshine,” Igor said quickly. “Your mom and I are just… talking.”

When the door closed behind their daughter, he turned back to his wife.

“Fine, you want the truth? Mom is selling her apartment in Khimki. The buyers are already lined up—they’re offering a good price, twelve million. But she needs somewhere to live, right? So she’ll live in our… I mean, in your apartment.”

“Why would Valentina Petrovna sell her apartment?” Marina made a note in her notebook.

“She wants to travel in her old age,” Igor looked away. “It’s her dream.”

Marina opened her laptop and started searching.

“Strange. Here’s her social media page. Her last post was yesterday: ‘Knitted a new throw for the living room. So nice that I don’t have to go anywhere—home is best.’ And not a single post about travel in the last five years.”

“You’re spying on my mother?” Igor protested.

“I’m tracking FACTS,” Marina cut him off. “And the facts say you’re lying. Who needs those twelve million? You?”

Igor stayed silent, clenching and unclenching his fists. Marina continued:

“Three months ago you started coming home late. But not from work. I checked—your office pass logs you out at six p.m., and you get home at eleven. Five hours, Igor. Where do you put them?”

“That’s none of your—”

“It’s MY business, because you’re spending our joint money. In three months, four hundred eighty thousand rubles have been charged to the credit card. Restaurants, gifts, the Metropol Hotel—luxury suite, six times.”

“How do you—” Igor began, then stopped.

“I’m the one who does our family accounts, remember?” Marina opened a new file on her laptop. “I have access to all our accounts. And I see every transaction. Here, for example—a purchase at a jewelry boutique on Tverskaya: one hundred fifty thousand rubles. Diamond earrings. You didn’t give them to me. Or to Alice.”

“Maybe I bought them for Mom!” Igor blurted.

“Valentina Petrovna hasn’t worn earrings for ten years—metal allergy,” Marina replied evenly. “She told me herself. More than once. So who are the earrings for, Igoryok?”

He sank heavily back into the chair.

“There’s… someone. But it’s NOT what you think!”

“I’m not thinking—I KNOW. Elena Andreevna, twenty-eight, sales manager at your company. Height—one seventy-five, weight—about sixty kilos, clothing size—forty-six. Prefers Italian cuisine and semi-sweet white wine.”

“Did you hire a private detective?!” Igor gasped.

“Why would I?” Marina shrugged. “It’s enough to analyze your purchases. Restaurant ‘Italia’—eight times, always a table for two, always the same wine. A women’s size 46 Valentino dress—gift on February twenty-third. A strange date for a gift, until you learn it’s Elena’s birthday. Public information from your company’s corporate site.”

Igor wiped his sweaty forehead.

“So what? Yes, I have… a relationship. But that’s not a reason to give you the apartment!”

“The apartment will be mine anyway by law—it’s in my name, a wedding gift from my parents. You’re just registered here. But dividing the rest of the property is more interesting,” Marina opened another folder of documents. “You see, Igor, I calculated your real income.”

“What do you mean, ‘real’?”

“Your salary is one hundred eighty thousand. But you spend an average of three hundred twenty thousand a month. The difference is one hundred forty thousand. Over a year—that’s one million six hundred eighty thousand. Where does that money come from, Igor?”

“Bonuses, incentives…”

“All your official bonuses go through accounting. Last year you got three hundred thousand in bonuses. That’s IT. That leaves an unexplained income of one million three hundred eighty thousand rubles a year.”

Igor went pale.

“You won’t prove anything.”

“I don’t have to prove anything. In the divorce I’ll submit these calculations and ask the court to divide not only official income, but the real one. The court will order a financial audit. I think your management will be VERY interested in where a chief procurement manager gets extra money.”

“You… you’re blackmailing me?”

“I’m dealing in NUMBERS. Look—last year your company bought construction materials totaling two hundred million rubles. Prices were inflated by an average of three to four percent compared to market. That’s six to eight million rubles in overpayment. And if we assume you get a kickback of twenty percent of the overpayment…”

“ENOUGH!” Igor shouted. “What do you want?”

Marina closed the laptop and looked at her husband steadily.

“I want FAIRNESS. A divorce with no conditions. The apartment stays with me and Alice—it’s mine anyway. Child support—twenty-five percent of your official salary, as the law requires. And none of your mother living in my apartment.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll send my calculations not only to the court, but to your CEO as well. Mr. Vorontsov is very particular about financial cleanliness. Remember how he fired Semyonov for taking three thousand rubles from the till?”

Igor jumped up and started darting around the room.

“You’ll destroy me! My job, my reputation, my mom…”

“Your mother will get her twelve million for the apartment and live quite comfortably—unless you take that money from her. And that’s exactly what you planned, isn’t it? Sell your mother’s apartment, take the money for yourself and Elena’s new home, and move Valentina Petrovna into my apartment. Elegant. Only it won’t work.”

