All Amazing Babies

Lena suspected her husband was unfaithful. Lately he’d been acting too strangely, too distant. Only two years into the marriage, and they already felt like strangers. Her mother-in-law had warned her, said her son was fickle and that Lena should think a hundred times before deciding to marry him. Back then Lena believed she could make her husband settle down. She had been very wrong. Now she herself understood how foolish and naïve she’d been—but it was too late to cry over it. She needed proof, and if Maksim really was seeing someone on the side, she would simply file for divorce.

 

Her husband had been coming home late. Often Lena was already asleep, and when she woke up, he would slip off to work. But that evening she decided to stay up. She made a delicious dinner, dressed up, and decided it was time they talked. Lena turned off the light in the living room, watching the streetlights shimmer outside. Maksim assumed his wife was asleep. He tiptoed into the living room and started when he heard a familiar voice.

“Why are you sitting in the dark and scaring me like that?” Maksim snapped.

“What’s there to be afraid of if you’ve got nothing to hide?” Lena asked, slowly turning. She looked at her husband and smiled.

Maksim switched on the light; she could see he’d gone pale. They had supposedly loved each other so much, but now a chasm had opened between them—one that seemed impossible to bridge. Seeing her husband no longer filled Lena with that joyful flutter. She felt superfluous, and time after time forced her feelings to fall silent. Perhaps they had gone silent for good.

“You’re talking nonsense. I’d like to see you in my place,” Maksim snorted. “Why aren’t you asleep at this hour?”

“I was waiting for you. I made dinner. We hardly see each other anymore, so I thought we should try to fix that. You work late, and I… I don’t mind going to bed later.”

Lena kept thinking how best to approach the question gnawing at her. She watched her husband, trying to catch a flicker of fear in his eyes. Was he even a little afraid of losing her? Did it cross his mind their marriage could end?

“You shouldn’t have waited up. I’m tired—I’m in no mood to talk. You’ve already said it yourself: I’m working late, not out having fun.”

Only his voice was trembling, betraying his confusion. What did that mean? A lump of hurt rose in her throat, but Lena held firm and smiled again.

“Then let’s just have dinner together. We don’t have to talk. But if there’s something to say, it’s better not to keep quiet—so this doesn’t drag on—so we can still fix at least something before we sink for good.”

Maksim didn’t react at all, as if her words weren’t meant for him. He pretended not to hear, and Lena decided she wouldn’t push tonight. She would watch a little longer.

They ate in silence. Every so often Maksim cast her a nervous glance, then looked away and pretended not to notice her. In the morning he rushed off to work earlier than usual, as if he were avoiding Lena, afraid she would ask awkward questions. For the weekend he’d told her he planned to go fishing with friends, but Lena learned his friends weren’t going anywhere. The conclusion suggested itself. Still, she wasn’t about to cave and surrender. She waited for her husband to act—at least somehow.

That evening Maksim came home upset. He smelled faintly of alcohol. Lena was waiting, as if she knew the verdict would be delivered right then.

“I’m tired of hiding from you. I’m afraid to come back to my own apartment. And you’re no help—you’re always glaring at me like a wolf. In short, we need to split up. I made a mistake marrying you. I should’ve used my head back then, but I was infatuated, and now I see you’re not the woman I want to share my life with.”

How much those words echoed what her mother-in-law had said. Alla Vladimirovna had persistently warned Lena and asked her not to take offense later—she was the one who’d taken the risk. And now she was hearing it from her husband.

“I’ve found someone else. Pack your things and get out of my apartment. I want to live like a normal person instead of constantly looking for excuses. I think you’ve figured it all out already, since you’ve started asking the ‘right’ questions.”

Maksim coughed and lifted his eyes to his wife. Guilt flickered in them, but not strongly enough. There was a struggle going on inside him, and he was doing his best to smother his conscience.

“I figured as much, but… I’m not going anywhere,” Lena replied, crossing one leg over the other and lifting her chin.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you really enjoy playing the wronged wife?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys that. I’m not against a divorce—I’ve already prepared everything necessary—but you’re not going to throw me out of the apartment.”

Maksim was shocked by her audacity. He’d expected her to throw a fit, to lash out at him and sob, then pack her things and move in with her mother. Isn’t that what wronged wives do? But Lena looked at him as if she had planned everything out. She was smiling, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

“And what does that mean? You plan to stay in my apartment? I want to bring the woman I love here. You don’t think she’ll like having my ex around, do you? Should I remind you this is my place? I bought it with my money, and you didn’t put in a single kopeck. I never asked you for anything, and whatever you bought for the house—you can take it, I won’t ask you to leave it.”

Lena couldn’t suppress a smirk. Maybe in another situation she wouldn’t have behaved like this, but the hurt lodged deep inside was speaking for her. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Not only had he found someone else, he had lied for so long—choosing which woman was “better” in his eyes. If he’d told her everything right away, she might have taken pity—but not now. Now she had a plan, and she wanted to teach him a lesson, so he wouldn’t dare act like this again, to show him that women are smart and can stand up for themselves. Lena certainly could.

“Why so quiet? What are you plotting?”

“I’ll let you figure it out yourself,” Lena said calmly. “Any thoughts yet? Or do I have to spoon-feed it to you like a child?”

She wasn’t going to grovel before the man who had betrayed her and laughed at her behind her back. She spoke to Maksim the way he deserved. She could no longer smile while looking into his eyes—and he knew it. She had been faithful, taken care of him, planned a future together. It was good she’d begun preparing for this outcome as soon as the first alarm bells rang. Good that she’d kept her distance and hadn’t gotten pregnant. Otherwise it would have been far more painful and difficult.

“You can explain it, if you think I’m too stupid to see what’s obvious.”

“Fine,” Lena stood up from the couch and went to the window. “This isn’t your apartment, dear husband. It’s marital property, because you bought it after we got married. I’m not going anywhere until we divide it according to the law.”

Maksim flushed with rage. He clenched his fists and squinted. He’d thought he’d married a simple, naïve girl, but Lena turned out to be too shrewd. Was she planning to leave him homeless after all the sweat and blood he’d put into earning this place?

“You didn’t put in a single kopeck. That’ll be easy to prove!” he protested.

Lena only smiled and nodded. She had already met with a lawyer. She’d decided to act only after getting a legal consultation. Proving she hadn’t contributed a penny would not be so easy. In most cases the judge rules in favor of splitting property acquired during marriage equally, regardless of unequal contributions to the budget. Maksim had made a big mistake buying the apartment that way. He could have done it before the marriage was registered, but for some reason he dragged his feet. And now he’d fallen into his own trap.

“Go ahead and try. I’m not stopping you. We have equal rights. You can defend your position, and I can demand what the law grants me. Until the court case is over, I’m not moving out. So hold off on moving your new sweetheart in, unless you want me to make her life so miserable she’ll run off before you even get the divorce.”

 

Maksim was stunned. He looked at his wife differently now. She suddenly seemed too smart, too… He hadn’t noticed before, had stopped noticing—but now she seemed even more beautiful. Why had he ever pulled away and given in to temptation? He drove the foolish thoughts from his head. He’d already decided. He was getting divorced, and Lena was too crafty. They would have to fight, but Maksim planned to defend his position to the bitter end.

Alla Vladimirovna condemned her son’s behavior. She refused to testify on his behalf and said it was all his own fault. If Maksim had listened to her and not acted recklessly, it wouldn’t have come to this.

“Lena’s a good woman. She did what she did because you hurt her too badly. You have to pay for your mistakes. If you couldn’t keep your pants on, then take responsibility. Maybe next time you’ll use your head. And if not, you’ll lose something again. You won’t just lose half an apartment. You’ll lose the woman who loved you. Finding another like her won’t be easy. Not at all—but that’s not my problem.”

Maksim’s spirits sank at the very start of the proceedings, because he realized his chances were slim. The judge ruled in Lena’s favor and ordered the apartment split.

“Got what you wanted? I suppose that’s why you married me in the first place?” Maksim asked bitterly.

Lena only gave her ex-husband a reproachful look and said nothing. She saw no point in justifying herself. He was unlikely to understand. A new chapter was beginning in her life, and she couldn’t afford to stumble again.

She moved into a rental not far from her office. She authorized her attorney to handle the sale of her share of the apartment because she no longer wanted to see her ex or listen to the nasty things he used to wound her.

Maksim fell into a depression. When his new lover learned he’d lost the apartment and for the foreseeable future could only afford a tiny studio, she bolted at once. She had no intention of tying herself to a pauper—and hadn’t planned anything serious anyway.

“I was just having fun. I never asked you to divorce,” the girl said in parting.

Maksim was left with nothing. It took him a while to grasp what his mother had meant, but now he realized he’d lost more than property… he’d lost his family through his own stupidity. Spending his evenings in languid solitude, he kept thinking… he missed Lena, but he had to admit she wouldn’t be coming back. He needed to move on and use his head from now on. But would he truly learn his lesson when the next temptation appeared on the horizon—one so hard to resist?

Irina stood at the kitchen window, watching October leaves whirl in the air before dropping onto the wet asphalt. Ten-year-old Katya was fussing with her homework at the table, glancing at her mother now and then in the hope of getting help with math.

“Mom, how do I solve this one?” the girl asked, pointing her pencil at the textbook.

Irina came over and sat beside her. Katya was a bright child, but math didn’t come easily. From Irina’s first marriage she’d been left with only warm memories of Katya’s father—and Katya herself, the most precious thing in her life.

“Let’s work through it together,” Irina smiled, taking the book.

An hour later her husband, Sergey, came home from work. He was an engineer at a factory and always returned tired, but he tried to give his family his attention. He treated Katya with understanding and care, and Irina valued that deeply.

“How’s my smart girl doing?” Sergey asked, ruffling Katya’s hair.

“Studying math, Daddy Sergey,” the girl replied. She had quickly grown to love her new dad, who never shouted and always listened.

The family idyll didn’t last long. Soon Galina Ivanovna—Sergey’s mother—burst into their lives. She had been widowed a year earlier and now spent most of her time visiting her son, inspecting the young family’s household with a critical eye.

The first signs of hostility showed up immediately. Galina Ivanovna would enter the apartment without knocking, look around the rooms, and wrinkle her nose as if she were seeing something improper.

“Sergey, why does the girl have her own room?” his mother asked during one of her visits. “Isn’t that a bit too luxurious for a child?”

Irina froze by the stove where she was cooking dinner. Katya was playing in her room and couldn’t hear the conversation, but her mother could feel the atmosphere tighten.

“Mom, Katya is part of our family,” Sergey answered calmly. “She needs a place to study and play.”

“Part of the family…” Galina Ivanovna drawled. “Well, yes, of course.”

There was such coldness in her voice that Irina turned and met her mother-in-law’s hostile gaze. Galina Ivanovna looked at her as if she were an impostor.

The next visit brought fresh unpleasantness. Galina Ivanovna came on a Sunday, when the whole family was gathered at the dinner table. Irina had tried to make something special—roast chicken with vegetables and a homemade salad.

“Katya, scoot closer to your mother,” Galina Ivanovna requested as she sat down. “I need a seat closer to my Seryozhenka.”

The girl obediently moved, but Irina noticed her frown. Katya was sensitive and picked up on adults’ moods.

“You cook well,” the mother-in-law said, tasting the chicken. “Although of course it isn’t the way Sergey likes it. He’s been used to different food since childhood.”
Gift baskets

“And how exactly?” Irina asked, trying to stay composed.

“Home-style, the real way. Not these modern experiments of yours.”

Sergey kept silent, eating intently and avoiding his wife’s eyes. Irina could see he felt uncomfortable, but he preferred not to get involved in a conversation between his mother and his wife.

After dinner, when Katya went to her room to do homework, Galina Ivanovna launched a full-on attack.

“Sergey, I want to talk to you,” she announced. “About our family’s future.”

“Mom, we already are a family,” her son replied wearily.

