All Amazing Babies

So what exactly are you trying to tell me? That I should give up my apartment so you and your mommy can keep diving into scams together?”

“Come on, don’t get so worked up, Sasha, it’s my MOM… She didn’t mean any harm…”

“And who am I then, Maksim?! Some random passerby?!”

Alexandra stormed into the apartment like a tornado. Keys jingled in her bag, her phone was buzzing annoyingly, and there was a smear of chewing gum on her heel—everything as usual. Only the air already felt… off.

In the kitchen, as always, ruled Galina Pavlovna. Forever in a housecoat, forever with a look of reproach.

She turned around, wiping her hands on a checkered towel.

 

“Why are you so late? You could’ve come earlier, dinner’s gone cold.”

“Am I a schoolgirl now? Do I live by a timetable?” Alexandra muttered, throwing her bag onto a chair.

Maxim was sitting at the table, poking at his buckwheat like it was radioactive. He looked like a man who knows thunder is about to strike. And it’s going to hurt.

“Sasha…” he drawled, not meeting her eyes, “so, there’s this thing…”

“Maxim, did you lose your job again? Or did you forget to pay the internet bill? What is it this time?”

“No, it’s not that… Well… Mom’s apartment…” Maxim hunched his shoulders as if trying to pull his head into them.

Galina Pavlovna immediately hissed:

“What do you mean ‘Mom’s apartment’? It’s not ‘Mom’s’, it’s mine! And I’m an adult, I decide myself where to invest!”

Alexandra turned sharply.

“Wait. What did you do?”

“Well, there was this webinar… very respectable people… They were showing charts, talking about ‘return index’ and ‘multiple growth’…”

“And you, an ‘adult’, took out a loan against your apartment because of some indexes?!” Alexandra was almost shouting now. “Galina Pavlovna, do you even have a head on your shoulders?”

“They promised guaranteed income! Ten percent a month!”

“Oh, what is that, magic? Money out of thin air?” Alexandra laughed nervously, like someone whose nervous tic had just been prescribed for life. “Do you at least understand that they’re scammers?”

Maxim cut in gloomily:

“All the documents are legit. It’s just that right now they’re having ‘technical problems’. And their accounts got frozen…”

Alexandra pushed her chair back sharply.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I want to hear everything. The whole story. No ‘well, sort of’. Start talking. Now.”

Galina Pavlovna straightened up. The manner of a prosecutor at an interrogation.

“I took out a loan secured by the apartment. Five million.”

“Five?!” Alexandra grabbed her head. “You’ve lost your mind!”

“Don’t you yell at me! I wanted what’s best for everyone! We could’ve bought new cars for all of us! Maxim could’ve started his own business!”

“Maxim can’t even put his socks together in pairs, and you wanted him to have a business!” Alexandra turned to her husband. “You knew?”

“Well… yeah. But I thought it was a small amount…”

“A small amount?! This is your HOME! Where are you going to live when the bank takes the apartment?”

And then came the most disgusting proposal of the evening.

“We were thinking… maybe you could sell your apartment. It’s sitting empty anyway. We’d pay off the loan. Then we’d earn more. We’d pay you back, for sure!”

“Let me get this straight.” Alexandra sat down. “You want me to SELL MY apartment, bought with MY money, to cover your brilliant stunt?”

“It’s for the family, Sasha,” Maxim said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You know… We’re family…”

“And when was the last time you did anything for this family, Maxim? You only take out the trash when I threaten you with a frying pan!” Her voice was shaking with rage.

Galina Pavlovna gave her a long measuring look.

“Stop with the hysterics. I never liked you from day one. It’s always ‘mine’, ‘I won’t share’, ‘I earned it myself’. You’re greedy, Sasha. That’s not how a woman should be.”

“And how should a woman be? Mortgage her apartment and play the victim?” Alexandra jumped up. “You live in my place, you eat at my expense, you use up my electricity, you wash all your stuff in my machine… And you still dare pressure me?”

“Your apartment is sheer luck, not something you earned,” her mother-in-law snapped. “Who would even marry you with your character?”

Alexandra froze.

There it was, the real face. Without the mask of the “sweet mother of Maxim.”

“I’m done,” she said quietly. “You’re moving out tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, ‘moving out’?!” Galina shrieked. “I have court in a month, they’re going to evict me!”

“That’s not my problem. You had a chance. You blew it. Now it’s over.”

Maxim jumped up:

“Wait! Sasha, you can’t do this! She’s my mother! She’ll end up on the street! You’re not a monster, are you?”

“And you’re not a child, Maxim. Grow up at least once in your life.”

“So you want me to choose between you?”

“I want you to finally understand that actions have consequences. Good luck with your mom.”

She grabbed her bag and rushed to the door as if an army of debt collectors were chasing her.

Behind her she heard a shriek:

“Oh, that’s how it is?! So some stranger means more to you than family?!”

Alexandra stopped on the threshold and turned around.

“I’m not a stranger. I’m the only person in this ‘family’ who actually built anything with her own hands. And now—yes, I am a stranger. Thanks to you.”

The door slammed. All that was left in the hallway was silence and the smell of a cooling dinner.

Four days passed.

Four days of silence, like before an earthquake. No calls, no messages, no knocking at the door—as if their little family had just evaporated. Only Alexandra knew: that silence was fake. Before the storm, it’s always sunny. And then everything goes to hell.

On the fifth day, Maxim showed up.

No call, no warning. He was just standing at the door with two bags from Pyaterochka, as if they’d randomly met by the dumpsters and decided to have some tea.

“Open up,” he said, knocking with his palm on the door. “Don’t be scared, I come in peace.”

Alexandra opened. In pajamas, a face mask on, bunny-ear slippers on her feet. Hideous and furious—the perfect image of a divorced fury.

“What do you want?” Her voice was icy.

“I missed you…” Maxim coughed and quickly added, “And anyway, we need to talk. Like adults.”

“Seriously? You suddenly became an adult?”

“Sash, come on…” He shrugged. “I don’t want everything to just fall apart like this.”

“If you don’t want things to fall apart, don’t shove your mother into scams, don’t live off someone else, and don’t try to solve problems at my expense.”

He stepped into the apartment as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t kicked him out. As if their life were a chain of bad jokes and now it was time for the punchline.

“I was thinking… We could take a break. Just for a while. I’ll stay with Mom. You stay here. And then, maybe, we’ll figure things out somehow.”

“Do you get your lines from TV shows?” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “You’re already living with your mom. And it’s not a ‘break’, it’s permanent.”

Maxim sat down on the edge of the couch. That’s what he always did—sat down and waited for things to sort themselves out.

“Listen. I… I talked to a lawyer. About Mom’s debt and apartment.”

“And what, did he also suggest a ‘break’?” Sasha asked sarcastically.

“He said… that if Mom doesn’t cover the debt within two months, she’ll be evicted. And she can’t get a new loan—her pension’s too small, and the apartment is already collateral.”

“What a tragedy,” she said dryly. “I’m about to shed a tear.”

“Sasha… She’s old. She’s starting to lose it. She doesn’t sleep at night. Thinks people are climbing in through the window.”

“Maybe they are. The ones she promised ten percent a month to.”

“You don’t understand…” Maxim suddenly jumped up. “Her whole life was for us! For me!”

“Her whole life was about control. About making sure you never learned to take responsibility for yourself!” Alexandra’s voice shook. “And now you both want me to pay for your upbringing!”

 

“We’re just asking for help. For a while.”

“And I’m just refusing. Forever.”

“So that’s how you treat your family…” he muttered, looking away.

“You’re not my family. You turned into furniture in your mother’s house. And I’m not moving in there.”