The doorbell rang. Igor flinched.

“Who could that be?”

“Your mother,” Marina answered calmly as she stood to open the door. “I invited her for tea. And I’m going to tell her a few things.”

“NO!” Igor lunged for the door, but Marina was already opening it.

Valentina Petrovna entered, taking off her coat.

“Marinochka, dear, thank you for inviting me! Igoryok, you’re home too? Wonderful!”

“Mom, maybe not now…” Igor started, but Marina cut him off.

“Valentina Petrovna, come into the living room. We need to discuss something important. It concerns your apartment in Khimki.”

The elderly woman raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“My apartment? What about it?”

“Igor says you’re going to sell it for twelve million.”

“SELL?!” Valentina Petrovna threw up her hands. “I’ve lived there my whole life! My friends are there, my knitting club, my favorite clinic nearby! Igor, what nonsense is this?”

Igor blushed.

“Mom, I just… it’s a misunderstanding…”

 

“No misunderstanding,” Marina said, pulling documents from the folder. “Here’s a copy of a preliminary sale agreement for your apartment. The signature is forged, but the handwriting looks a lot like yours, Valentina Petrovna. Igor did his best—he must have practiced.”

“What?!” the elderly woman clutched her chest. “Igor, is that true?”

“Mom, I’ll explain everything…”

“And while you’re at it, explain where the money went that you borrowed from us ‘for Valentina Petrovna,’” Marina added. “Eight hundred forty-three thousand rubles. For medicines, surgeries, treatment… And your mother, as it turns out, didn’t even know about those loans.”

“Igor Mikhailovich,” Valentina Petrovna rose slowly, steel entering her voice. “So you LIED to your wife that you were taking money for me?”

“Mom, it’s not like—”

“Then how is it?!” the elderly woman stamped her foot. “Marinochka is showing you numbers and documents! You wanted to sell MY apartment? Where were you planning to put me?”

Marina answered calmly:

“With us. Meaning with me. After the divorce the apartment stays with me, but you were supposed to live here. And Igor planned to spend the money from your apartment on a new place for himself and his… mistress.”

“Mistress?!” Valentina Petrovna sank back down. “You have another woman?”

Igor was silent, staring at the floor.

“You know what,” Valentina Petrovna said, turning decisively to Marina. “Show me all your calculations. EVERY last kopek. I want to know what my son spent the family money on.”

For the next hour, Marina methodically laid out the facts—every purchase, every transfer, every restaurant visit. Valentina Petrovna listened, her face growing darker and darker.

“Four hundred eighty thousand in three months on some other woman,” she concluded. “And for my birthday—a bouquet for fifteen hundred. Thank you, son, your daughter-in-law opened my eyes.”

“Mom, don’t listen to her! She’s twisting everything!”

“NUMBERS don’t lie, Igoryok,” Valentina Petrovna snapped. “I may be a pensioner, but I’m not a fool. Marina calculated it all correctly. And you… you’re a TRAITOR. You betrayed your wife, and you tried to set me up.”

She turned to Marina.

“Dear, if you need my help during the divorce—testimony or anything else—come to me. And I’ll visit Alice too, if you allow it. My granddaughter isn’t to blame.”

“Of course, Valentina Petrovna. Alice loves you.”

“Mom, what, you’re on her side?!” Igor howled.

“I’m on the side of the TRUTH,” the elderly woman replied harshly. “And you know what? Forget my address. Forget my phone number too. You thought you’d sell my apartment… I’ll cut you out of the will, I’ll deed it all to my granddaughter! You won’t get a kopek!”

She marched toward the door, but paused on the threshold.

“Marina, you’re doing everything right. Mathematics is a great thing. It brings a swindler into the light. Good luck, my dear.”

When the door closed behind Valentina Petrovna, silence fell over the apartment. Igor sat in the chair, head in his hands.

“You ruined everything,” he said dully.

“No, Igor. You ruined everything yourself. I just CALCULATED your ruins. In rubles and kopeks.”

Marina gathered the documents back into the folder and stood.

“Tomorrow I’m expecting you at the notary’s. Ten a.m. We’ll sign the divorce agreement on my terms. If you don’t show up—at eleven all my calculations will be on Mr. Vorontsov’s desk.”

“I’ll come,” Igor nodded, defeated.

“And one more thing,” Marina stopped in the doorway. “I also calculated something for your mistress. For example: of the jewelry and clothes you gave her—two million three hundred thousand rubles total—half was bought with MY money. From our joint account. That’s dissipation of marital property. It can be recovered. With interest.”

“You contacted her?!” Igor blurted.