“What family?” she snorted. “Strange blood isn’t kin. That girl will never be a real granddaughter. And you’re spending time and money on her—resources that should go to your own children.”

Irina stood at the sink washing dishes, her hands trembling with indignation. The blood rushed to her face, but she forced herself to keep quiet to avoid a scene in front of the child.

“Mom, don’t talk like that,” Sergey said. “Katya’s a good girl.”

“Good, not good—that’s not the point,” she waved him off. “It’s about blood, about lineage. And that girl is a stranger. She has her own room, your attention, and you spend money on her needs.”

“Galina Ivanovna,” Irina couldn’t hold back any longer and turned from the sink. “Katya is my daughter, and as long as we live in this apartment, she will have her own room.”

Her mother-in-law looked at her with undisguised contempt.

“As long as you live…” Galina Ivanovna pronounced slowly. “And who said that will be for long?”

Sergey looked up from his plate at his mother in surprise.

“Mom, what do you mean?”

“I mean that sooner or later he’ll have to choose,” she said coldly. “Between the past and the future. Between other people’s children and his own blood.”

After Galina Ivanovna left, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. Katya was in her room, but Irina was sure the girl had heard the conversation. Children always sense tension between adults.

“Sergey, we need to talk,” Irina said when her husband settled down in front of the TV.

“About what?” he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

“About what’s going on. Your mother is openly showing hostility toward Katya.”

“Mom is just getting used to the new situation,” he sighed. “She lost Dad; it’s hard for her.”

“Sergey, she’s demanding that Katya give up her room!”

“Mom didn’t demand anything like that.”

Irina sat down next to him and turned his face toward her.

“You heard the same thing I did. Galina Ivanovna thinks my daughter is a burden.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Mom is just expressing her opinion.”

“And what’s your opinion?”

Sergey was silent for a long time, and that silence told Irina more than any words. He was torn between his wife and his mother, but he didn’t want to choose.

The following weeks brought new trials. Galina Ivanovna began coming more often, as if checking how the family lived without her supervision. She criticized everything—from the meals Irina cooked to the way she raised her daughter.

“You spend too much time with the girl,” the mother-in-law declared one evening. “Sergey comes home from work exhausted, and you’re busy with a stranger’s child instead of taking care of your husband.”

“Katya is not a stranger,” Irina said through clenched fists. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s a stranger to me,” Galina Ivanovna snapped. “And a stranger to our line. And it’s time Sergey thought about his own children instead of wasting his energy raising someone else’s girl.”

At that moment Katya was doing her homework in her room, but the thin walls couldn’t hide the loud argument. The girl was smart and understood she had become the cause of family conflicts.

“Mom, doesn’t Grandma Galya love me?” Katya asked before bed.

Irina sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and stroked her hair. How could she explain what she herself couldn’t understand?

“Adults sometimes behave strangely, sunshine,” she said softly. “That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“But she says I’m a stranger.”

“You are my own daughter, and no one has the right to say otherwise.”

Katya hugged her mother and pressed close. Irina felt how the tension of the past weeks was taking its toll on the child. The girl had withdrawn, played less, and spent more time alone in her room.

The climax came on a November evening. Galina Ivanovna arrived earlier than usual, when Sergey was still at work. She walked through the apartment and peeked into every room as if she were inspecting the premises.

“Where’s Katya?” she asked.

“At school,” Irina replied. “They have extra classes.”

“Good. Then we can speak frankly.”

The mother-in-law sat in an armchair opposite the couch where Irina was and studied her daughter-in-law.

“You’re a smart woman,” she began. “And you should understand that this can’t go on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That girl is ruining my son’s future. Sergey spends time, money, and emotions on her. And what will he get in return? Another man’s child will never be grateful. She’ll grow up and go back to her real father.”

Irina listened in silence, feeling anger swell inside her. Galina Ivanovna spoke of Katya as if the girl were an object, not a living person.

“Katya doesn’t have another father,” Irina said coldly. “Sergey is her real dad.”

“A real dad must be blood,” the mother-in-law cut her off. “It’s time for Sergey to think about his own children. But as long as a stranger’s child is in the house, he won’t be able to focus on what matters.”

“And what are you proposing?”

Galina Ivanovna got up and went to the window; it was already dark outside.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” she said slowly. “And I’ve concluded the girl would be better off in a special institution. There she’ll be taught discipline and given the proper upbringing.”

“What?” Irina sprang from the couch.

“An orphanage isn’t as terrible as it sounds. Professionals work there; there’s routine and education. And Sergey will finally be able to build a normal family.”

“You’re suggesting I put my daughter in an orphanage?”

“I’m suggesting you think about the future. Yours, Sergey’s, and the future children you could have if not for this burden.”

Irina froze, staring at her mother-in-law. The woman spoke calmly and deliberately, as if discussing the purchase of new furniture.

“Galina Ivanovna, you’re out of your mind,” Irina said quietly.

“I’m perfectly sane,” the mother-in-law replied. “And I’m saying what Sergey should have said. But my son is too soft to make hard decisions.”

At that moment a key turned in the lock and footsteps sounded in the hall. Sergey had come home from work.

“Hi, my dears,” he called, taking off his jacket.

Galina Ivanovna straightened and gave Irina a warning look.

“Think about what I’ve said,” she whispered. “And remember: I always get my way.”

Sergey came into the room and saw the two women standing facing each other in tense silence.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from his mother to his wife.

“We were just chatting,” Galina Ivanovna smiled. “About family matters.”

“Yes,” Irina nodded, trying to stay calm. “About family matters.”

But deep down she knew: a war had begun. And the stake in this war was her daughter’s fate.

That evening, when Katya returned from school, Galina Ivanovna was cloyingly sweet with her son, Sergey. The mother-in-law ostentatiously inquired about his work, asked about his plans, and ignored Katya.

“Sergey, I think you need more space to relax,” his mother said, looking around the apartment. “This room could make an excellent study.”

She nodded toward Katya’s room.

“Mom, that’s Katya’s room,” he reminded her.

“A child needs only a corner in your bedroom,” she waved him off. “A man needs a place to work and think.”

Irina pressed her lips together and kept washing the dishes, trying not to listen. But every word from her mother-in-law etched itself into her memory like a knife.

Late that night, after Katya went to bed and Galina Ivanovna went home, the spouses had a serious talk.

“Your mother has gone way too far,” Irina said, closing the bedroom door.

“About what?”

“Sergey, she suggested sending Katya to an orphanage.”

He spun around sharply.

“What? When?”

“Today, before you got home. Galina Ivanovna thinks my daughter is a burden and wants our home freed from her.”

Sergey was silent for a long time, mulling it over.

“Maybe you misunderstood?”

“I understood perfectly. Your mother called Katya a burden and proposed getting rid of her for the sake of our future.”

“Mom sometimes says too much when she’s angry,” he said. “You shouldn’t take all her words to heart.”

“Too much?” Irina stared at him, astonished. “Sergey, your mother is demanding we get rid of my child!”

“She’s just worried about our future…”

“Our future cannot be built on abandoning Katya.”

“I’m not saying we should abandon her,” he said quickly. “Mom only thinks the girl needs more discipline, more structure…”

“In an orphanage?”

Sergey fell silent, avoiding his wife’s eyes. The silence dragged on for several minutes.

“You agree with your mother,” Irina said slowly.

“I don’t agree… I just think we should consider different options.”

“What options?” Irina’s voice grew dangerously quiet.

“Maybe a boarding school… a residential school… places where children are well brought up…”

Irina stood there blinking, not immediately believing what she’d heard. Her husband truly was considering sending Katya away.

“You want to get rid of my daughter,” she said flatly.

“Irina, don’t dramatize. It’s not about getting rid of her; it’s about what’s best for everyone.”

“For everyone? Or for your mother?”

“For our family. Mom is right that we should think about our own children…”
Family games

“We already have a child. Katya.”

“We could have a child together. Ours by blood.”

The last words sounded like a verdict. Irina realized her husband did, in fact, see Katya as a burden—he had simply hesitated to say it.

She left the kitchen without a word and went to the bedroom. Sergey remained at the table, realizing he had said something irreparable.

Irina opened the wardrobe and pulled out a large suitcase. Then she began neatly folding her husband’s things into it: shirts, trousers, underwear.

“What are you doing?” Sergey asked, appearing in the doorway.

“Helping you pack.”

“Pack for where?”

“To your mother’s. Since the two of you consider my daughter surplus to this home, go live with your own family.”

Sergey stepped closer and tried to take her hand.

“Irina, we can discuss this calmly…”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” she pulled away. “You’ve made your choice.”

“I haven’t chosen anything! I just voiced an opinion…”

“An opinion that my daughter should live separately from us.”

 

He tried to protest, but his voice lacked conviction.

“I didn’t say she must… I only suggested we consider…”

“Consider sending a ten-year-old to boarding school,” Irina finished for him. “So that your mother will be pleased.”

Sergey watched in silence as his wife methodically packed his things. Suits, sportswear, shoes went into the suitcase.

“Irina, stop. Let’s talk like adults.”

“Like adults?” She straightened and looked at him. “Like adults would have defended my daughter from your mother’s attacks. Like adults would have told Galina Ivanovna that Katya is part of our family.”

“Mom just wants what’s best for us…”

“Your mother wants to get rid of Katya. And you support her.”

The suitcase was almost full. Irina snapped it shut and set it by the door.

“My daughter stays. You two are leaving,” she said firmly.

“Irina, this is our home…”

“No. This is my home.”

She went to the dresser and took out a folder of documents. Sergey watched in surprise as she pulled out several sheets.

“Certificate of ownership,” Irina said, showing the document. “The apartment is in my name. I bought it before our marriage with the money from selling my previous place.”

Sergey took the document and looked it over carefully. Indeed, Irina was listed as the sole owner.

“I thought the apartment was ours…”

“You thought wrong. And it’s good we didn’t register joint ownership.”

He grasped the seriousness of the situation. Legally he had no rights to the dwelling.

“Irina, don’t throw me out. I’ll talk to Mom, explain to her…”

“Explain what? That Katya has the right to live in her own home?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“It’s too late, Sergey. You’ve already shown where your priorities lie.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Irina looked through the peephole and saw the familiar silhouette of Galina Ivanovna.

“Your mother’s here,” she told her husband.

Sergey opened the door. Galina Ivanovna entered with the air of a mistress of the house, but quickly noticed the suitcase in the hall.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Packing,” Irina answered curtly.

“Who’s packing?” the mother-in-law didn’t understand.

“You and your son. You’re vacating my apartment.”

She looked at Sergey in confusion.

“Sergey, explain what’s happening.”

“Mom, we have a conflict with Irina…”

“There is no conflict,” Irina interrupted. “There’s a simple solution: Katya stays in her own home, and you find another place to live.”

Galina Ivanovna frowned and drew herself up to her full height.

“Young woman, you forget whom you’re talking to.”

“To someone who wants to send my daughter to an orphanage.”

“I proposed a reasonable solution to family problems!”
Family games

“You proposed disposing of a child for the sake of your own comfort.”

The mother-in-law shouted that her son had nowhere to go, that this was unfair, that Irina was destroying the family.

“Galina Ivanovna, you destroyed the family,” Irina replied calmly. “When you called my daughter a burden.”

“That’s what she is! A stranger’s child in the house is always trouble!”

“Then go solve your troubles somewhere else.”

Irina took the apartment keys from the shelf in the entryway.

“I’ll be keeping these. I’ll need them.”

“Irina, we can still sort this out,” Sergey tried to plead.

“There’s nothing to sort out. You chose your mother over my daughter.”

Reluctantly, Sergey handed over his keys. Galina Ivanovna still couldn’t believe what was happening.

“You have no right to throw us out!”

“I do. This is my apartment, and I decide who lives here.”

The suitcase ended up outside the door. Mother and son stood on the landing, not knowing what to do.

“This is lawlessness!” the mother-in-law yelled. “I’ll go to court!”