“I thought we were a team, Sasha.”

“And who do you captain with? Your mom? You even sort your socks by color with her!”

“Don’t exaggerate!” he squealed. “I don’t deserve this!”

“And I do?!” Alexandra stepped closer. “Do I deserve to have you try to take my apartment under the guise of ‘helping the family’? To be called greedy? For you to stand there and say nothing while your mother humiliates me?”

He stayed silent. Because there was nothing to say.

She opened the wardrobe, took a folder with papers, and tossed it onto the table.

“Here. Divorce papers. Sign.”

“You’ve gone crazy. You said you loved me…”

“Love isn’t a lifelong mortgage. And it’s definitely not a marriage with a bonus mother-in-law attached.”

Maxim took the papers and stood up. His shoulders sagged. His face went pale. He left without even slamming the door.

Alexandra sat down. Her hands were shaking. Not from fear—from adrenaline. That was it. Full stop.

A couple of hours later, a text came:

“I’ll pick up my things on the weekend. Mom’s in the hospital for now—blood pressure. We’ll figure out what to do with the debts later.”

She didn’t reply. There was nothing to “figure out.”

The next day, Alexandra changed the locks.

The locksmith—a bearded guy in blue overalls—remarked philosophically:

“You know, it’s usually women who change locks. After their ‘other half’ goes off to the left.”

“My other half went to the right. To his mommy,” she replied darkly.

“Well, that’s exactly where they all belong.”

Later that evening she sat with a glass of wine and her laptop. A friend had written to her:

“Sasha, you’re insane. In a good way. Maybe we should just take off somewhere? Italy? I found cheap tickets for September.”

And suddenly everything went quiet inside. Calm. As if everything had finally settled into place.

Alexandra took a slow sip of wine and answered:

“Book them. I’m in. And when I’m back, maybe I’ll change my last name too. I’m sick to death of all these Pavlovnas.”

Alexandra never thought she’d see Galina Pavlovna in a suit and holding a folder of documents. But there they were, sitting in the courthouse corridor. Wooden benches, gray walls, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke in the coats. As if someone had specifically ordered the setting: “divorce with a touch of Soviet melodrama.”

Maxim sat nearby. In a wrinkled shirt, clutching a plastic file folder, his eyes darting. Between him and his mother hung a heavy silence. No “Mommy”, no “Sonny.” Sasha thought: looks like they’re having fun without me too…

Galina Pavlovna was silent. No—that’s wrong—temporarily not speaking. She’d been storing it up for too long. And as soon as the bailiff called them into the courtroom, she started:

“This is all your fault. You destroyed the family! Threw my son out on the street!”

“I didn’t bring him from the maternity ward. He’s an adult. He could try understanding that at least once,” Alexandra replied calmly.

“You predator. You lured him in, grabbed the apartment, and now you want a quick divorce. Well, no, I’m going to tell them everything!”

“Please do. Tell them how you mortgaged your own apartment to get into a pyramid scheme. I think the judge will be very interested,” Alexandra said with a fake polite smile.

The judge turned out to be a dry woman of about fifty with a face that said, “I have grandkids, let’s not turn this into a circus.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked over the paperwork.

“Well then, citizens Pavlov. Getting a divorce, are we?”

“Yes,” Sasha said calmly.

“No!” Galina suddenly shouted.

The judge even adjusted her glasses.

“Excuse me, and you are?”

“His mother! I’m his mother! I object to this divorce!”

The judge tapped her pen on the desk.

“No one asked you, ma’am. This is a civil case between the spouses.”

“She destroyed our family! She refused to help when we were in trouble!” Galina’s voice was shaking with rage. “She even kicked my son out!”

“Your son left of his own accord,” Sasha said evenly. “He chose his mother over his family.”

“I didn’t choose you,” Maxim suddenly said. Quiet, but clear. “I just… didn’t know what the right thing to do was.”

The judge glanced at him, squinting a little.

“So both of you agree to the divorce?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

And that was it. Five minutes—and their entire “family fortress” burst like a cheap plastic shopping bag. Alexandra didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As soon as they left the courtroom, Galina pounced on her and hissed fast and venomous, her voice dripping poison:

“I’ll destroy you. You think it all ends just like that? I’ll prove in court you owe us! You’re part of our family whether you like it or not!”

Alexandra laughed. A real laugh, from the gut.

“You’re judging me as an ex-daughter-in-law. But now I’m just a random woman. To you. And to your son. Live with that.”

“You… you’ll regret this!” Galina hissed, clutching at her heart.

“Oh, I already regret something. That I put up with you for three years.”

Maxim had been standing off to the side the whole time. No voice, no opinion—like always. Galina whispered something into his ear, but he only shrugged.

And walked away.

Alexandra walked away too. She stepped outside, inhaled the air. Cold, alive—as if the whole city was saying: so, girl, you’re free now?

The next morning at the airport she felt no anxiety, no doubt. Only lightness.

“Rome, get ready. I don’t have a mother-in-law anymore. Or a husband. There’s just me. And I’m, you know, not half bad…” she thought, tossing her suitcase onto the belt.

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

My husband was standing in the hallway. His tie was undone. His face was red from the cold. Or from that conversation with his boss. I don’t know.

“I got promoted!”

I turned away from the stove. The pasta was boiling. Foam was creeping over the edge of the pot. I really should have turned it off. But I just stood there. Looking at him.

“That’s great, Seryozha…”

 

“Now I’ll definitely divorce you,” he cut me off. “I need a wife that fits my status.”

The pasta boiled over. I turned off the stove.

I didn’t understand right away. Or rather, I understood immediately, but I refused to accept it. My brain wouldn’t put the words together into meaning. “Promoted” is a good word. “Divorce” is a bad one. How can they be in the same sentence?

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

He walked into the living room. I heard the TV click on. The news. The usual evening news about the dollar exchange rate and the weather in the capital.

He sat down to watch TV as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Seven years. Seven years we’d been together. Eight, if you count the year before the wedding. Back when he was still a “promising young manager,” and I was a “girl with a promising appearance.” That’s how he introduced me to his friends. He was joking. I laughed.

Now he’s the head of a department. And me… Who am I? A wife who doesn’t match his status.

I sat down at the table. Sat down and thought: what am I going to do? Cry? Scream? Smash dishes? That would be logical. That’s what they do in movies. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to understand.

Understand—when? When did I stop measuring up?

A year ago at the office party he introduced me simply as, “This is Lena.” Without “my wife.” Back then I thought: he just forgot. He was nervous. He had a speech to give. About the quarterly figures.

Six months ago he started staying late. “The project’s on fire,” he would say. He came home at midnight. He smelled of… perfume. Women’s perfume. I kept quiet. I thought: the project. Nastya works there, after all. She’s forever bathing in Chanel.

A month ago he stopped kissing me goodnight. He just turned toward the wall. I lay there, staring at the ceiling.

“Are you going to have dinner?” I shouted into the living room.

“I’ve eaten.”

Of course he had. Somewhere. With someone. Someone who suited his status.

I got up. Went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. An ordinary face. Not a beauty, but not… either. Light brown hair. Grey eyes. Thirty-one years old. Little wrinkles had already appeared around my eyes. Shallow ones. Mom used to say they were “from smiling.” I hadn’t smiled in a long time.

I took off my sweater. Old. Covered in pills. When was the last time I bought myself something new? I couldn’t remember.

Last week Sergey brought home a bag. A suit. Grey, with a fine pinstripe. Fifty thousand. He spun in front of the mirror for an hour. Kept asking, “Does it look good?”

“It does,” I told him.