“Not yet. But if you keep being stubborn—I will. And I’ll tell her about your financial schemes at work. I think she’ll be VERY interested to know who she’s involved with. A man who steals from his company and forges his mother’s signature isn’t exactly a good match.”

Igor sprang up.

“That’s blackmail!”

“That’s MATHEMATICS,” Marina corrected. “A simple equation: you stole—you’ll repay. Or you’ll lose everything. The choice is yours.”

A month later the divorce was finalized. Igor moved into a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts of Moscow—Elena dumped him when she learned the truth about his schemes. At work, a financial audit began after an anonymous letter (Marina did send part of her calculations, without stating the amounts). Igor was demoted to an ordinary manager with a sixty-thousand-ruble salary.

Valentina Petrovna kept her word—she struck her son from the will, leaving everything to her granddaughter Alice. And she regularly visited her former daughter-in-law, bringing her signature cabbage pies.

And Marina hung a beautiful framed quote in her office with her life motto: “Numbers don’t lie. They simply show the truth in its purest form.”

When six months later Igor tried to reduce child support, citing his lower income, Marina simply submitted her calculations of his real income from previous years to the court. The court kept the child support unchanged and ordered Igor to pay the arrears.

“You destroyed me with your numbers!” he shouted after the hearing.

“No,” Marina answered calmly. “You destroyed yourself with your lies. I just CALCULATED it. Down to the last kopek

 

Galina Petrovna walked in without knocking—using her own keys, as always. Lena was standing at the stove and didn’t even turn around.

“Lenochka, I brought cottage cheese. Real stuff, not that store-bought garbage. I see your fridge is empty—what are you feeding Andrey?”

Her mother-in-law went into the kitchen and started unloading groceries. Lena silently stepped back toward the window.

“And the place is a mess, too. The shelves are dirty, the vegetables are wilted. Good thing I came.”

The word came grated on Lena’s ear. Galina Petrovna said it as if she planned to stay for a long time.

Andrey came home that evening, exhausted. The moment he saw his mother, he perked up.

“Mom, how are you feeling? What did the doctor say?”

“Oh, nothing special. I’m just keeping an eye on you—on your own you can’t cope.”

At dinner, his mother picked up her fork, tasted the meat, and grimaced.

“Too salty. And tough. Andrey remembers how I cook—tender, with soul.”

Her husband nodded without lifting his eyes from his plate. Lena clenched her fists under the table.

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you, dear. Otherwise my son’s walking around hungry.”

In the morning, music blared at seven. Galina Petrovna was doing exercises in a tracksuit.

“Lena! Quiet in the kitchen! I need to concentrate!”

By lunchtime she had washed all the dishes, rearranged the jars, and thrown out half the food.

“It was expired. Good thing I checked. Otherwise you’ll poison yourselves.”

Lena stared at her kitchen. Even her grandmother’s salt cellar was gone.

“And where…?”

“What is it, dear? Oh, that old thing? I put it away—it’s ugly. I have a better one.”

That evening Andrey praised her:

“Mom, it’s so clean now! Lena, thank Mom.”

Lena said nothing. Eight years of marriage, and he still didn’t understand.

Three weeks later, over breakfast, Galina Petrovna announced:

“Kids, I’ve got news. I’ve decided to do renovations—my pipes are in terrible shape. I’ll have to stay with you.”

Andrey nodded immediately.

“Of course, Mom. Stay as long as you need.”

“And how long will that be?” Lena asked quietly.

“Who knows with builders. Maybe a month, maybe half a year.”

A satisfied spark flashed in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

The next day a car arrived. Three suitcases, boxes of dishes, houseplants.

“Lena, sweetheart, clear out half the closet for me. And I’ll need shelves in the bathroom.”

By evening the apartment had changed. The sofa had been turned around, the pictures rehung, the table covered with medications.

“Now it’s cozy! Andrey, how do you like it?”

“Great, Mom. Right, Lena?”

Lena stood by the window. Even the view outside looked чужим—like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

A week passed in commands and instructions.

 

“Lena, you’re doing the laundry wrong—you waste too much detergent.”

“Lena, you cook too greasy—I need a diet.”

“Lena, you vacuum badly—there’s dust under the sofa.”

Andrey nodded every time.

“Mom’s right, Lena. She’s experienced.”

Two weeks later, his mother said the main words:

“You know what, kids? Maybe I shouldn’t go back at all. It’s comfortable here, and everything’s under control.”

Lena froze with a cup in her hands.

“What do you mean—not go back?”

Andrey turned to her in surprise.

“What’s the big deal? Family should be together. You have to accept my mom!”

Silence hung like a heavy weight.

That evening Lena waited for her husband in the kitchen. She sat in the dark, thinking.

“Andrey, I need to talk to you.”

He sat down across from her, tired.

“If it’s about Mom—we’ve already decided everything.”