“Feel free,” Irina replied coolly. “But first look up what rights guests have in someone else’s apartment.”

“Sergey is my son! And that girl is a stranger!”

“Katya lives in her own home. You do not.”

Her husband and mother-in-law left with shouts and reproaches, but Irina was ready for the conflict to continue. She took out her phone and dialed the police.

“I want to report threats from my husband’s relatives.”

 

The patrol arrived half an hour later. Irina described in detail her mother-in-law’s demands, the pressure on her child, and the attempts to force her to give up her daughter to an orphanage.

“We’ll file a report,” the lieutenant said. “In case the situation repeats.”

Katya had been sitting in her room, listening to the voices in the hallway. She was afraid to come out, not knowing what was happening.

“Mom, where’s Daddy Sergey?” Katya asked after the police left.

“Daddy Sergey doesn’t live with us anymore,” Irina said, hugging her daughter.

“Because of me?”

“Not because of you, sunshine. Because the adults couldn’t come to an agreement.”

“Will he come back?”

“I don’t know. But you will stay with me, no matter what.”

The next day Irina filed for divorce. She decided there would be no more humiliation—neither for her nor for her daughter.

In the petition she stated the reason: irreconcilable differences regarding the upbringing of children and family values. She asked to dissolve the marriage without division of property since there was no jointly acquired property.

Sergey tried calling several times, but Irina didn’t answer. He wanted to arrange a meeting and explain his position, but she was unyielding.

A week later a court summons arrived. Sergey had filed an objection to the divorce, citing temporary disagreements and the possibility of reconciliation.

At the hearing Irina set out her position clearly: her husband and his mother had demanded that she send her daughter to an orphanage or boarding school, considering the girl a burden to the family. Such a stance was incompatible with continuing the marriage.

The judge clarified the circumstances and ruled to grant the divorce. The marriage was deemed dissolved a month after the filing.

Galina Ivanovna tried to catch Irina near the house, but Irina walked past without reacting to reproaches and threats. The mother-in-law shouted that Irina had ruined her son’s life, but no one listened.

Gradually Katya recovered from the stress. She began to smile again, to play, to invite classmates over. The room remained her room; the home remained her home.

“Mom, are we not going to let anyone else in anymore?” Katya asked one evening.

“We will, sweetheart,” Irina smiled. “But only those who respect us.”

“And who respect me too?”

“You too. Absolutely.”

Irina hugged her daughter and knew she had made the right choice. Better to be alone with your child than to endure humiliation for the sake of keeping a marriage. Katya was her daughter, her family, her future. And no one had the right to demand that a mother give up her own child.

That evening, after Katya went to sleep, Irina sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and thought about what they’d been through. The decision had been hard, but there was no doubt. A daughter is more important than a husband who couldn’t protect a child from his own mother’s attacks.

Through the window she could see yellow leaves the wind was tearing from the trees. Autumn was ending; winter was approaching. But the home was warm and calm. Katya slept in her room, in her bed, under her blanket. And no one would dare call the girl a stranger or unnecessary again.

Irina finished her tea, turned off the light, and went to bed. Tomorrow a new day would begin, a new life. A life with no compromises where a mother’s love is concerned.

Lilya, what are you doing to those curtains?” her mother-in-law’s voice sliced through the living room’s silence. “How can you hang them like that? The pleats are coming out uneven.”

 

Lilia froze on the stepladder, holding the heavy drape. Valentina Petrovna circled below, critically evaluating her daughter-in-law’s every move.

“It’s easier for me this way,” Lilia answered curtly, adjusting the hooks on the rod.

“Easier!” the mother-in-law snorted. “In Matvey’s nursery I always hung the curtains beautifully. And what is this disgrace?”

“Valentina Petrovna,” Lilia carefully climbed down and turned to the woman, “this is my living room.”

Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together and strode over to the sofa where Matvey was scrolling on his phone.

“Son,” she sat down beside him, “explain to your wife that a house should have order and beauty.”

Matvey looked up from the screen, shifting his gaze from his mother to his wife.

“Mom, maybe let’s not?” he said cautiously.

“What do you mean, ‘let’s not’?” Valentina Petrovna flared. “I’m only trying to help! And they won’t listen to me!”

Lilia reached for the stepladder to put it away, but her fingers trembled with a surge of anger.

“Lil,” Matvey set his phone on the side table, “Mom knows more about interiors…”

Those words cut right through her. Lilia dropped the stepladder and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” her husband called after her, bewildered.

But she had already slipped into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind her. She sank into the chair by the window and pressed her temples with her hands. Again he chose his mother. He always chooses his mother.

About twenty minutes later the door opened a crack.

“Lilia, stop sulking,” Matvey came into the room. “Mom will be going back to her place soon.”

“How soon?” his wife asked without turning.

“Well… in a couple of weeks her renovation will be done.”

“Two weeks,” Lilia repeated, finally looking at her husband. “For two weeks I’m supposed to ask permission on how to live?”

“Not ask… just listen sometimes.”

“Listen to what, Matvey?” her voice grew firmer. “She’s already criticized how I wash the dishes, my choice of bed linen, and now the curtains!”

Matvey shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Well, she’s used to controlling everything…”

“And you’re used to backing her up!” Lilia stood and came closer. “Every time, Matvey! Every single time you take her side!”

Her husband looked away, clearly unprepared for such a conversation.

Valentina Petrovna walked into the bathroom just as Lilia was putting on mascara. In the mirror her mother-in-law’s reflection appeared behind her like a shadow from the past.

“Putting on makeup again?” the woman asked with open mockery. “As if it makes any difference.”

Lilia froze, the wand paused at her lashes. Something clenched painfully inside, but her voice was even.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s not to understand,” Valentina Petrovna leaned against the doorframe, clearly settling in for a long talk. “No matter how much you paint yourself, it won’t make you prettier. My Matvey could have found a much better girl.”

The mascara wand slipped from Lilia’s trembling fingers into the sink. The reflection in the mirror showed a pale face with wide eyes.

“Are you serious?” Lilia whispered, turning to her mother-in-law.

“More than serious, dear,” she replied with a cold smile. “Plain, unremarkable. You don’t even have your own apartment. I don’t understand what my son saw in you. He probably chose you out of pity.”

The words pelted Lilia like hail. Each strike echoed as a sharp pain in her chest. Her breathing quickened; her cheeks flamed.

“Get out of here,” Lilia hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, how proud,” the mother-in-law laughed. “Can’t tell the truth? I knew you had a nasty character.”

Lilia turned to face Valentina Petrovna. The fire in her eyes made the woman involuntarily take a step back.

“I said—get out! Immediately!”

“Don’t you shout at me!” the mother-in-law protested. “You’re not my equal!”

Those words were the last straw. Lilia grabbed a towel from the sink and flung it toward Valentina Petrovna.

“Out of my bathroom! Right now!”

The mother-in-law hurried out, but at the threshold she turned with a triumphant smirk.

“Now my son will see your true face,” she threw over her shoulder.

Lilia slammed the door and leaned against it. Tears streamed in hot tracks down her cheeks. Her hands shook so badly she had to clench them into fists.

From that day on, a strained silence reigned in the apartment. Lilia stopped speaking to her mother-in-law altogether. She walked past as if the woman didn’t exist. Valentina Petrovna pretended not to notice her daughter-in-law either, yet constantly complained to her son about her behavior.

Matvey dashed between the two women, trying to reconcile them, but every attempt ended in a new scandal. Lilia refused even to discuss what was happening.

Two weeks of tension and silence dragged on in an endless procession of gray days. The apartment turned into a battlefield where the opponents avoided direct clashes but were ready to explode at any careless word. But at last, the mother-in-law left.

And then something unexpected happened. A call came early in the morning as Lilia was getting ready for work. The notary’s voice sounded official, but the words struck like lightning.

“Lilia Viktorovna? You are the heir to your grandmother’s dacha plot. When can you come to process the documents?”

Lilia slowly sank into a chair. Her grandmother had left her a dacha. A small house outside the city where she had spent her school holidays. Suddenly, something like hope stirred in her chest.

That weekend Lilia went to inspect the dacha. The small house turned out to be in decent condition—the roof intact, the foundation solid, the windows unbroken. The plot was overgrown with grass, but that could be fixed. The realtor she invited to appraise it walked the grounds carefully and delivered his verdict.

 

“For such a dacha you could get three and a half, maybe four million,” he said, jotting something down in his notebook. “Good plot, electricity connected, the city is a stone’s throw away.”

Lilia nodded, mentally totaling the sums. Together with her savings, it would be enough for her own apartment. A real home where no one would tell her how to live.

At home, Matvey met his wife with a suspicious look.

“So how did it go?” he asked carefully. “What are you going to do with the dacha?”

“Sell it,” Lilia answered shortly, hanging her coat in the hallway.

Matvey frowned as if he’d heard something unpleasant.

“Sell it? Why rush? Maybe it’s better to think about it?”

Lilia turned to her husband in surprise. The disapproval in his voice grated on her nerves.

“I don’t like nature, mosquitoes, or digging in garden beds,” Lilia explained patiently. “And the money would be more useful. It’ll be enough for an apartment if we add our savings.”

Matvey pressed his lips together; something unpleasant flickered in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t we ask Mom?” he suddenly said quietly.

Lilia froze. A bitter smirk twisted her lips.

“Your mother’s opinion doesn’t interest me at all,” Lilia ground out. “It’s my dacha, my inheritance.”

Matvey turned away, but Lilia saw his shoulders tense. Silence hung heavy between them.

Two weeks flew by in busy work. Lilia posted listings online and called agencies. Calls from potential buyers came quickly.

The doorbell rang sharply just as Lilia was on the phone with another realtor. On the threshold stood Valentina Petrovna, her face flushed with outrage.

“What is this outrage?” the mother-in-law shouted from the doorway. “How dare you sell the dacha without my consent?”

Lilia slowly set down the receiver. Inside, everything went cold with fury.

“What consent are you talking about?” Lilia asked in an icy tone. “The dacha belongs to me under the will.”

“Under the will!” Valentina Petrovna mimicked, walking into the living room uninvited. “And the fact that my son is your husband means nothing to you? This is family property!”
Family games

Lilia followed her, her fists clenching involuntarily.

“This is my personal property, inherited,” Lilia said slowly. “And you have nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with it?” Valentina Petrovna squealed. “I’ve dreamed of a dacha all my life! And you’ve decided to squander it on your whims!”

“My whims?” Lilia’s voice rang with restrained anger. “This is my house! And with the money I want to buy an apartment!”

At that moment Matvey came into the apartment. Seeing his mother and wife in the living room, he stopped dead.

“What’s going on?” he asked carefully, looking from one woman to the other.

“Your wife is selling off the family assets!” Valentina Petrovna complained, sniffling. “She wants to sell the dacha without asking anyone!”

Lilia looked at her husband, silently pleading with him at last to take her side. But Matvey lowered his eyes.

“Lil, Mom really has always dreamed of a dacha,” he muttered in a guilty tone.

Those words were enough for something inside Lilia to finally snap. Her last hope crashed down with a bang.

“And I dreamed of a home,” Lilia whispered, looking at her husband. “A real home where no one humiliates me.”

“Lil…”

“No, Matvey,” Lilia cut him off, heading for the bedroom. “Enough. I’m tired.”

An hour later, Lilia left the apartment with a suitcase in hand. Matvey tried to stop her, said something about making peace, but his words reached her as if through cotton wool.

Six months later Lilia received her share of their joint savings through the court. The dacha was sold for four million. With that money plus her savings, she bought a two-room apartment in a residential district.

Standing on the threshold of her new home, Lilia smiled for the first time in a long while. Here no one would tell her how to cook, what to wear, or whom to be friends with. Here there would be only her—and the long-awaited silence.

Met My Ex-Wife and Almost Turned Green with Envy

Oleg slammed the fridge door shut so hard that the bottles inside rattled, and one of the magnets clattered to the floor.