And I hadn’t bought anything for myself for… how long? Six months?

I went back to the kitchen. The pasta had stuck together. It lay in the colander in an ugly lump. I took a fork, twirled some, tasted it standing over the sink. Cold. Tasteless.

My phone buzzed. Mom: “How are you, sunshine?”

I stared at the screen. Wondering what to answer. “Hi, Mom. Serezha got promoted. He decided to divorce me. He’s looking for a better wife”?

I typed: “Everything’s great. Kisses.”

She sent back an emoji. A heart. I started crying.

Not loudly. Quietly. The tears just ran down my face. I didn’t wipe them away. Let them. I stood there crying over the sink and the cold pasta.

Sergey came out of the living room. Looked at me. Didn’t come over.

“Don’t make a scene,” he said. “I thought you were reasonable.”

Reasonable. Yes. I’m reasonable. I understand everything. He wants a woman who… Who what? Wears stilettos to corporate parties? Speaks English? Knows the difference between a martini and a mojito? Doesn’t confuse Gucci with Versace?

I’m a village girl. My parents are teachers. I grew up in a two-room Khrushchyovka. Finished college by correspondence. Worked as a sales clerk. Then a cashier. Then…

Then I got married. Serezha brought me into his apartment…

I quit everything. He said, “Why do you need that job? I’ll provide.” And he did. He gave me money for groceries. For utilities. Sometimes for little things.

And now I’d turned into a housewife who doesn’t suit his status.

“I’m leaving,” I said suddenly.

He turned around.

“What?”

“I’ll leave. On my own… I’m going to leave.”

He smirked:

“Where to? To your mom? Back to that little Khrushchyovka?”

“Somewhere.”

“And what will you live on? You don’t have a job. No money. Nothing.”

He was right. I had nothing. For seven years I had invested in him. In his career. In his comfort. Ironed his shirts. Cooked his meals. Listened to his stories about office intrigue. Supported him. And what did I get in return?

“I have a degree,” I said.

“A correspondence degree in human resources management?” He laughed. “Lena, you can’t even put together a proper résumé.”

I stayed silent.

He walked past me into the bedroom. A minute later he came back with a pillow and a throw.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning. Rationally.”

The door closed behind him.

I stood in the kitchen, looking at the clock. Ten p.m. Tomorrow he’d go to work. To his new office. His new position. His new life.

Without me. And me…?

I opened the laptop. The old one. He’d bought himself a new one last year and given me this one. “Use it, I was going to throw it out anyway.”

I opened a job-search site. Stared at the search bar for a long time. What can I do? Cook. Clean. Listen. Wait. Those aren’t professions.

I closed the laptop. Started thinking… Looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack there. A tiny one. I had never noticed it before.

I wonder how long it’s been there?

Or did it appear just today? The way a crack had appeared in my life. No, not a crack—a full-on fracture…

And then I thought: what if…

What if this is a chance? Not an end. A beginning.

I got up. Washed my face with cold water. Looked in the mirror again.

Thirty-one. Not seventy. Not eighty. Thirty-one. You can start over.

You can… You have to.

I went back to the laptop. Opened it. Typed into the search bar: “Job. No experience. Urgent.” There were lots of listings. So many. I started reading.

Somewhere behind the wall Sergey was watching TV. Laughing at a comedy. His life went on as usual. Everything was fine for him.

And me? I had a laptop screen. A blinking cursor. And a strange feeling in my chest. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Hope? Maybe.

I smiled. For the first time in a long while.

The morning began with the smell of coffee.

Not mine. His. Sergey was standing at the coffee machine. In his new suit. Pressed. I hadn’t ironed it yesterday. So he’d done it himself…

“Morning,” he said.

I didn’t answer. Walked past him into the bathroom. Closed the door. Looked at myself.

I’d slept four hours. My eyes were red. My face creased. But inside—something had changed. I didn’t know exactly what. But it had.

I remembered the night before. The job site. I had sent off three applications right away. Front-of-house at a café. Assistant accountant. Sales assistant in a children’s store.

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Elena? This is the café Happiness. You applied for a job yesterday. Can you come in for an interview today?” My heart started pounding.

“Yes. I can. What time?”

“Is two okay?”

“That works.”

I hung up. Looked at my reflection. Smiled.

The first step.

When I came out of the bathroom, Sergey was finishing his coffee. Staring at his phone. Not looking up.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “We can do everything in a civilized way. I don’t want any drama. You’ll get a settlement. Small, of course. But enough to get you started.”

“What settlement?” I asked.

“Well… a hundred thousand. That’s enough to rent an apartment for a couple of months. Find a job.”

One hundred thousand. For seven years.

Fourteen thousand a year.

I laughed. I didn’t even know why. I just laughed.

“What’s so funny?” He finally looked at me.

“Nothing. Everything.” I shrugged. “You know what, Serezha, keep your hundred thousand. I don’t need it. Benefactor. You’ve completely lost your conscience.”

“You have nowhere to go.”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

He shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

He grabbed his briefcase. The leather one I’d given him for his birthday two years ago. Back then he’d said, “Was it expensive? You shouldn’t have splurged.” But he was glowing.

The door slammed.

I was alone. I sat down at the table. Poured myself some tea. Looked around the kitchen. An ordinary kitchen. White cabinets. A fridge covered in magnets from our trips. We didn’t travel often. He didn’t like vacations. “Work is more important,” he used to say.

There was a photo on the fridge. Our wedding. We’re both young. Happy. He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.

When did that end? When did I become nothing to him?

My phone buzzed again.

Mom: “Sunshine, how did you sleep?”

I typed: “Mom. Can I come stay with you? Just for a bit. I’ll explain later.”

The reply came a second later: “Of course! You can always come. What happened?!”

“I’ll tell you later. Love you.”

I got up. Went to the bedroom. Opened the wardrobe. I didn’t have many things. Two sweaters. Three pairs of jeans. A dress I hadn’t worn in three years. Underwear. That’s it.

His clothes took up three-quarters of the closet. Suits. Shirts. Ties. All neatly arranged. I always kept everything tidy.

I took a bag. A big sports bag. Started packing my things. Toiletry bag. Hair dryer. The book I hadn’t finished. A photo of my parents. A notebook with old notes. Everything fit into one bag.

Seven years of life. One bag.

I walked through the apartment. The living room. The hallway. The bathroom. My traces were everywhere. The curtains I’d picked out. The picture on the wall—I brought it from a flea market. The mat by the door—I embroidered it myself.

And what will be left of me here? Nothing. He’ll throw everything out. Renovate. Bring in a new wife. One that suits his status.

She’ll sleep in this bed. Cook on this stove. Hang her own curtains.

And nothing will remind him of me.

Strangely, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… empty.

I closed the door.

Walked down the stairs. Went outside.

It was freezing. Minus fifteen. The snow creaked under my feet. I walked toward the metro. The bag was heavy. But walking felt easy.

The subway car was crowded. I stood by the door, looking out the window. Outside was the darkness of the tunnel. Now and then the lights of stations flashed by.

Next to me sat a girl. Young. About twenty-five. Beautiful. In an expensive coat. She was talking on the phone:

“No, Mom, I’m not going to marry him. He’s nice, but I don’t love him. I don’t want to repeat your mistake. Remember how you said, ‘The main thing is that he provides’? And then cried at night for twenty years?”

I turned away. Twenty years. And I only had seven. I’m in time. It’s not too late yet.

The café Happiness turned out to be small. In an old neighborhood. Windows dusted with snow. Inside it was warm. It smelled of coffee.

Behind the counter stood a woman of about forty-five. Plump. With a kind face.

“Elena?”