“We haven’t decided anything. You announced a decision for both of us.”

Andrey rubbed his forehead.

“Lena, be reasonable. She’s old, she’s alone…”

“And what am I—not alone? In my own home?”

He sighed.

“She’s my mother. I can’t abandon her.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

The words came out quieter than Lena intended. But clearer.

“Lena, don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic. Choose—either your mother goes back to her place, or I’m the one leaving this home.”

Andrey stared down at the table for a long minute.

“I can’t kick my mother out.”

Lena nodded.

“Got it.”

In the morning she packed a bag. Galina Petrovna was reading a newspaper on the sofa.

“Where are you off to?”

“To a friend’s. Not for long.”

“Good. Cool off, come to your senses.”

Lena walked out without looking back.

For a week she lived at her friend’s place, planning. Andrey called every day.

“Lena, stop sulking. Mom keeps asking when you’re coming back.”

“And what do you tell her?”

“That soon. You can’t live with strangers forever.”

On the eighth day Lena came back. But not alone.

“Andrey, Galina Petrovna—meet my mother.”

Behind Lena stood a short woman with kind eyes and a small bag.

Her mother-in-law jumped up from the sofa.

“What is this supposed to be?”

“My mom needs care too. She’ll be living with us.”

Galina Petrovna turned crimson.

“There’s no room here for outsiders!”

Lena calmly took off her jacket.

“Strange. There was room for you.”

Andrey looked from his mother to his wife, lost.

“Lena, what are you doing?”

“The same thing you did. Taking care of someone I love.”

Lena’s mother modestly walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Galina Petrovna rushed around the apartment.

“Andrey! Throw that woman out immediately!”

“Mom, but if you can live here, why can’t Lena’s mother?”

His mother-in-law stopped and stared at her son.

“Because I’m your mother! This is my home!”

Lena’s mother peeked out from the kitchen.

“Galina Petrovna, don’t worry. I’m quiet, I won’t take up much space. You’ll get used to me.”

The last words sounded painfully familiar. Galina Petrovna heard the echo of her own phrases.

By evening the tension hit its limit. Galina Petrovna searched for reasons to fight.

“She cooks too spicy! My stomach is sick!”

Lena sat down beside her on the sofa.

“Put up with it, Galina Petrovna. My mom is kind—you’ll get along.”

“I’m not going to get along with anyone!”

“Then what are we supposed to do? Family should be together, after all.”

Every word landed dead center. Galina Petrovna grabbed at her chest.

“This is mockery! I can’t take it anymore!”

Lena’s mother brought her valerian.

“Drink this, calm down. I was upset at first too, when I ended up with strangers. But nothing—we adjusted.”

Andrey sat in the kitchen, finally understanding the horror of it.

“Lena, what are you plotting? Two mothers in one house…”

“You said I had to accept it. Now you accept it.”

In the morning Galina Petrovna stood by the door with her suitcases.

“Andrey, I’m leaving! I won’t tolerate strangers in the house!”

“Mom, wait. Maybe you can agree somehow…”

“I won’t agree with anyone! Either she leaves, or I do!”

Lena’s mother calmly washed dishes, humming a little tune.

Lena walked her mother-in-law to the threshold.

“Galina Petrovna, the door is always open. Come back whenever you want.”

“And if your mother stays?”

“As long as she needs to.”

The door slammed.

Half an hour later, Lena’s mother packed her bag.

“Daughter, I should go home. The job is done.”

Andrey finally saw clearly.

“You came on purpose?”

“What did you think? Lena asked me to show you what it’s like—sharing your home with a stranger.”

 

Lena hugged her mom.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

When her mother left, the spouses were alone. Andrey sat on the sofa where his mother’s pillows had been yesterday.

“You planned all this?”

“I just let you feel what I’ve been feeling for eight years.”

Lena flung the windows wide open. Fresh air filled the apartment.

“And if Mom comes back?”

“Then we’ll talk about rules. Honestly, and in advance.”

She took her grandmother’s salt cellar out of the back of the cabinet and put it in its usual place.

“Andrey, I’m not against your mom. But this is our home. And I’m the woman of the house.”

Her husband was silent, watching as his wife returned the apartment to the way it used to be. The lesson had been learned.

A week later Galina Petrovna called.

“Andrey, can I come by? Just to visit.”

“Of course, Mom.”

She arrived with a small bouquet and sat quietly at the table. She tasted Lena’s food and nodded.

“Delicious. Teach me that recipe sometime.”

As she was leaving, she stopped at the door.

“Lena, forgive me. I understand now.”

After she left, Andrey hugged his wife.

“You turned out to be smarter than all of us.”

“I just know the value of my home.”

That evening they sat on the sofa, watching TV. For the first time in months—just the two of them. Lena smiled. The war was over. And she had won