Lena stood opposite him, pale, her fists clenched tight.
“Well? Feel better now?” she exhaled, sharply raising her chin.

 

“You’re just driving me crazy,” Oleg’s voice cracked, though he tried to stay calm. “Is this even a life? No emotions, no future.”

“So once again I’m the one to blame?” Lena gave a bitter smile. “Of course. Things aren’t the way you dreamed they would be.”

Oleg wanted to reply but waved it off. He opened a bottle of mineral water, took a swig straight from the neck, and slammed it onto the table.

“Oleg, don’t stay silent,” her voice trembled. “For once, just say directly what the problem is.”

“What’s there to say?” He grimaced. “You wouldn’t even understand. I’m sick of it all. To hell with this!”

They stared at each other in silence. Lena drew a deep breath and went into the bathroom. Oleg sank heavily onto the couch. From behind the door came the sound of running water—she had probably turned on the tap to hide her tears.

But he didn’t care.

A Life That Became Routine

Three years earlier, they had gotten married. They lived in Lena’s apartment, which her parents had given her when they retired and moved out of the city. The apartment was spacious but outdated: Soviet-era furniture, peeling wallpaper, worn linoleum.

At first, Oleg was pleased: the city center, a nice neighborhood, his job nearby. But over time it began to irritate him. Lena felt cozy in her “family fortress,” while Oleg felt suffocated by what he saw as a “frozen era.”

“Lena, be honest,” he often began. “Don’t you ever want to redo this place? New wallpaper, new floors? Something modern, stylish?”

“Of course I do,” she would answer calmly. “But let’s wait for my bonus or save a little first.”

“Wait? That’s your whole philosophy—endure and wait!”

In the beginning, Oleg was proud of choosing Lena. He’d tell his friends: “She’s a bud that will bloom, and everyone will be amazed.” But now he thought that bud had never blossomed—only withered.

Lena, meanwhile, simply lived the way she thought was right. She found joy in little things: a hot cup of tea, an evening with a book, new kitchen towels. Oleg saw only stagnation.

Yet he didn’t rush to leave—moving back in with his parents meant facing their strained relationship. His mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, often took Lena’s side:

“Son, you’re wrong. Lena is a good, smart girl. You’re living in her apartment and still complaining.”

“Mom, you’re stuck in the Stone Age, just like her,” Oleg snapped.

His father, Igor Sergeevich, only waved it off:
“Let him figure it out himself, Tamara.”

But every time he looked at Lena, Oleg thought: “She’s like a shadow… And she’s tied me to this apartment.”

One day, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lena, I’m tired,” he said, standing by the window.

“Tired of what?” Her voice was steady, but her eyes glistened with tears.

“Of this life, this routine. You’re buried in pots and dust, and I don’t want to waste my years like this!”

 

Lena quietly picked up the trash bag and left. The door slammed.

Oleg expected her to return and try to stop him, but she came back calm.

“Maybe you really should live on your own,” she said. “Move out.”

“Oh sure, so you can rule the place alone?” Oleg snapped. “I’m not leaving my own home!”

“Oleg, this isn’t your home,” Lena smirked. “It’s my parents’ apartment.”

A few weeks later, he did move back to his parents’.
And within a few months, they divorced.

A Meeting That Changed Everything

Three years passed.

Oleg was still living with his parents, always telling himself it was “temporary,” that soon he’d rent his own place and get his life together. But it never happened. His job didn’t pay enough, relationships went nowhere, and his parents were hinting more and more that he wasn’t a kid anymore to be living off them.

One spring evening, on his way home, he passed a cozy little café. Warm lights glowed inside, soft music played.

He was about to go in when he froze.

At the café entrance stood Lena.

But not the Lena he used to know.

This was a confident woman with a stylish haircut, an elegant coat, and car keys in her hand. She looked calm, well-groomed, even happy.

“Lena?” he blurted out.

She turned, and after a second, recognized him.
“Hello, Oleg,” she said evenly.

“Hi… You… you look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I’m living the life I always dreamed of now.”

“Still working at the same place?”

“No, I opened my own flower studio. I was scared at first, but… I found someone who supported me.”

“Who?” Oleg asked before he even knew why.

A man walked out of the café. He put his arm around Lena’s shoulders and said:
“Darling, a table just opened up. Shall we?”

Lena introduced him:
“This is Vadim. Vadim, this is Oleg.”

“It was nice to meet you, Oleg. I hope everything’s good with you too,” Vadim said politely.

Oleg only nodded. Words stuck in his throat.

He watched Lena walk away, laughing with Vadim, and inside him twisted with envy.

He had once said: “I live with a bud that never opened.”

But the bud did bloom—
Just not with him.

Ksenia slowly ran her hand over the old wallpaper. She had spent her childhood in this apartment—her grandmother often invited her over, taught her to cook, told stories from her life. Now these walls held only memories—Grandma had passed away six months ago.

“Still sitting in this wreck?” Mikhail’s voice pulled Ksenia from her thoughts.

“Don’t call Grandma’s apartment that,” Ksenia replied softly.

“What else would I call it?” Mikhail glanced around the room carelessly. “It hasn’t been renovated in a hundred years, the furniture’s old. We need to do something about it.”

Ksenia tensed. Lately her husband had been bringing up the apartment more and more often.

“Do what exactly?”

“What do you mean, what?” Mikhail flopped into an old armchair. “Sell it! The neighborhood’s good, we’ll get a good price.”

“I’m not going to sell my grandmother’s apartment,” Ksenia said firmly.

“Oh, drop the sentimentality!” Mikhail waved her off. “I’ve got my eye on a great car—a BMW X6. It would cost about the same as this place.”

Ksenia froze, not believing her ears.

“So you want me to sell my grandmother’s legacy for your car?”

“So what if I do?” Mikhail shrugged. “It’s an awesome car! Just imagine how we’ll look in it.”

“Misha,” Ksenia tried to keep her voice calm, “this apartment isn’t just real estate to me. It’s a memory of my grandmother.”

“Memory, memory,” Mikhail mimicked her. “What about the living, huh? I’m doing this for us! With a car like that I wouldn’t be ashamed to drive clients, and it’d be convenient for trips out of town.”

“For us?” Ksenia gave a bitter smile. “Or for yourself? You didn’t even ask what I want.”

Mikhail frowned.

“What’s there to ask? I’m the husband, I decide!”

“Oh really?” Ksenia crossed her arms. “And when did you become the manager of my inheritance?”

“Since we got married!” Mikhail shot back. “In a family everything should be shared.”
Family games

“Everything—but not everything,” Ksenia shook her head. “I got this apartment from my grandmother. I’ll be the one to decide what to do with it.”

Mikhail jumped up from the chair.

“What kind of wife are you? A normal wife would’ve agreed long ago!”

 

“Agreed to what? To swap property for a car?” Ksenia looked him straight in the eyes. “A car that’ll be scrap metal in five years?”

“You don’t understand business!” Mikhail began pacing the room. “I need a representative vehicle! How am I supposed to drive clients around in my old clunker?”

“How about working more?” Ksenia asked quietly. “Have you tried earning the money for a car?”

Mikhail’s face flushed crimson.

“I work like a dog!”

“As a manager at a car dealership?” Ksenia clarified. “With a salary that barely covers groceries?”

“You… you…” Mikhail was choking with indignation. “I’m just getting started! I have big plans!”

“And all those plans rely on selling my apartment?” Ksenia shook her head.

Mikhail abruptly changed tactics. He walked up to Ksenia and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Sweetheart, try to understand! This is our chance! We’ll buy the car, I’ll start growing the business. In a year it’ll all pay off!”

Ksenia gently slipped out of his embrace.

“No, Misha. I’m not selling the apartment.”

“Why are you so stubborn!” Mikhail flared up again. “It’s just an apartment! Look at the prospects!”

“Prospects?” Ksenia smirked. “Like your friend Seryozha? He sold his apartment for a business too. Where is he now?”

Mikhail turned away. His friend’s story was a sore subject—Sergey really had sold his apartment, invested in some project, and lost everything.

“It’ll be different for me!” Mikhail said stubbornly. “I’ve calculated everything!”

“What exactly did you calculate?” Ksenia asked. “Show me the business plan.”

Mikhail hesitated.

“What business plan? It’s simple—we buy the car, I start driving clients…”

“That’s it?” Ksenia shook her head in disbelief. “That’s your whole plan?”

“What else do you need?” Mikhail bristled. “You think I can’t handle it? You don’t believe in me?”

“It’s not about belief,” Ksenia replied wearily. “It’s that you want to risk my inheritance on a half-baked venture.”

The next few days turned into a nightmare. Mikhail talked about the car constantly, showed her photos, raved about the prospects. And whenever Ksenia objected, he threw tantrums.

“You’re selfish!” Mikhail shouted. “You only think about yourself! I’m the one taking care of our future!”

One evening Ksenia’s friend Marina dropped by.

“You’ve been so on edge lately,” her friend noted. “Did something happen?”

Ksenia told her about the apartment.

“And you’re keeping quiet?” Marina burst out. “Ksyusha, that’s pure manipulation! He didn’t even ask your opinion!”

“I tried to explain,” Ksenia sighed. “But Misha won’t listen. Only his opinion exists.”

“Remember Katya?” Marina asked suddenly. “She sold her apartment for her husband’s business too. Now she’s renting a studio with two kids.”

Ksenia nodded. Katya’s story was telling—her husband had convinced her to sell the apartment, invested the money in some project and lost it. Then he just left for another woman.

That evening the conversation with Mikhail circled back to the apartment again.

“I’ve thought it all through!” her husband declared. “We’ll take out a loan to grow the business and use the apartment as collateral.”

“No,” Ksenia answered firmly.

“Why are you so stubborn?” Mikhail exploded. “I’m doing this for us!”

“For us?” Ksenia gave a bitter smile. “Or for yourself? Have you ever once asked what I want?”

“And what do you want?” Mikhail narrowed his eyes. “To sit in an old apartment and reminisce about your granny?”

The words hit Ksenia like a blow.

“Don’t you dare talk like that about my grandmother’s apartment!”

“I’ll say whatever I think is right!” Mikhail barked. “I’m the husband, I decide!”

The next day Mikhail came home unusually excited.

“That’s it, honey! I found a buyer for the apartment!”

Ksenia froze with a cup in her hands.

“What did you do?”

“I found a buyer!” Mikhail repeated happily. “Great people, ready to pay good money. They’ll come see it tomorrow!”

The cup crashed to the floor.

“Without my consent?” Ksenia’s voice trembled with fury. “You went looking for buyers for my apartment?”

“So what if I did—yours, mine, what’s the difference?” Mikhail waved it off. “We’re a family! I’m the husband, I decide!”
Family games

“Exactly—mine!” Ksenia stepped right up to him. “My apartment, my inheritance! And I alone decide what happens to it! Not you.”

Mikhail slammed his fist on the table.

“Enough! I’m tired of your obstinacy! It’ll be done my way!”

“No, Misha,” Ksenia said quietly but firmly. “It won’t. This apartment is not for sale.”

“Oh, quit with the ‘my apartment, my inheritance’!” Mikhail mocked. “In a family everything should be shared! I’m the head of the family, I—”

“The head?” Ksenia cut him off. “What have you done to become the head? Where are your achievements? Where’s the property you’ve earned?”

Mikhail began pacing the room.

“You don’t understand! This is a chance! The only chance to start my own business!”

“At my expense?” Ksenia asked. “Risking my inheritance?”

“Stop acting like a child!” Mikhail exploded. “This is business! You have to take risks!”

“Then risk your own,” Ksenia snapped. “Leave my apartment alone.”

Mikhail grabbed his phone.

“That’s it, enough! I’m calling the buyers right now! Let them come and see the apartment!”

“Go ahead and try,” Ksenia said quietly.

“What? What are you going to do to me?” Mikhail grinned triumphantly, dialing.

“Nothing,” Ksenia answered calmly. “I’ll just file for divorce.”