“Yes.”

“Come in. I’m Irina. The owner.”

We sat down at a table. She poured some coffee and pushed the cup toward me.

“You don’t have any work experience, did I get that right?”

“Yes. I haven’t worked for seven years. I was… married.”

“Was?”

“I left yesterday.”

Irina nodded.

“I understand. I went through the same thing. Fifteen years ago. He left me for his secretary. I was left with two kids. Not a penny to my name. I wanted to die.”

She smiled:

 

“But here I am. I’m alive. I opened a café. The kids grew up. Everything’s fine.”

“Will you hire me?” I asked. “I’ll work hard. I’ll learn everything. Honestly.”

Irina looked me in the eyes. For a long moment. Then held out her hand:

“You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. The salary isn’t big yet. But meals are on me. And you keep the tips.”

I shook her hand.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. We women have to help each other.”

I left the café and sat down on a bench outside.

My phone buzzed.

Sergey: “Where are you?”

I looked at the message. Thought for a bit.

I wrote back: “Doesn’t matter.”

He was typing for a long time. Then came:

“Seriously? You really left?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“To a new life.”

He didn’t write again.

I got up. Walked back toward the metro. Toward Mom. To that same Khrushchyovka. Where it’ll be cramped. Where the furniture is old. Where Mom will sigh, “Oh, sunshine, how could this happen?!”

But where it will be warm.

And where I’m not a nobody. Not a wife who doesn’t match someone’s status. Just Lena. Thirty-one years old. With my whole life ahead of me.

The snow was falling in big flakes. Landing on my shoulders. Melting. I walked on. Without looking back.

For the first time in seven years, I wasn’t thinking about my husband… And you know what? It felt like freedom.

 I stared at my phone for a long time. Alexey was calling for the third time that evening, but I didn’t pick up. The time on the screen read half past ten. Before, at that hour, I’d already be washing the dinner dishes, wiping down the table, hanging up the laundry. Now I was sitting on the couch with a cup of tea gone cold, thinking about how everything had changed in the space of just three weeks.

And it all started that same evening.

I came running home from work around eight, quickly tossed my bag onto a chair, and pulled the cutlets out of the fridge—the ones I’d cooked that morning. Alexey walked into the kitchen just as I set a frying pan on the stove.

“So where’s dinner, Ira?” he said calmly, but I immediately heard the tension in his voice.

“I’m heating it up. Five minutes and it’ll be ready.”

He went over to the table and ran a finger across the countertop.

“Dust. Dust everywhere again. Do you even clean at all?”

I didn’t answer. I turned the cutlets over. My hands were shaking—whether from exhaustion or hurt, I didn’t know.

“I’m tired, Lyosha. I work now.”

“That’s not your job—to work!” he raised his voice, and I flinched. “Why do you need that job if the house is dirty, dinner isn’t ready, and I’m sitting here like an idiot waiting?”

God, how much longer could this go on? I’d explained it a hundred times—we didn’t have enough money. Or did he think a manicure once every three months was normal?

“We need money,” I said quietly. “Your salary isn’t even enough for decent groceries.”

“Then you need to be more economical! Other wives manage, but you…”

He fell silent and turned to the window. I switched off the stove, put a plate in front of him, then sat down across from him, feeling everything inside me tighten into a hard knot.

“Listen,” Alexey looked at me. “Let’s live separately for a while. I need time to rethink everything.”

“What?” I didn’t understand right away.

“We’ll take a break from each other. A friend suggested it—said it worked for him and his wife, things got better later. I’ll move in with Mom for a while, and you can think about how you want to live дальше.”

He stood up without even touching the food and left the kitchen. I stayed sitting there, staring at the plate of cutlets. There was a lump in my throat; it was hard to breathe.

He’s leaving. Just like that—he’s simply taking and leaving.

An hour later, Alexey packed a bag and left. The apartment was mine—it had come from my grandmother—so he was the one who had to go. I walked him to the door, tried to say something, but he only waved a hand.

“We’ll talk.”

The door slammed shut. I stood in the hallway and listened to the silence. Our apartment hadn’t been this quiet in a long time. No snoring from the bedroom, no grumbling, no reproaches.

For the first two days I cried. I couldn’t stop—crying at work in the bathroom, crying at home in the kitchen, crying before sleep. What would I do alone? How would I cope? I called my mother; she came over and stroked my head like I was little.

 

“Sweetheart, maybe it’s for the best,” she said softly, wiping my tears. “Look at you. You’ve worked yourself into the ground.”

She pulled some money from her bag and pressed it into my hand.

“For getting your hair colored. Don’t skimp on yourself, Ira.”

I looked at the bills and felt something stir inside me. Anger? Resentment? I didn’t know. But I suddenly thought: she was right—when was the last time I’d thought about myself?

On the third day Tanya called. My friend from school. Her voice was bright, almost cheerful.

“Ira, stop moping! Get dressed—an hour from now I’m expecting you. We’re going dancing!”

“Dancing, Tanya? I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s exactly why you need to go! I’m not letting you turn into a vegetable. Get dressed and come out!”

I tried to refuse, but all I managed were weak excuses. Tanya didn’t listen.

“Done. I’m waiting!”

I looked at myself in the mirror. Messy hair, an old house sweater, a face swollen from tears. God—what do I look like?

I pulled on jeans, found a light blouse in the closet. Put on some makeup—my hands shook, mascara smeared. I wiped it off and tried again. It came out… more or less.

The dance studio was in the next district, in the basement of an old building. Tanya dragged me by the hand while I resisted.

“Tanya, I can’t dance.”

“You’ll learn there—don’t worry!”

The room was small, with huge mirrors along the walls. It smelled of sweat and cheap air freshener. The floors squeaked underfoot. There were about fifteen women—different ages, all cheerful, chatting with each other.

They turned on music. The instructor showed the moves; everyone copied her. I stood in the corner feeling like I was made of wood. My body wouldn’t obey, my feet got tangled. What am I doing here? Why?

I looked at myself in the mirror—and suddenly I saw it. Not a tired housewife. Not a beaten-down wife. Just a woman trying to move to music. And on my face was a smile. Uncertain, embarrassed—but a smile.

“There!” Tanya bounced up to me. “Look at you, красавица!”

I laughed. For the first time in days—I laughed for real. And I felt something loosen inside me, as if the tight rope that had been binding me for all those years had finally slackened a little.

I feel good. For the first time, I just feel good.

The next day Alexey called. I was at work and answered.

“How are you?” His voice was dry, businesslike.

“Fine.”

“The utility bill came—send me half.”

“Okay.”

A pause. I could hear him breathing into the phone.

“You cleaned up at least?”

There it was. Starting again.

“Alexey, what difference does it make to you?”

“What do you mean what difference? It’s our apartment.”

“My apartment,” I said, more firmly than I meant to.

He exhaled раздражённо.

“That’s exactly the problem, Ira. You’ve completely gotten out of hand.”

I hung up. Just like that—I pressed the red button and put the phone down on the desk. My hands weren’t shaking. Inside, it was calm.

I’m not going to оправдываться anymore. I won’t.

At home it was quiet. I made coffee and sat by the window. In a vase on the table there was a hyacinth—completely dried out; I kept forgetting to throw it away. This time I got up, tossed the dead flower, poured fresh water into the vase. Tomorrow I’d buy new flowers.

Tanya called every day—inviting me for walks, to the movies, to dance class. I started going—at first forcing myself, then with genuine interest. At work they noticed I’d become more active. My boss called me in.

“Irina, we’re thinking of promoting you. The salary will be higher, but there will be more responsibility. Are you interested?”

I nodded, not believing my ears.

“Yes.”

I’ll manage. I can do it.

Two weeks later Tanya and I bought cheap seaside vouchers—just a week. I hesitated for a long time: was it okay to spend money on myself? But then I thought—why not?

The sea was warm, the wind salty. We lay on the beach, ate ice cream, talked until night. Tanya took photos of me on her phone.

“Look at you! You’re glowing!”

I took the phone and looked at the picture. A tanned face, tousled hair, a wide smile. Is that really me?

“You’re like a TV heroine after a divorce,” Tanya laughed. “Found yourself!”

“I really did,” I said quietly.

When I got back home, Alexey called again. This time he went straight to the point.

“Let’s meet. Talk.”

“About what?”

“What do you mean about what? About us. We need to decide what we’re doing next.”

I agreed. We set a meeting at the café “Dumplings and Coffee”—our old place where we used to go often.

I came first. Ordered coffee and sat by the window. The bell above the door jingled—Alexey came in. He looked tired, drawn. He sat down across from me and nodded to the waitress.

“Dumplings for me, please.”

We were silent for a minute. I sipped my coffee in small gulps and looked out the window. He turned his phone over in his hands.

“Listen, Ira… it’s impossible at my mom’s. She meddles in everything I do, nags me morning to night. I’m exhausted.”

And I wasn’t exhausted when you nagged me?

“I’m sorry,” I said evenly.

“So what? Have you come to your senses? Will you quit that job? We’ll go back to a normal life?”

I looked at him. At his уверенное face, his привычная posture—leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. He didn’t even doubt I’d agree.

“Alexey, I don’t want to come back.”

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I realized we’re better off divorcing. We don’t suit each other.”

“What?!” He straightened up. “Are you serious?!”

“Completely.”

His face turned red.

“You’ve changed, Ira. I don’t recognize you.”

“And I’ve recognized myself for the first time,” I said calmly.

He stood up abruptly, almost knocking the chair over.

“Fine—have it your way! You’ll regret this!”

He turned and walked out. The bell above the door jingled. The waitress came up to me.

“That’ll be five hundred thirty rubles.”

I silently took out the money. He didn’t even pay for his order. As always.

At home I pulled an old suitcase from the closet. I packed Alexey’s things—shirts, jeans, razor, books. Neatly arranged everything, closed the suitcase, carried it into the hallway.

Let him take it whenever he wants.

I went back to the kitchen. Yesterday I’d bought fresh flowers—chrysanthemums, yellow and white. I put them in the vase and poured water. The kettle was coming to a boil—I brewed my favorite tea, the one Alexey couldn’t stand. He said it smelled like grass.

I sat by the window with my cup. Opened the window—fresh air rushed in, smelling of rain and fallen leaves. It was early October; the trees were turning yellow.

I’m free. For the first time in so many years, I can do what I want.

My phone vibrated. A message from Tanya: “So? How did it go?”

I typed back: “I’m getting a divorce. And I feel amazing.”

Almost instantly, a reply came: “Then we have to celebrate! Tomorrow evening!”

I smiled. Finished my tea, washed the cup. Looked around the apartment—my apartment, my things, my life. No one will grumble about dust. No one will demand dinner on time. No one will tell me I have to stay at home.

I’m going to live for myself. Finally.

The next morning I woke up to sunlight. I got up, stretched. Made coffee, took yogurt from the fridge. Turned on music—loud, the way I never could before because it “bothered” Alexey.

The phone rang. Alexey.

“I’ll come get my things tonight.”

“Okay. The suitcase is in the hallway.”

“Ira… maybe you’ll still think it over?”

 

“No, Lyosha. I’ve already decided everything.”

He was quiet.

“Well… do what you want.”

He hung up.

I turned on the shower, undressed. Looked at myself in the mirror. An ordinary woman of forty-two. Not young, not old. A little plump, hair streaked with gray. But in my eyes—there was a sparkle. A living, real sparkle.

I like the woman in the mirror.

After my shower I put on jeans and a new blouse I’d bought last week. Bright blue. Alexey used to say blue didn’t suit me. I like it.

I got ready for work. By the door I saw the suitcase with my husband’s things. Soon he’d take it, and that would be that. This chapter would be closed.

Outside it was a warm autumn day. Leaves rustled under my feet. I walked to the bus stop thinking that tonight I’d meet Tanya. Then on Saturday—dance class again. Next month I want to sign up for some online courses for extra income—I’ve dreamed of it for ages.

I have so many plans. And all of them are for me.

At work my boss praised me for a project. My coworkers invited me to lunch. I agreed—before, I always refused, rushing home to cook dinner.

Now I don’t have to rush anywhere.

That evening, when I came home, the suitcase in the hallway was gone. Alexey had picked up his things while I was out. Probably on purpose, so we wouldn’t meet.

And good. It’s easier that way.

I took off my shoes and went into the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Walked to the window—the chrysanthemums stood in the vase, fresh and bright. Outside, it was slowly getting dark; lights were coming on in the neighboring buildings.

My phone vibrated. Tanya: “Come out already—I’m waiting by the entrance!”

I grabbed my jacket and bag. Glanced at the mirror in the hallway—fixed my hair, put on lipstick. Not bad. Perfectly decent.

I ran outside. Tanya stood by the car, waving.

“Finally! Let’s go celebrate your freedom!”

I got into the car and shut the door.

“Let’s go.”

Tanya turned on music, and the car pulled away. I watched the houses, trees, people slide past the window. Inside, it was warm and calm.

I’ll manage. I already am. And I feel good—so good, like I haven’t felt in a long time.

The spotlight glare hit me straight in the face. The hall held about three hundred people. I stood on the stage, wrapping up a case presentation—how, in six months, we took a regional chain into the top tier.

In the third row, someone suddenly sat up straight.

Kira.

 

She stared at me as if I’d materialized out of thin air. Her face went white. Her mouth fell slightly open.

I paused. Smiled.

“Thank you for your attention. Questions—afterward.”

Applause. I stepped off the stage.

Six years ago, I worked as a sales clerk in a bookshop on the outskirts of town. Ten-hour shifts, almost no customers, a miserable paycheck. But I liked it—quiet, the smell of paper, the chance to read.

At first I read whatever. Then I stumbled onto a shelf of business books: Marketing Without a Budget, The Psychology of Selling, How to Launch a Project from Scratch. I read and felt something waking up inside me.

I started a notebook. I wrote down goals: “Become self-employed. Find clients. Open a company. Buy an apartment downtown.”

At home I kept quiet. My husband Misha would come back, eat, collapse on the couch. We didn’t fight—we just lived side by side like roommates in a shared flat.

And then his sister would show up.

Kira appeared without calling. She’d burst in with shopping bags, in a suit and high heels. A manager at a construction firm. She considered herself successful. Me—nobody.

“Mishenka, how are you?”

She’d kiss her brother as if he’d just come back from a wrestling match.

“Fine, Kir.”

“And you, Vera—still in your little shop?”

She said it like she was talking about a dumpster.

“Yes.”

“Haven’t you thought about something serious? My brother deserves a wife with a career, not a girl behind a counter.”

Misha stayed silent. Nodded. Poured her tea.

I sliced bread and stared at the knife.

One day Kira came in without warning. Sat at the kitchen table scrolling her phone. My notebook was lying there—I’d forgotten to put it away.

She saw it. Picked it up. Opened it. Read it out loud, laughing:

“‘Register as self-employed. Start my own business.’ Mish, did you hear? Vera’s a businesswoman now!”

Misha came out, looked at the notebook, and smirked.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to dream.”

Not “good for you.” Not “give it a try.” “It doesn’t hurt to dream.”