Mikhail froze with the phone in his hand.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Ksenia folded her arms. “I don’t want to live with someone who doesn’t respect my rights.”

Mikhail lowered the phone.

“You… you’re serious?”

“More than serious,” Ksenia nodded. “I’m tired, Misha. Tired of your attempts to control my property, your disrespect, your reckless schemes.”

Mikhail sank onto the couch.

“But how? We’re a family… I thought…”

“That’s right—you thought,” Ksenia interrupted. “Only about yourself. And I was just a source of funding for your fantasies.”

The next morning Ksenia went to see a lawyer. Yelena Pavlovna, an experienced family law specialist, listened carefully to her story.

“It’s very simple,” Yelena Pavlovna said after reviewing the documents. “You received the apartment as an inheritance. Your husband has no rights to it.”

When Ksenia returned home, she found Mikhail with his mother—Nina Fedorovna.

“Dear child!” her mother-in-law threw up her hands. “How could you? Ruining a family over some old apartment!”

“Not over the apartment,” Ksenia replied calmly. “Over disrespect and attempts to manipulate me.”

“What manipulation?” Nina Fedorovna protested. “My son is thinking about your future! And you’re being stubborn!”

“Mom’s right,” Mikhail chimed in. “I wanted it all for us…”

“For us?” Ksenia smiled faintly. “Did you ask me? Or did you just decide you had the right to dispose of my inheritance? You even called your mother to help pressure me. But my decision stands.”

That evening Marina called.

“Well, how are you holding up?”

“I’m holding up,” Ksenia sighed. “You know, I even feel lighter. Like a weight fell off my shoulders after I said everything out loud.”

“Come stay with me,” her friend offered. “You shouldn’t be under the same roof with him right now.”

The divorce process went relatively quickly. At first Mikhail resisted, but then he realized it was useless. All the paperwork for the apartment was in order; it was hers by right.

“You can’t do this to me!” Mikhail shouted after the hearing. “I loved you!”

 

“No, Misha,” Ksenia shook her head. “You loved the opportunities I gave you. Not me.”

A month later Ksenia moved back into her grandmother’s apartment. She ran her hand over the old wallpaper—these walls held so many memories.

“Thank you, Grandma,” Ksenia whispered. “You left me not only an apartment but also a lesson. You taught me to value myself and my independence.”

Little by little, life fell into place. Ksenia started renovating the apartment, turning it into a cozy, modern home while preserving details that reminded her of her grandmother.

One day at the mall Ksenia ran into Mikhail. Her ex-husband looked worn out.

“How are you?” Mikhail asked.

“Good,” Ksenia answered honestly. “And you? Did you buy your BMW?”

Mikhail looked away.

“No… It didn’t work out.”

“That’s a shame,” Ksenia said without a trace of sarcasm. “I hope you’ve realized you can’t build a future on someone else’s property.”

That evening, sitting in her refreshed apartment, Ksenia leafed through old photos. There they were baking pies together, celebrating New Year…

“You were right, Grandma,” she whispered. “You can’t let others decide your fate. Even if those others are the people closest to you.”

The next day Marina came by.

“Wow!” her friend exclaimed, looking around. “What a transformation! And you’ve changed too.”

“Really?” Ksenia smiled.

“Of course! You’re more confident, calmer. It’s like you’ve blossomed.”

Ksenia walked to the window. A whole life lay ahead—her life, without anyone else’s orders or manipulation. And that freedom was the most precious inheritance her grandmother had left her.

“Larisa, just a little more… Come on, dear, you can do it!”

She barely moved her legs. Every step was taken with tremendous effort, as if heavy weights were strapped to her feet.

“I want to take a shower…” Larisa whispered, feeling her strength finally leaving her. “Gleb, I can’t anymore. Honestly, I can’t!”

Her husband looked at her with feigned concern, but there was a strange coldness in his eyes. How had she not noticed that icy gleam before?

“You can, darling, you’ll manage! Look, there’s our goal — the little house!”

Larisa followed his gaze. In front of them stood a building that looked like a mix between an old shed and a fairy-tale hut on chicken legs.

“Are you… really sure the healer lives here?” Her voice betrayed her exhaustion and fear.

“Of course, dear! Come on, just a bit more!”

Larisa climbed onto the crooked porch almost mechanically, as if in a dream. Gleb laid her down on a wooden bench and suddenly smirked smugly. That smile cut through her heart.

“Now you can rest… for a long time.”

She surveyed the gloomy room: cobwebs, dust, dampness. She looked at her husband fearfully.

“Gleb… Nobody lives here!”

“That’s right!” He laughed. “Nobody has lived here for about twenty years. And no one’s been here for a long time. If you’re lucky — you’ll die your natural death. If not…” — he paused — “wild animals will find you.”

“Gleb! What are you saying?! Snap out of it!”

He straightened up, and the mask of a loving husband vanished forever.

“I asked you — register the business under my name! But you were stubborn as a mule!” He spat. “Do you even realize what it cost me to put up with you? To sleep with you? You disgust me!”

“And my money doesn’t disgust you?” Larisa whispered.

“Those are MY money!” He growled. “They’re mine, just need to finish the paperwork. Everyone knows how obsessed you are with all this witchcraft nonsense. I tell everyone you’re crazy and ran off to some quack in the sticks. I tried to convince you, but…” He theatrically threw up his hands, “you’re stubborn! Like my plan? I don’t even need to buy a coffin!”

His laughter sounded like a dog’s bark. Larisa closed her eyes — this was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

But the door slam was all too real.

She tried to get up — she needed to run, this must be a joke! But her body wouldn’t obey. Lately, she grew tired quickly, as if someone was draining the life out of her.

“Now I know who…” flashed through her mind.

She had no strength left. Larisa gave up and sank into a restless sleep.

 

Five years ago they got married. Gleb appeared out of nowhere — penniless, but with charm that made her lose her head. Tired of loneliness and work, Larisa fell madly in love.

But they had warned her… Everyone around said he only wanted money, that he spent her funds on other women. She found out the truth a year ago. After that, health problems began — sometimes her heart, sometimes her stomach, sometimes everything at once. Doctors blamed nervous breakdowns.

She tried not to worry. Really tried! But how not to worry when you love someone who betrayed you?

And now she was a wealthy, successful woman, but so sick she couldn’t get out of that ruin in the woods. Her death would remain a secret.

Half-asleep, Larisa heard a rustle. Someone was standing nearby. Her heart stopped — could it really be wild animals?

“Don’t be afraid!”

She startled.

“A girl?! Where did you come from here?”

In front of her sat a child about seven or eight years old. The girl crouched beside her.

“I was here before. When he brought you here, I hid.”

Larisa lifted herself up.

“You’re alive? How did you end up here?”

“I come by myself. When I fight with Dad — I hide here. Let him worry!”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Nope! He just makes me help. But I don’t want to. Why should kids work? If I don’t listen — he makes me wash the dishes. A whole mountain!” The girl spread her arms.

Larisa weakly smiled.

“Maybe he’s just tired. Trying to give you manageable chores. I would do anything for my dad if he were alive.”

“Your dad died?”

“Yes, long ago.”

“Everyone will die,” the girl stated with childlike philosophy.

“Are you saying your dad will die too?!” The girl perked up.

“People die when they get old. That’s how it is.”

The girl thought.

“Mom was sick… She went to the angels. I often cry because I miss her. I’ll help Dad so he won’t die!” She looked at Larisa. “Did they bring you here to die too?”

“Looks like it…”

“Why not in a hospital?”

A tear slid down Larisa’s cheek.

“He decided so himself… So they wouldn’t cure me.”

“Bastard!” The girl was outraged. “I’ll run to Dad! You know what he is? He heals everyone in the village! Except Mom… ” Her voice trembled.

“How come?”

The girl went to the door, then turned and whispered:

“My dad is a wizard!”

Larisa involuntarily smiled.

“Sweetie, there’s no such thing…”

“But there is! Your husband said you believe in that. Okay, don’t be sad, I’ll be back soon!”

“What’s your name?”

“Dasha!”

“Dasha, aren’t you afraid to stay here? What if animals come?”

“What animals?!” The girl snorted. “No one visits this forest except hedgehogs!”

And with those words she slipped out the door as if she had wings on her shoulders.

“Counting on a child — stupid beyond reason,” Larisa thought, closing her eyes. “She’ll run around the forest, meet a squirrel or the same hedgehog — and forget about me…”

She began to drift off when a whisper woke her:

“Dad, is she dead?”

“No, sunshine. She’s just sleeping.”

Larisa snapped her eyes open.

“Dasha! You’re back!”

The hut was dimly lit, and she couldn’t make out the man’s face.

“Hello. Sorry things turned out this way…”

“It’s okay. Can you stand? Go outside?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

The man touched her forehead with his palm, and warmth spread through her body like spring sun after a long winter.

“You can. I promise.”

And she really could! With his help, she stood up, took a few unsteady steps. Outside the hut was a… motorcycle with a sidecar? Her vision blurred, legs wobbled, but strong hands supported her and gently laid her in the sidecar.

Where they were going and how long it took — Larisa didn’t remember. She came to only on the bumps, saw stars above — and fell back into darkness.

She didn’t care. What difference did it make where to die?

But then it got warm. Cozy. And even… hungry!

She opened her eyes. High ceilings, bright log walls — nothing like that ruin. On the wall… a TV?!

“Some kind of strange afterlife,” crossed her mind.

“Awake? Great! Dinner’s ready. Today’s special — Dasha volunteered to help for the first time! I don’t know what you told her, but I’m very grateful.”

Larisa smiled. She would never tell what exactly had moved the girl. Shameful — an adult woman saying such things…

The man helped her sit up, placed pillows behind her. On the table — potatoes with gravy, fresh salad, milk… And bread. But what bread! Loaves like fluffy clouds, with big holes inside.

“This… bread?” Larisa was surprised.

“Eat up!” The man laughed. “I bake it myself. Can’t eat store bread. Maybe you’ll try someday.”

Larisa smiled sadly — “someday” seemed too far away. But the potatoes were so tasty, it felt like the best dinner of her life.

She didn’t finish — drowsiness overtook her. Before sleep, she whispered:

“What’s your name?”

“Aleksei.”

Day by day it got better. Appetite returned, strength, desire to live. Larisa rejoiced but understood nothing: no medicines, no treatments, no IV drips…

Once, when Dasha ran off to play, she asked directly:

“Are you the one treating me?”

Aleksei looked at her with clear blue eyes:

“Me?”

“Yes! I feel better. Much better! And I was supposed to die… Dasha said you’re a wizard.”

He laughed — so sincerely that Larisa couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Oh, Dasha the dreamer! Our granny was one who knew herbs. She passed a little to me. But I’m as far from a wizard as China is on foot!”

 

Days passed. And then — she walked outside on her own, without support.

“Larisa! Well done!”

Aleksei picked her up in his arms and spun her around. She clung to him and cried — from happiness, relief, and the fact she was alive…

Half a year later

Gleb was pacing the office like a wounded beast:

“I need all rights! Without me, the company can’t work!”

“The company works like clockwork,” someone cautiously noted. “Larisa Sergeevna kept everything in perfect order.”

“Stop calling her ‘Larisa’! She’s gone! Ran off to the woods to quacks, got eaten there! I’m the rightful husband!”

“Gleb Sergeevich,” one of the attendees said softly but firmly, “the body hasn’t been found. And your behavior… raises certain questions.”

“What difference does it make?!” He exploded. “I’m a man who lost his beloved wife!”

An elderly employee stood up:

“I won’t work under your leadership.”

“Who else?” Gleb looked around. “All of you can leave!”

But at that moment the door flew open.

“I wouldn’t rush to hire a new team.”

Gleb collapsed into a chair. Larisa stood before him — alive, blooming, eyes shining. Beside her — a tall man, and behind them — police officers.

“You… how… you were supposed to…”

“To die?” She finished calmly. “Your plan failed again. As usual.”