Kira snapped the notebook shut and tossed it back onto the table.

“Verochka, let’s be realistic. Business takes education, connections, money. You don’t have any of that.”

I took the notebook and went into the other room. After that, I showed it to no one.

A month later I registered anyway. I found an ad—one café was looking for someone to run their social media. I wrote them, sent samples. They hired me.

Misha found out by accident—he saw a transfer notification.

“You’re doing something else too?”

“I’m moonlighting. Running social media.”

“Seriously?”

He frowned.

“You sure that’s normal? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Vera, I don’t want you embarrassing yourself. What if it doesn’t work and everyone finds out?”

“Embarrassing yourself.” Not “taking a risk.” Not “trying.”

That’s when I understood: he was on his sister’s side. He always had been.

I left six months later. Not after a scandal—just because I realized I didn’t exist there anymore.

By then I had three clients. I worked at night. Misha watched shows; I sat at the laptop. We didn’t talk.

One day he said:

“That’s enough of the internet. You’re exhausted. Quit it—focus on a real job.”

“This is a real job.”

“Vera, don’t be ridiculous. You’re sitting up all night for pennies. Kira’s right—you’re wasting your time. And mine too.”

“Kira’s right.”

I stood up, went into the room, pulled out a bag, and started packing.

“What are you doing? Offended?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just not here.”

He went quiet. Then:

“You’re making a mistake. You still won’t manage on your own.”

I closed the door. I didn’t look back.

I rented a room in a communal apartment. Twelve square meters, shared kitchen, linoleum. I worked even more—bookshop by day, orders by night. Four hours of sleep.

But something new appeared inside me. Anger. Cold, quiet. It didn’t burn—it pushed.

Eight months later, I quit. I had so many clients I couldn’t keep up. I registered an LLC. I hired a designer—we worked on commission, sitting in a tiny rented room, drinking instant coffee, building presentations till morning.

I understood the main thing: you don’t sell a service—you sell a solution. People don’t come for “texts.” They come because they want their business to start working.

A year later we rented an office. Tiny, secondhand furniture. But with a sign: “Marketing Agency.” Mine.

Three years after that—twenty people on the team, major clients, federal brands. I bought an apartment downtown—panoramic windows, a river view. Then a car—a black convertible.

Not because I dreamed of it. Just because I could.

Misha wrote once—three years later: “Heard things are going well for you. How are you?” I didn’t answer.

Kira stayed somewhere back there, in the past. Along with that kitchen and the word “little shop.”

They started inviting me to conferences—first as a listener, then as a speaker. I presented cases, shared experience.

And today—main stage at the regional business forum. I’m talking about a failed project we salvaged. About how we convinced a client to trust us.

And I see her. Third row. With a notebook, but she isn’t writing. She’s staring at me. Face white.

I finish. Applause. I step off the stage.

People came up—asked for contacts, offered projects. I handed out business cards, nodded, smiled.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kira by the wall. Waiting.

When everyone had dispersed, she stepped up to me. Her smile was stretched too tight.

“Vera? Is that really you?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect it. You’ve changed so much. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

I stayed silent. Looked at her calmly. She wore a gray business suit.

Only it was old and worn. Her face looked tired.

“Listen… I’ve wanted to get in touch for a long time. I just didn’t know how to find you. You left so abruptly back then. Misha, by the way, asked about you.”

“Really?”

 

“Anyway, never mind. Vera, I have something. Something serious. We’re looking for a contractor—we need a marketer. Urgently. Management isn’t happy, I’m responsible for the project, and I need someone reliable. I immediately thought of you.”

She spoke quickly, stumbling over her words. Her hands kept worrying the strap of her bag.

“You see, the budget isn’t huge, but it’s a good project. And I thought—well, we’re practically family. Maybe you could give us a discount? Like… for relatives?”

I took out my phone, opened our price list, and held the screen out to her.

“Our terms. Standard contract—this amount. No discounts.”

Kira looked at it and went even paler.

“Are you serious? That much?”

“Yes. Market rate.”

“But we—”

I put my phone away and met her eyes.

“Or try doing it yourselves. People say it’s not hard—just take and start. The main thing is not to embarrass yourself in front of management.”

A pause. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her face flushed.

I added quietly:

“And about family. We’re strangers.”

I turned and headed for the exit.

I stopped by a window in the corridor. Twentieth floor, the city below lit up.

Behind me—footsteps. Fast, sharp.

“Vera, wait!”

Kira. Face red, breathing ragged.

“Why are you like this? I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought we’d come to a normal agreement.”

“We did. I named the price.”

“It’s not about the money!”

Her voice cracked; she glanced around and lowered it.

“It’s just… you’ve changed so much. You used to be different.”

“How?”

“Simpler. Quieter. Normal.”

“You mean ‘convenient,’ right?”

Silence. Then:

“You know, Misha was right. You’ve become tough. Cold. You used to be good.”

“And now I don’t let people wipe their feet on me.”

Kira clenched her fists.

“You think you’re better now? Because you’ve got money and a car? You’re the same. Just with swagger.”

I stepped closer and looked her straight in the eye.

“Maybe. But I was on stage. And you came asking for a discount. Feel the difference?”

She turned and walked away without looking back.

A month later, a former coworker from the bookshop called:

“Vera, you won’t believe who I saw. Remember Kira? She got a job here. As a sales clerk. In that same shop.”

I said nothing.

“Got fired, she says. The project failed, they pinned it all on her. Now she’s behind the counter. Snaps at customers, tells everyone, ‘It’s temporary.’ Yeah, sure—temporary.”

I hung up and went to the window in my office.

Justice exists. It just doesn’t come right away.

That evening at home I opened a desk drawer and took out that notebook—the same one.

I flipped through the pages. Everything crossed off. Everything done.

The last entry read: “Prove that I can.”

I picked up a pen and crossed it out.

No need to prove anything to anyone anymore.

I closed the notebook and put it back. Not to throw away—to keep as a reminder of that girl from the bookshop. She made it.

The next day I was driving back from a client meeting. Stopped at a red light.

Across the street, by a bus stop—Kira. In an old jacket, a bag over her shoulder. Waiting for the bus.

She lifted her head. Our eyes met.

I didn’t look away. I just watched.

She looked away first.

The light turned green. I drove on.

That evening I checked my email. New inquiries, client messages, offers.

One was without a subject. Sender: Misha.

“Hi. Heard you’re doing really well. Kira told me. I’m glad. Truly. Sorry if anything wasn’t right. Maybe we could meet? Talk.”

I read it. Closed the email.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t delete it. Just left it there—let it hang. Some people wake up too late.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I stood by the window—my apartment dark, only city lights beyond the glass.

 

I thought about the path. About the bookshop, about that kitchen where Kira read my notebook out loud. About Misha saying, “You still won’t manage on your own.”

I did.

Not for them. For myself.

And now I’m standing here, in my apartment, in my life. With no past on my shoulders. No notebook full of proof. No anger.

I’m just living. Moving on.“You?! That can’t be!” — my ex sister-in-law went pale when she saw what I’d become five years later

“You’re not a wife — you’re a burden! Move out tomorrow!” Igor declared.
And there it was. It had always hung in the air like dusty, nasty smog, but hearing it out loud—well, you know, it’s like getting slapped. A sharp one. In the cold.
Natasha stood in the middle of their living room—the living room where, three years ago, she’d glued up that stupid wallpaper, where she’d scrubbed tile for hours so Tamara Petrovna, her mother-in-law, wouldn’t find a single speck of dust. She was holding a plate of dinner. Dinner she’d cooked while Igor, her husband, decided she was nothing more than extra luggage that needed tossing off the platform.
“Say that again, please,” Natasha’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible. That’s how it goes when your inner world collapses: silence on the outside, catastrophe on the inside.
Igor—this three-year-old child in the suit of a thirty-year-old man—puffed himself up importantly like a turkey. He didn’t even look her in the eyes, just prodded his steak—cooked by her—with his fork.
“What’s there to repeat?” he mumbled. “Mom decided. We talked. The apartment, you see, is needed for him. My brother’s getting married. And you… you’ll manage somewhere for now.”
Manage somewhere. As if she were an old pair of skis on the balcony—no big loss to toss out.
“This apartment is ours, Igor. We’ve lived here for three years!” At last Natasha felt her cheeks burn. Rage—pure, unfiltered—began forcing its way through the layers of hurt.
“Ours? Wake up, Natasha! It’s Mom’s!” Igor rolled his eyes theatrically, like he was talking to a stupid schoolgirl. “She sold her dacha to make the down payment. That’s her money. And you—what did you put in? You sat on maternity leave, then worked that penny job. A burden, I’m telling you. For me and for Mom.”
Hear that? A burden. She’d shelved her red diploma so she could first give him a son, then carry a household that turned out not to belong to her at all. And now—a burden.
Igor came over, took her plate, set it in the sink. He did it with such brisk carelessness, like he wasn’t breaking her life—just moving a vase.
“I already told Mom everything. She’s coming tomorrow—you’ll hand over the keys. And you know…” He paused. “…you need to move out. Tomorrow.”
Something like an internal hazard light clicked on inside Natasha. The fear disappeared; only a cold, burning resentment remained. And suddenly she remembered—by accident, absurdly. Five minutes before this conversation, she’d been digging through old papers looking for their son’s vaccination certificate and stumbled on that folder.
“Do you remember,” Natasha stepped back, away from his fake confidence, “when we took out that mortgage?”
“Yeah, I remember, so what?” Igor clearly didn’t like where this was going.
“Do you remember you had to fly off on an urgent business trip? And you asked me to go to the notary and sign the papers so we’d make it in time?”
He nodded, tense now.
“Well. Back then, to get better loan terms…” Natasha hesitated, pulling details back into focus—remembering what the manager had said. “To get ‘Young Family’ status and qualify for some program, you asked for me to be listed as the sole owner until you could re-register everything later. And the very first—the biggest—her payment, Tamara Petrovna’s down payment, was made when the documents named me as the first and only owner.”
Igor laughed. Loudly. Nervously.
“Are you out of your mind?! That was ages ago! What nonsense! That was Mom’s dacha! Mom’s money!”
“The money—yes. But the down payment was recorded as mine—because I had, remember, received a small but official inheritance from my grandmother? The bank begged to see at least some funds in my name. You put in your mother’s money, but it was оформлено as if it were mine. Temporarily. You said so yourself.”
Silence thickened in the air like concrete. Igor went white. Natasha, not knowing where the strength came from, pulled out a single sheet miraculously preserved—a copy of the first agreement with the bank.
She tossed it onto the table, right over the half-eaten steak.
“Check it. Title owner: Natalya Smirnova. Date of the down payment: after the registration.”
And then, like thunder out of a clear sky, her phone chimed with an incoming message. From her friend—a lawyer. Just a few words: “The transfer documents are at the notary’s—everything’s ready. Call me.”
Natasha looked at Igor. He was reading the paper; his lips moved, his eyes darted. Panic. Pure, unclouded panic. He had just kicked the “burden” out of his life—without knowing that an hour earlier that “burden” had legally re-registered the apartment in her own name…
“You’re the one moving out tomorrow, Igor,” Natasha whispered.
Morning came not with sunshine, but with the heavy, stifling smell of an approaching storm.
Natasha hadn’t slept. She sat in the kitchen drinking cold tea, staring at a stack of documents. No tears—just frozen determination. When bitterness hits boiling point, it stops being hot. It becomes steel.
Igor woke up late—rumpled, guilty, but still puffed-up. He was clearly expecting Natasha to fall at his feet, cry, and apologize for daring to contradict him.
“Well? Packed your things?” he spat instead of “good morning.” His voice grated like rusted iron.
“I’m packing,” Natasha nodded. “Yours.”
The doorbell rang. It was her. Tamara Petrovna, his mother. She walked in like a queen receiving petitions, dressed in her best coat, wearing a victorious smirk, already ready to savor the humiliation of the “burden daughter-in-law.”
“So, what do we have here?” Tamara Petrovna didn’t say hello—she went straight to business. She sized Natasha up with contempt. “I’ve come, so to speak, to collect the keys to my property. And don’t forget, girl—everything I ever gave you is mine. Spoons, forks, the tea set. I’m not your patron, you know.”

Igor, catching the scent of his mother’s authority, immediately clung to her like a puppy.
“Mom, I told her. She’s moving out this morning.”
“Good, son. Otherwise you’ll never get her out later.” The mother-in-law stepped up to Natasha and held out an empty hand. “The keys. And don’t let your foot—”
Natasha didn’t move. Slowly—very slowly—she placed the folder of documents in front of Tamara Petrovna. Across the folder, in big letters: CERTIFICATE OF OWNERSHIP. Smirnova N.I.
“You’re mistaken, Tamara Petrovna,” Natasha’s voice was ice. “This is my property.”
Her mother-in-law froze. Igor went even paler than the day before.
“W-what are you talking about?!” Tamara Petrovna snatched the folder, her fingers shaking as she hunted for the trick. “This is our apartment! My dacha sold for the down payment!”
“The dacha is yours, the money is yours,” Natasha nodded. “But on paper, to get those very favorable credit terms you value so much, Igor оформил the down payment as my contribution. And six months ago, while I was the sole title owner under the old agreement, I used my right and re-registered everything in my name—to protect myself from family fraud. My lawyer advised it.”
Tamara Petrovna choked. Her face turned the color of beet salad.
“Fraud?! I’ll— I’ll call the police! I’ll sue you!”
“Call them,” Natasha shrugged, feeling an indescribable freedom for the first time in her life. “But first, read this little document.”
She slid another sheet toward her. A contract. An interest-free loan agreement.
“Your down payment, Tamara Petrovna,” Natasha continued, “was оформлен by Igor as mine—I already said that. But six months ago I received my grandmother’s inheritance. And as a conscientious borrower”—Natasha emphasized every word—“I am returning that loan to you. With interest. Clean, legal money.”
Igor had tried to throw her out of an apartment bought with her own honestly acquired means. Here it was—the karmic boomerang.
“HERE’S YOUR MONEY!” Natasha flung a thick envelope onto the coffee table—stuffed with bundles of cash. Tamara Petrovna blinked, stunned. “Cash—so there can be no claims. Your dacha, your money. That’s it. Now you are nobody here. And I am the sole owner.”
Tamara Petrovna clutched her chest. Igor stood silent. He stared at the envelope, then at his mother, then at Natasha. He understood. He’d tried to evict a wife who had just become the legal owner of their home.
“And now, Igor,” Natasha looked at her husband, “I’m not a burden. I’m the owner. And you know what? You’re moving out. You. By three o’clock, so I can call a locksmith to change the locks.”
Child care tips