As they led Gleb away, yelling and cursing the world, Larisa turned to the staff:

“Hello! I’m back. I have many ideas. Let me introduce my husband — Aleksei. And I invite you all for a barbecue this weekend — get to know nature and the new family!”

Everyone smiled. Everyone was happy.

“And a heads up: now I have a daughter. Dasha was with us, but Svetochka lured her away with her makeup suitcase.”

Everyone laughed heartily — Larisa’s secretary did always carry a suitcase full of jars and tubes.

“Semyon Arkadyevich,” she addressed the lawyer, “please take care of the divorce and adoption.”

“Of course, Larisa Sergeevna. Welcome back!”

“Thank you,” she replied, squeezing Aleksei’s hand tightly.

Sometimes, to find true happiness, you have to lose everything. And meet a little girl in the forest who believes in miracles…

Those were the last words Emily Whitaker heard from her husband, Daniel, before he ordered her out of their Texas house. Eight months pregnant, one hand bracing her belly, she stood stunned while the man she’d once trusted with everything shoved her life into cardboard boxes. The reason had a name—Vanessa—his young assistant who’d quickly become much more.

Emily hadn’t gone looking for proof. It found her. A message flashed across Daniel’s phone as she set the dinner table: “Can’t wait for tonight, baby. She’ll be out soon.” Her pulse stumbled. When she confronted him, he didn’t blink. No apology, no embarrassment—only a measured, chilly verdict. “You’re hormonal. You’re overreacting. Vanessa gets me. Leave.”

That night, Emily borrowed a friend’s pickup, crammed in what she could, and drove into the dark. No tears yet. Just one clear command pulsing through her: survive.

San Diego became her refuge and her reckoning. With no family, no savings, and nowhere to land, she spent two weeks in a women’s shelter. Each night she whispered into the quiet: “I’ll protect you,” she told the twins turning beneath her heart. “Whatever it takes.”
Family games

Liam and Lily arrived early—and fierce. Emily held them in the hospital’s hush, pressing her vow into their soft crowns. “No one will discard us again.” With that promise, her second life began.

 

She took every job that wouldn’t say no—cashier by day, trainee stylist by night. Between shifts, she learned. A free course in marketing and design became her midnight companion. While the babies slept in a thrifted crib, Emily built a new vocabulary: typeface, palette, brand story, launch.

By the time the twins turned four, she’d turned skill into service—logos over lunch breaks, taglines between bath time and bedtime. A small eco-beauty startup took a chance on her pitch. The campaign exploded. Overnight, inquiries, invoices, and hope filled her inbox. Emily Evans Branding was born. She rented a tiny office with sunlit walls, hired two assistants, and reinvested every dollar like a prayer.

Seven years later, the woman who’d fled Texas with nothing ran a thriving, multi-million-dollar agency. There was a house with a garden where the twins chased the dog along lavender borders; a staff she paid well; a reputation for bold, luminous strategy that made brands feel alive.

Then fate, with its dry sense of humor, sent an invitation. At a Dallas marketing summit, a keynote flashed across the program: Daniel Whitaker—“On Resilience.” Emily almost laughed. The man who had thrown her out was about to define endurance for a crowd. That was the day she decided to go back—not to plead, not to wound, but to stand on the soil where she’d been cast aside and show what resilience actually looks like.

Eight years after exile, Emily did not arrive by bus with a battered suitcase. She descended in a sleek black helicopter stamped with her company’s emblem.

Beside her sat Liam and Lily, now eight, polished and bright—Liam in a crisp white shirt, Lily in lavender. Silver pendants at their throats bore their last name: Evans. They knew the truth in full scale and soft edges: their father had chosen another road, but his choice did not define them.

The helicopter settled near the Whitaker estate. Daniel’s poolside brunch hummed—clients, colleagues, clinking glass. Vanessa, now Mrs. Whitaker, laughed too loudly, papering over the hairline fractures in a faltering business.

Rotor thunder stilled the party. Heads turned as Emily stepped onto the drive, heels tapping steady as a metronome. The twins took her hands. A discreet camera crew trailed—footage for a women-in-leadership documentary that had begun charting her rise.

A housekeeper found Daniel. Irritation carried him outside—then stopped him cold.

Emily stood there—composed, luminous. She shifted, and the twins came into view.

Color fled his face. He didn’t need paperwork to see it—the familiar set of Liam’s jaw, the glint in Lily’s eyes. Still, Emily offered a folder: photographs, birth certificates, DNA results. “These are your children,” she said evenly. “Born two months after you told me to go.”

He paged through with unsteady hands. Conversation at the pool thinned to a hiss of whispers. Vanessa’s practiced smile fell away.

“I’m not here for your money,” Emily said. “Or for sympathy. I built a life without you. I’m here because they deserve to know who you are—directly, not through rumor.”

No theatrics. No rancor. Just truth—sharp as glass and just as clear.

 

Silence spread like a shadow. Daniel’s cultivated image cracked under the weight of facts. Vanessa reached for a line to speak; Emily raised a palm, gentle, immovable. “This isn’t about you. It isn’t even about me. It’s about Liam and Lily.”

The twins watched the man whose eyes mirrored their own. Emily had prepared them for this—steadiness over spite, clarity over blame.

“You may see them,” she said, “but it happens on their terms—and mine.”

Daniel inched forward, grasping for something—dignity, history, maybe grace. He extended a hand. Liam drifted closer to Emily instead. One small step. One large answer.

Emily turned to go. “Mom,” Liam whispered, tugging her sleeve, “can we take a picture here?”

She smiled and nodded. Her assistant lifted the camera. They posed in front of the iron gates—the same threshold that had once spit her out. The shutter snapped.

Later, that photo would race across the internet with a caption that fit like a crown:
“She left with only hope. She returned with everything that matters.”

Back in the helicopter, the city shrinking to a map of light, Emily exhaled. She hadn’t come to break Daniel. She hadn’t come to win an argument.

She came to mark the truth—for herself and for her children—that theirs was not a story of being thrown away, but of rising.

They were never meant to live grounded.

They were meant to fly.

On a rain-lashed evening in a sleepy town, a young waitress named Emily Parker spotted four little girls pressed to the fogged window of her diner. Their sweaters were ripped, their cheeks chalky, and in their eyes lived the quiet ache of hunger and being nobody’s child. Emily felt something pull tight inside her chest. These girls had no hand to hold, no warm doorway to step through.

Before she had time to think, she hurried them in out of the weather and lined the counter with four steaming plates. That small, ordinary mercy—forks, napkins, a place to sit—would, without her realizing, reroute the next twelve years of her life.

A vow made over supper

From that night forward, Emily made a private promise. After closing the register and flipping the Open sign to Closed, she swept tips into a jar marked “the girls.” She learned the thrift store hours by heart, hunting for coats with working zippers and shoes that still had tread. She gathered notebooks, taped spines back together, sharpened pencils down to nubs, and every evening sat the girls at her scarred kitchen table to sound out letters until words turned into stories.

For a decade, Emily was the gravity of their small world. She worked doubles, skipped dinners, and shelved her own half-formed dreams without complaint. And each time she watched the girls lick their spoons clean and lean back smiling, she knew exactly why the sacrifices never felt like losses.

The town that loves to whisper

The neighborhood noticed—then it judged. People muttered that Emily was throwing her life away on children that weren’t hers. A few smirked that she was feeding futures that would never rise. On the worst days, even Emily’s faith thinned. How long could one woman stretch herself?

But whenever a little hand slid into hers and a voice breathed, “Mama Emily,” doubt went quiet. Love, once chosen, kept being chosen.

The engine in the dark

 

One evening, after another ten-hour shift, Emily sat on her wobbly wooden chair, cupping tea and savoring the hush that followed a clean kitchen. From the far end of her street came the low growl of an engine—not the coughing rattle she knew from her neighbors, but a purr, expensive and sure of itself.

Headlights rolled closer. A black SUV, slick as rainwater, glided to a stop in front of her peeling porch. Emily set down her cup, palms damp. Nothing like that ever stopped here.

The driver’s door swung wide. A tall man in a suit stepped out, hurried around, and opened the rear doors like he’d rehearsed it. Four young women stepped onto the wet street—poised, elegant, taking in the small house with soft, searching eyes.

Faces she knew by heart

For half a breath, Emily didn’t place them. They looked like the future: straight backs, sure steps, a glow that comes from being wanted by the world. And then recognition arrived like lightning—so bright it hurt. It was them. Her girls.

They were already running. The porch groaned beneath the rhythm of their feet.

“Mama Emily!” one cried, the name ringing down the years like a bell. Whatever thin walls remained inside Emily—fear, unworthiness, old exhaustion—crumbled. Tears surged fast and hot.

They folded her into their arms until the old chair scraped back. Emily sobbed against their shoulders, laughter tangled with relief in every breath.

Words that closed every wound

When she found her voice, it was ragged and shining. “Just look at you,” she whispered. “My beautiful girls. What have you become?”

One stepped back, still holding both of Emily’s hands. “We became who we are because you decided we mattered,” she said, eyes bright.

Another dug into her bag and placed a small silver key in Emily’s trembling palm. Emily blinked at the cool metal, then up at the faces she loved. The young woman nodded toward the curb. “The car is yours, Mama Emily. And this is only a beginning.”

Emily’s knees softened. Breath stuttered.

A third spoke, gentler still. “We bought you a home. No more scraping by. No more choosing between the light bill and groceries. You’re done with that.”

Emily stood anchored to the porch boards, clutching the key as if it might float away if she loosened her grip.

The harvest of a thousand small yeses

They gathered close around her, a ring of warmth against the damp. “You gave us hope when hope was a rumor,” one said. “You loved us when doors shut,” said another. “Every night we asked for a mother,” a third added, “and you arrived.”

Tears slid freely as memories flared—nights Emily went to bed hungry so four bowls could be filled, hems stitched by lamplight, sharp words from neighbors that she swallowed and turned into silence. And in front of her now stood the answer to all of it: four women—capable, luminous, unafraid.

One thumb brushed away Emily’s tears. “Everything you poured out, we bring back to you today.”

“I never did it to get anything,” Emily murmured. “I just wanted you to have a chance.”

“And because of you,” the eldest said, smiling, “we don’t just have a chance. We have a horizon.”

The road to “home”

They guided her down the steps like she was the most precious thing they owned. Curtains twitched along the block; the very mouths that once judged fell quiet. Emily slid into the SUV’s soft leather and ran her fingers over the stitching as if reading braille: you are safe, you are seen.

They drove past streets she knew by the potholes and turned into a neighborhood she’d only visited in daydreams. The house waiting for her was sunlit even in the rain, wide windows catching whatever light the sky could spare, a garden braiding color along the path.

 

Emily stepped out on unsteady legs. “Is this… Is this mine?” The question came out as breath.

Four heads nodded, eyes shining. “We bought it for you, Mama Emily. This is your address now.”

She covered her face and wept. They wrapped her up again, like the first time—twelve years ago, cold and frightened and on the edge of believing.

What counts, and what doesn’t

Standing on the threshold, Emily understood: love had not only re-scripted four childhoods; it had revised her fate sentence by sentence. Wealth, she realized, was not what stacked in accounts but what multiplied in people. The ledger of her life—once inked with worry and scarcity—now balanced in joy.

As the evening eased toward dusk behind her new windows, Emily whispered, “God answered. He gave me daughters. He gave me a family.”
Family games

That night, for the first time in years, she fell asleep without bargaining with tomorrow—no lists, no calculations—only the deep, anchoring quiet of belonging. Surrounded by the love she once gave away, she finally lay down in peace.

The spoon slipped from Svetlana’s hand. The ring of it striking the edge of the cup echoed through the quiet, not-yet-awakened kitchen.

“Mom,” Nika repeated, “why did my stepdad say on the phone last night that you aren’t needed anymore?”

With a sharp movement, the kissel in the mugs spilled onto the saucers. Nika, in her old pajamas, sat on the chair and looked on with a child’s trust; worry was written in her eyes.

“What are you saying, sweetie?” Svetlana asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Mom, why was the new dad talking to someone on the phone last night and saying that you aren’t needed by us anymore?”

Svetlana nearly collapsed; the ground seemed to give way beneath her feet.

Automatically, she set the spoon aside and straightened her apron.

“You must have misunderstood something, sunshine…” she said uncertainly.

Morning went on as usual: porridge boiled on the stove, the kettle hissed, and from the slightly open window came a breath of fresh spring air smelling of melting snow and city asphalt. Her husband, Mikhail, had left early, as always. The door clicked softly at half past six, just as Svetlana was starting to wake up.

 

But now it was as if a veil had fallen from her eyes. As though she had found herself in the half-dark of a stranger’s apartment—everything looked familiar, yet there was a sense of alienness.

“Not needed anymore,” her daughter’s words echoed in her head.

Her heart grew heavy, and her mind—empty.

“Mom, are you mad?” Nika asked cautiously, stirring the porridge with her spoon. “I just asked…”

Svetlana swallowed with difficulty.

“Everything’s fine, darling…”

But in truth, nothing was fine at all.

Something was coming.

The usual weekday chaos filled every corner of the apartment: getting her daughter ready for school, getting herself ready for work, thoughts of dinner. But suddenly all clarity dimmed, as if a muddy current had washed over a crystal-clear bottom, leaving only blurry outlines.

Svetlana found herself drifting back to the previous evening. Everything had gone according to habit: light conversation, an old movie, her daughter falling asleep right on the couch, and her husband withdrawing to his study “to work.” He was especially fond of that study: bookshelves crammed with volumes, a solid desk, and an antique lamp inherited from his grandmother. Svetlana had always believed that every man needs a place for solitude and thought. But now that door, which her husband always locked from the inside, felt to her like… a sign of distance.

She felt detached, as if hearing music from far away. Andrey had left early in the morning, as usual. Suddenly Svetlana’s gaze fell on a shelf where, amid the papers, she saw something bright, carelessly covered by books. It turned out to be her passport. Up until that moment she couldn’t even remember asking her husband to look at any documents—why would he need them?

Once, she had felt a similar fear: after the tragic death of her first husband, any official document stirred anxiety, as if deception lurked around every corner. But Andrey had seemed so reliable and calm. Or… did he only seem that way?

“Sveta, what’s with you?” her friend Olga broke into her trance—the one who unfailingly showed up at the hardest moments.

Svetlana called her on her lunch break.

“I’m completely lost, Ol… You should have heard what Nika came out with today… And he took my passport, and he’s calling someone in the evenings!”

After a brief pause, Olga spoke like a surgeon before a complicated operation:

“Let me try to find out. Misha has a notary friend. Let him check—who your guy met with, maybe he was asking about your apartment…”

The apartment. A small two-room flat that had come to her after her first husband’s death—bright and cozy, it felt like the last thread tying her to the past and, as it turned out, a source of fresh worries.

“I’ll find out everything,” Olga reassured her. “Don’t work yourself up ahead of time.”

But the day dragged on painfully—everything grated: the creak of doors, the tap of heels, coworkers’ chatter.

In the evening her friend called—no greetings, straight to the point:

“Your Andrey was at the notary’s three days ago. He asked about property documents. He wanted to arrange something, but not in his name… In yours! Do you understand?”

An alarm bell rang in Svetlana’s head.

Why? What were these maneuvers for? Where was her husband really?

That evening Andrey came home tired and silent. He radiated cold and a faint smell of tobacco.

“How was your day?” Svetlana asked, trying not to show her agitation.

“As usual… running around. Lots of work, debts are strangling me,” he muttered in reply.

And again he disappeared into his study.

Standing in the hallway, breathing the cool air from the open window, Svetlana looked into the dark pane. Inside her, a sense of uncertainty grew… and a strange jealousy that felt like fear: not of another woman, but of the secrets that, it seemed, had no place in their home.

In that silence, Svetlana more and more often woke at night to see what her husband was doing. Once she saw him sitting by the window with his phone, whispering, “We don’t need her anymore”…

Doubts turned to poison. She stopped sleeping; anxiety hounded her until morning.

At some point Svetlana no longer understood where ordinary life ended and intrigue began. She started keeping watch… noticing every little thing. Locked drawers, documents, shadowy figures in Andrey’s phone, hidden chats and missed calls.

When everything seemed out of control, Svetlana realized: she couldn’t stay silent any longer. Otherwise she might go mad…

The evening was thick with tension. Andrey returned late and looked around as if expecting some kind of reaction. Nika hid in her room with a book, wrapped in a blanket; Svetlana carefully wiped the kitchen table just to give her hands something to do.

Outside, the sun slowly sank into darkness.

And in that darkness her resolve grew—heavy as lead.

“We need to talk,” she finally said, quiet but firm.

Andrey hesitated, shrugged.

“About what?”

She saw the shadows of fatigue under his eyes, his slumped shoulders, his averted gaze. He seemed less a man than a bundle of weariness.

“I know everything,” she blurted out.

And added, her voice hoarse: “About the notary. About my passport, the calls… About you saying last night that ‘I’m not needed by you anymore.’”

He exhaled in relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Did you come up with that yourself, or did someone whisper it to you?”

“I put the pieces together. You should have talked to me sooner,” her voice trembled, and her heart beat like a bird in a cage.

 

“I… I’m tired of waiting for someone to explain what’s happening in MY life!”

Andrey ran a hand over his forehead. It was clear he was tormented by something. At that moment the hallway door creaked softly, and Nika appeared, tousled, listening anxiously to every word.

“Mom, I accidentally…” she murmured, guilty. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, really…”

Andrey looked heavily at his daughter, then at Svetlana.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “if you both heard… I can’t keep silent anymore.”

Silence and tension hung in the air like an electric charge. Svetlana felt her stomach tighten at the oncoming unknown: ahead, it seemed, was something that could turn her whole life upside down.

Andrey sat down at the table and turned a spoon over in his fingers for a long time without raising his eyes.

“I’ve got… big problems. Very big ones. At work I got involved in something I shouldn’t have, got mixed up with… well, not the best people. And now… they’re threatening me, Sveta.”

He caught her gaze.

“I… wanted to protect you, Nika, this apartment. I thought, if the documents have only your name, if there’s no will from you in my favor or anything like that—no one would guess how to pressure us. I… asked an ex-partner for help. And he, on the contrary, kept pushing: like, ‘you’ve got a new family now, you don’t need her anymore.’ Those weren’t my words, Sveta, not about you! I… I swear!”
Family games

Svetlana listened half-heartedly—inside her, shame, hurt, and relief all rose at once… But still:

“Why, Andrey—why couldn’t you just tell me everything? Why do I have to learn about things through hints and documents?..”

He fell silent, sighing heavily.

“I was afraid. Debts, threats… I thought I was saving you. And I only made it worse.”

The room was quiet; only the soft crackle of the kettle and the rustle of pages in the book on Nika’s lap could be heard.

Old fears suddenly surfaced—distrust, a widow’s anxieties, the exhaustion of living a double life.

Only the three of them remained: Svetlana, Andrey… and their silent daughter, whom all these “secrets” had made both mature and vulnerable.

“Mom,” Nika suddenly whispered, “you’re not going to leave, are you?”

Svetlana hugged her shoulders tightly.

“No, I’m not going anywhere…”

But the question wasn’t about leaving.

It was about trust, fear, and how to live with all of this going forward.

Sveta met the dawn without sleep. Questions swarmed in her head, addressed more to herself than to her husband. Everything had been turned upside down. Her resentment at Andrey gave way to sympathy, which again grew into resentment. Soon she realized that, despite everything, their bond was stronger than any formal arrangement. Yet the reason for these reflections was a bitter truth.

Andrey slept fitfully, tossed and turned, muttered in his sleep, sometimes flinched and cried out. Listening to his ragged breathing, Sveta tried to understand the state of a person in a vise: burdened by debt, eaten by remorse, and afraid of losing those he loved.

With sunrise, as the first rays pierced the shroud of morning mist, she gathered all her courage.

“Andrey… We need to speak honestly. No more secrets. From anyone.”

He looked her straight in the eye and nodded with difficulty.

“It’s my fault. You’re right, Sveta.”

“If there’s a problem, tell me immediately. I need to hear it from you, not from rumors or hints.”

He nodded again.

“Forgive me.”

At that moment their daughter walked into the kitchen and looked up at them. In her eyes was a fragile bravery, too grown-up for her years.

“Mom, are we going to be okay?” she asked softly.

Sveta went to her and crouched down.

“We’ll be okay, sunshine. Only together.”

They lingered over breakfast, the three of them. For the first time, Andrey himself offered:

“I want everything to be open and honest. I don’t want to hide anything. Let’s go to the notary together and formalize everything officially,” his voice sounded almost unsure. “If you want, you’ll have access to all the accounts. I want you to know I have nothing left to hide.”

Silently, Sveta thanked fate for those words. Now it was time to set new rules.

“And I… will try to be more attentive—to myself, to you, to Nika. I was so afraid of being left alone that I didn’t notice what was happening around me. I’m done—I don’t want to carry everything on my own anymore,” she said gently but firmly.

“We’ve missed too much…” Andrey whispered.

“Then we’ll be more attentive now. To everything we have—and to what we could lose,” Sveta replied with a faint smile.

As the day wore on, the last traces of the night’s anxiety dissolved. Nika laughed brightly again, and Andrey looked at his wife and daughter with new eyes. Sveta was learning to see not only danger, but also support: in herself, in her family, in the ability to talk about everything openly, even the scariest things.
Family games

All the horror of the past few days faded into the background. Front and center stood the new rule of their home: within the family—no secrets. Only the truth, even if it’s frightening. Only openness, even if it’s terrifying the first time in your life.

Oddly enough, the anxiety slowly retreated, but Sveta knew that now she had not only responsibility for her loved ones, but also the right to the truth.

And that was something entirely new—frightening and joyful at once—to be honest with each other. And to move forward together, strengthening the walls of their home not just with documents, but with sincere words.

Let it be painful, let it be hard, let it not work out right away—but their family admitted defeat to their fears. And began to rebuild trust. Not from shards this time, but from care, love, and truly open eyes.

“Get lost,” he hissed, shoving her out the door. The final push between her shoulder blades was his irritation over losing the argument about where to go on vacation.

An argument in which she’d dared to have her own opinion. “And take your stupid toys with you.”

The box of pastry tools—her treasure—flew after her and landed with a dull thud on the dirty doormat in the stairwell.

“Your cakes aren’t needed by anyone, got it? No one! You’re just cluttering the apartment with your junk. A useless waste of time and money!”

The door slammed. The lock clicked with such finality it seemed to sever not just the way back into the apartment, but her whole former life.

Anya kept standing there. There were no tears, no urge to pound on the door. Inside, a ringing emptiness formed—cold and clear. He hadn’t just thrown her out.

He had crushed the one thing that had kept her breathing all these years. Her small universe of sponge cake, cream, and chocolate.

She slowly crouched down and opened the box. Vanilla extracts, Belgian chocolate callets, her favorite set of spatulas. All intact. Nothing had broken. Except her.

He had always hated her hobby. First he mocked it, then it irritated him, and finally it made him openly angry. Each of her little successes—a well-risen sponge, a perfectly smooth glaze—he took as a personal insult.

“You’d be better off making a proper dinner than messing around with your flour!” he’d shout when she tried to master a new recipe.

And she did cook. And clean. And do the laundry. And at night, when he fell asleep, she would slip into the kitchen and create.
It was her own private, secret space—her way not to lose her mind in a marriage where she had long since become invisible.

Anya lifted her head. The dim light of the stairwell lamp picked out the scuffed walls from the half-dark. She stood, decisively picked up the box. Her hands did not tremble.

She called her friend.

“Lena, can I stay at your place tonight?” Her voice sounded even, almost indifferent. “Yeah, we broke up. No, it’s fine. Better than it was.”

That same night, in Lena’s tiny kitchen, she took out her tools. The smell of vanilla and chocolate mingled with the scent of a home that wasn’t hers—but felt safe.

She baked all night. Not because she had to. But because it was the only way she could piece herself back together. From shards of humiliation, from the ash of her love.

In the morning, setting an impeccable, glossy dessert smelling of freedom in front of her sleepy friend, Anya opened her laptop. She photographed the cake and posted it in a local group.

“Homemade desserts to order. Made with a love I no longer need to save for anyone else.”

She hit “publish.” Ten minutes later the first comment appeared under the post. Then a second. And a third.

 

An hour later a private message arrived: “Hello! Can I order a cake for a jubilee? We need the very best.”

The first weeks flew by in a fog of flour, powdered sugar, and nearly round-the-clock work. There weren’t many orders, but she made each one as if it were the most important in her life.

Word of mouth—the truest kind of advertising—didn’t kick in right away. First one client told a coworker, then that coworker told her sister. Anya rented a tiny apartment on the outskirts, where her whole life now fit between the stove and the worktable.

For the first time in many years, she felt solid ground under her feet—ground she had made herself.

The breakthrough came a month later, when a local blogger ordered a cake with her signature lavender cream. An ecstatic post with professional photos spread across the city. The phone started ringing more often.

Oleg’s call came on Saturday evening, just as she was finishing intricate décor for a wedding cake. An unfamiliar number.

“Hello.”

“So you’re a businesswoman now, huh?” her ex-husband’s voice oozed unhidden sarcasm. “I heard you’re fooling around with pastries. Selling them, are you?”

Anya froze. The hand holding the piping bag trembled, and a perfect buttercream rose smudged slightly.

“What do you want, Oleg?”

“Oh, just curious. Made a lot on your little cupcakes? I need to fix a few things on the car, could you lend me a couple thousand till payday? You’re a rich lady now.”

His words were meant to jab, to devalue everything she’d achieved. She knew that perfectly well. But the old reflex—to smooth things over, avoid conflict—worked faster than reason.

“All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll transfer it. Just don’t call me again.”

It was a mistake. A huge, foolish mistake. The money she had earned through sleepless nights was taken not as help, but as something owed. As tribute.

A week later he called again. Now he needed money for “rent.” Anya refused.

“What do you mean, no?” His tone turned hard in an instant. “Have you forgotten how many years I supported you? And now you’re stingy with your own husband?”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Paper doesn’t mean anything, Anya. We’re not strangers.”

He started pressing on her guilt—her weakest spot. Told her how hard it was for him being alone, how he had “understood everything,” but too late. It was cheap manipulation, but it worked.

Anya didn’t give in, but each conversation drained her dry.

Then he showed up. He simply stood by her building when she carried out another order. He didn’t approach, didn’t speak. He just watched. And in that look was everything: mockery, anger, and a hungry envy.

It was as if he couldn’t believe she’d managed it. That her “useless cakes” had suddenly become needed by someone. Her small success was, to him, a personal affront.

He had to prove—first of all to himself—that it was all a fluke. That without him she was nothing.

He began posting nasty comments under her posts from fake accounts. “Ordered a cake—turned out stale.” “The cream was sour, evening ruined.” “Total unsanitary conditions, saw cockroaches in her kitchen.”

It was vile and it hurt. Anya deleted the comments, blocked the profiles, but they kept appearing. Some clients started asking questions. Her reputation—so fragile, built with such effort—began to crumble.

The last straw was a call from a woman who had ordered a large cake for a child’s birthday.

“Anna, hello. I’m forced to cancel the order. A friend told me you use the cheapest, expired products… and that your paperwork isn’t in order. I can’t risk the children’s health.”

Anya knew exactly who this “friend” was. It bore his signature. Strike at what was most sacred. At her honesty and love for her craft.

She hung up. For the first time through all of this she felt not fear, not the urge to hide. It was fury. Calm, cold as steel.

He’d crossed the line. He was trying to destroy not just her business. He was trying to destroy her again. But he’d overlooked one thing. She was no longer the same.

The next day the doorbell rang. Two men in dark suits stood on the threshold. Health inspectors.

“We’ve received a complaint,” one of them reported dryly, handing over documents. “Anonymous. Alleging sanitary violations in home confectionery production. We have to conduct an inspection.”

Something clicked in that moment. The very spring Oleg had been compressing for weeks snapped back with a deafening force.

She looked at these men, at their official papers, and saw behind them his smirking face. He thought he had her cornered. He thought she would break.

“Of course, come in,” her voice was unnaturally calm. “Look at whatever you like.”

She led them into her immaculate, gleaming kitchen. Showed the refrigerators, product certificates, her health card.

The inspectors walked around, looked, frowned—but there was nothing to fault. Her kitchen was cleaner than an operating room.

“No violations found,” the senior concluded, signing the report. “But by the rules we must suspend your activity until the test results come back. That will take a few days.”

A few days. At the height of the season. It meant canceled orders, lost clients and money. This was the very knockout he was counting on.

When they left, Anya didn’t cry. She sat at the table, opened her laptop, and began to act.

The old Anya, who was afraid to offend and tried to please everyone, no longer existed. In her place stood a woman defending the work of her life.

She didn’t bake. Instead, methodically, with cold calculation, she gathered evidence. She opened all the fake profiles that had posted the slander.

The names were different, but she noticed one detail: in all the negative reviews the Russian word for “disappointment,” «разочарование», was misspelled the same way—«разочирование».

It was his trademark mistake, one she had once teased him about. Then she made screenshots of his messages asking for money and of her refusals, aligning the dates: every time she said “no,” a new wave of defamation appeared online.

She even found his new fling on social media and was surprised to see her flaunting gifts bought precisely on the days when Oleg had asked Anya for “a loan to fix the car.”

It all formed an ugly, but clear picture.

She worked all night. Not with cream and chocolate, but with facts. She was building not a cake, but a case. A case against him.

By dawn, when the first rays of sun touched her table, she opened her business page. And she wrote a post.

“Friends, today I want to tell you not about desserts, but about their cost. Not the price on the menu—the real one.”

She told everything. Without hysteria or complaints. Dryly, factually. About being thrown out with the words that her passion was trash. About starting from scratch. About the first orders and how they saved her.

Then she got to the point.

“Unfortunately, my success won’t leave someone from my past in peace. The very person who said my cakes weren’t needed by anyone. In recent weeks I’ve been subjected to full-blown harassment.”

And she attached everything. Screenshots. Dates. Messages. A screenshot with that same spelling error repeating again and again. No names, but with irrefutable proof.

“Today, after an anonymous complaint, inspectors came to see me. My activity has been temporarily suspended.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to take orders again. But I want you to know: I won’t give up. My kitchen is open. My ingredients are the best. My conscience is clear.”

At the end she added: “Thank you to everyone who believed in me. You gave me more than just work. You gave me back myself.”

She hit “publish.” And turned off her phone. For the first time in a long while she felt not fear, but peace. She had made her move. Now it was his turn.

The explosion was almost immediate. When Anya turned her phone back on a few hours later, it was exploding with notifications. Her post had gathered hundreds of shares and thousands of comments. But they weren’t just words of support.

People started sharing their own stories. Clients posted photos of her cakes with glowing reviews.

The very woman who had canceled her order called, apologized, and asked for the next available date. The owner of a local news portal messaged her asking for an interview.

And Oleg… Oleg vanished. His social media page was deleted. His new girlfriend, faced with a wave of public outrage and realizing who she was involved with, publicly announced a breakup, writing a vague line about “irreconcilable moral principles.”

Online defamation and a false report—those weren’t just bad deeds. They were crimes.

Two days later the health inspectorate sent an official letter of apology and full clearance to resume operations. Anya started baking again. But now there were so many orders that her little kitchen couldn’t keep up.

 

A year passed.

On the city’s main street, in a small but cozy space with floor-to-ceiling windows, the pastry shop “Sweet Anya” opened. From early morning a line would form at the glass door.

Anya, in a snow-white chef’s jacket, stood behind the counter herself, smiling and boxing pastries. She had hired two assistants, but she loved working with clients personally.

He showed up at lunchtime. Thinner, gaunter, in a worn jacket. He didn’t get in line.

He just stood across the street and watched. Watched the bright sign, the laughing people with the branded boxes, watched her.

Anya noticed him. Their eyes met through the glass. There was no longer mockery or anger in his. Only emptiness and poorly concealed envy.

He crossed the road and hesitantly approached the entrance, shifting from foot to foot.

“Anya…”

She stepped outside. A light breeze played with her hair. She smelled of vanilla and success.

“Hi, Oleg.”

“I… I see you’re… doing well,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the line. “Good for you.”

He fidgeted, searching for words. It was plain how hard this conversation was for him.

“I need help. I’m out of work, in debt… Could you lend me something? I’ll pay it back. I swear.”

He looked at her with hope. The same hope people pin on the last lifeboat. He still saw her as the Anya he could manipulate, the one he could pressure.

She was silent a moment, looking straight into his eyes. Not with anger. Not with pity. With a calm, almost detached interest—like at a book long since read and forgotten.

“You know, Oleg, I’m not a charity,” she said evenly. “And I don’t lend to people who tried to destroy me.”

She turned and went back into her pastry shop—to her customers, to her new life built with her own hands.

She didn’t look back. She no longer cared what he might say or do.

The door closed behind her, cutting him off from a world of warmth, the aroma of fresh pastry, and her future, in which there was simply no place for him.

Another three years passed. “Sweet Anya” had become a bona fide brand. It was now a small chain of three locations in different parts of the city.

Anya no longer stood behind the counter every day. She ran the business, developed new recipes, and taught master classes for which people registered months in advance.

She sat in her office right above the flagship shop. Through the large window she could see the same bustling street. The evening city was lighting up, and the glow from the sign softly filled the room.

On the desk lay a glossy magazine with her photo on the cover. “Anna Volkova: How to Turn Pain into a Business Empire.”

She smirked. Journalists loved grand headlines. An empire. What nonsense. She didn’t have an empire—she had work she loved.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Lena, her loyal friend, who now worked for her as CFO.

“Am I interrupting?” Lena flopped into the chair opposite. “The suppliers brought a new chocolate from Colombia. Said it’s just for you.”

“I’ll go taste it,” Anya smiled. “How are things?”

“All great. By the way, guess who I saw today? Oleg. A mover at a furniture store. He was trying to haul a sofa up to the fifth floor. He recognized me and turned away.”

Anya nodded, her face unchanged. She had long since stopped feeling anything toward him.

He was simply part of the past now, like an old, faded photograph. His path was his choice. She had made hers that day, standing on the dirty stairwell mat.

“Let him work,” she said calmly. “To each their own.”

When Lena left, Anya went to the window. Below, in the glow of the shopfront, a young couple was admiring a wedding cake with delight.

They held hands and chatted excitedly. Anya looked at them and thought not about her failed love, but about how many such happy moments she had helped create.

Her cakes were there at birthdays, anniversaries, christenings. They witnessed love confessions and quiet family celebrations. What one man had called “useless trash” had become part of hundreds of other people’s joy.

She wasn’t looking for new love.

She was fine on her own. She was surrounded by friends, by work she loved, by students who looked at her with admiration. She herself had become a source of warmth and happiness—for herself and for others.

Late at night, when the last employee went home, Anya went down to the empty production kitchen, smelling of vanilla and fresh pastry.

She ran her hand over the cool steel of the worktable. Here, she was truly home.

She took a bit of leftover cream, a piping bag, and wrote one word on parchment: “Thank you.”

It wasn’t a thank-you to anyone in particular. It was gratitude for the pain that had made her stronger.

For the humiliation that had forced her to rise. And for the man who, trying to break her, unwittingly gave her freedom—and an entire world. Her own, sweet world.