Tamara Petrovna didn’t call the police. Greed beat anger. She grabbed the envelope—her “loan”—and shot out of the apartment like a champagne cork. The slam of the door made the dishes ring.
Igor stayed. He stood in the living room where only yesterday he’d announced, with such self-importance, that she was a “burden.” He was pathetic—the humiliating sight of a mask slipping, revealing only emptiness and fear underneath.
“Natalya, listen—this is… this is a mistake! I didn’t know! Mom set me up!” he started whining, switching on his “poor son-victim” mode.
“A mistake, Igor?” Natasha went to the window. Down below in the parking lot stood the locksmith she’d called. “The mistake is that I married you. What’s happening now—you moving out—is justice.”
“Where am I supposed to go?!” His voice cracked into hysteria.
“To the same place Tamara Petrovna’s going tomorrow,” Natasha replied flatly. “I called your brother, Andrey. I told him everything—how you and your mother planned to toss me aside for his wedding. He didn’t appreciate your ‘nobility.’ You know what he said?” Natasha turned, her eyes flashing with cold fire. “He said: ‘Let Mom and Igor reap what they’ve sown. My marriage won’t start with a lie.’”
A blow. A second blow.
Andrey—the very person they were supposedly “freeing” the apartment for—refused their help. He saw it for what it was: not care, but nastiness. And there they were: Igor and his mother. Together. Homeless. Without allies. Because money and manipulation can’t buy human relationships.
At three o’clock Natasha stood in the doorway. Behind her—the locksmith. In front of her—Igor, dragging a travel bag. A small one, because she’d thrown most of his things into the hall so she wouldn’t waste time packing.
“I’ll come to see my son,” he whispered, staring at her new, unfamiliar eyes.
“We’ll see. Through the courts. And only when I decide,” Natasha answered. “I won’t be your burden anymore, Igor. But you? You’re not the хозяин here.”
She closed the door behind him. No screaming. No tears.
All the following week, their “shared” chat—no longer shared—flickered with messages about Igor and Tamara Petrovna looking for a place to live. Some distant relatives took them in, begrudgingly—where the mother-in-law couldn’t bark orders, and where Igor, deprived of his mother’s shield, turned into a perpetually irritated, broken man. Their relationship, built on power over Natasha, began to crumble, because the power was gone. Left alone with their spite and helplessness, they started eating each other alive.
And Natasha? She stood in the kitchen—her kitchen. Outside the window, snow fell softly. She watched the streetlights shimmer and held her sleeping son close.
For the first time in years, she felt not fear, but peace. She wasn’t enduring, serving, owing. She was living.
Natasha picked up her phone and texted the lawyer: “Thank you. Now I want to file for divorce and child support.”
She didn’t need to hide anymore. She didn’t need to earn approval anymore. She’d fought for her fortress.
Igor, who’d thrown her out with “Move out tomorrow!”, had no idea that the next day she would throw him out of her life—for good.
Family games

Unblock the card, we’re at the checkout with a full cart!” my husband shouted—after promising his mom and sister a banquet on my dime. I answered with a line that made the cashier call security.

 

His sister was already picking out a fur coat and his mother was choosing caviar, confident I’d pay for everything. But when my husband tapped the card, the terminal flashed a message that made their faces fall.

Veronica unlocked the door with her own key and immediately tripped over sneakers—size 37, covered in rhinestones, filthy. Lara’s. Beside them were Stas’s scuffed boots, size 45.

The apartment didn’t smell like tangerines and pine the way it should on December 27—it reeked of cheap cigarettes (even though Veronica had asked a hundred times not to smoke on the balcony; the stench still seeped into the rooms) and something burnt.

She walked into the hallway. On the coat rack, draped right over her beige cashmere coat, hung a bulky, toxic-pink fur coat. Lara, her husband’s sister, considered herself a style icon.

Loud laughter poured out of the kitchen.

“Well, Stasik, you’re something else!” Lara’s shrill voice squealed. “You actually said that to her? ‘Quiet, woman’?”

 “You bet!” Stas boomed. “Am I the man of the house or what? I said we’re going luxury, so we’re going. I already booked it. ‘Park Hotel,’ five stars, all that. We’ll take Mom, you too… We’ll party, basically!”

Veronica froze in the doorway. She was head of logistics at a major transportation company. The last month had been brutal: trucks stuck in snowdrifts, drivers going on benders, clients having meltdowns. She’d been sleeping five hours a night, eating on the run—trying to close out the year and get the bonus they’d planned to…

They’d planned, in fact, to pay down the mortgage. The apartment was premarital—Veronica’s—but she’d taken the mortgage on a studio “for the future baby” she and Stas were supposedly planning.

Although lately Veronica kept thinking she already had one child. Bearded, thirty-six years old, almost a hundred kilos.
Children’s story books

She walked into the kitchen.

A picture in oils: Stas sat at the head of the table, sprawled like a pasha. In front of him stood a half-empty bottle of cognac (from Veronica’s stash—a gift from partners) and a plate of cold cuts. Lara sat opposite, poking a fork into a jar of olives.

“Oh, you’re here!” Stas didn’t even stand. “Hi, sweetheart. We’re making plans—why the sour face? Smile, it’s the holidays!”

Veronica silently set her bag on a chair.

“Hi, Lara. Hi, Stas. What plans? What ‘Park Hotel’? We agreed—quiet at home, saving money.”

Stas waved a hand.

“Oh, enough with your accounting boredom! ‘Saving, saving’… You only live once! I decided: we’re going. Me, you, Mom, and Lar’—I already put the booking in.”

“With what money?” Veronica asked.

“With mine!” Stas thumped his chest. “I’m a man! I earned it!”

“Earned it?” Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Where, exactly?”

Lara snorted.

“Ugh, Veronica, how rude. Stasik hustles, he tries. He showed me charts—he’s an investor! And you’re always putting him down. You don’t inspire a man, that’s why he doesn’t grow.”

Veronica looked at her sister-in-law—at the audacity in her eyes and the cookie crumbs falling onto the clean tablecloth.

“Lara,” she said very calmly, “our ‘investor’ is Stas, but I’m the one paying the mortgage—and buying the food in the fridge. So let’s talk inspiration later. Stas, show me the booking.”

Reluctantly, Stas unlocked his phone and shoved it in her face.

“Park Hotel Solnechny,” a suite with a jacuzzi and two standard rooms. Total due: 120,000 rubles. Pay on check-in.

“See?” he said proudly. “I thought it all through. You got your bonus—we’ll pay from that, and I’ll pay you back in January. Cross my heart.”

Veronica didn’t scream or smash plates. She just smiled—a polite, pleasant smile.

“Oh, well, if you’ll pay it back… Then sure, great idea, Stas. Let’s party.”

Stas beamed.

“There you go! I told you, Lar’! She’s a smart woman—she understands everything. Pour it, Veronica! To success!”

Veronica poured herself water from the filter.

“To success,” she said. “And to unexpected surprises.”

She downed it in one gulp. The water was cold—like her plan.

 

The morning of December 28 began with her husband’s voice. He was in the bathroom, running water for cover, but the door wasn’t fully closed and he was on speakerphone.

“Stop whining, Lar’!” Stas sounded confident and condescending. “I said I’d buy it, so I will. Veronica was nice yesterday—I worked her over. She’s a sucker in real life, only knows how to count her trucks. I’ll spin her some story about the car—parts, transmission acting up. Then I’ll transfer it to your card and you’ll buy your boots.”

“And Mom?” Lara’s squeaky voice came through the speaker. “Mom wanted black caviar! And those perfumes—the twenty-thousand ones!”

“We’ll buy the caviar and the perfume—because I’m a man! I’m the head of this house, I decide where the money goes. Veronica’s card limit is huge, she won’t even notice. Alright, okay, kiss you. Get ready—shopping tomorrow!”

Veronica lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

“A sucker,” huh. “Worked her over.”

She took her phone and opened her banking app.

She had two accounts: her main payroll account and an additional one linked to the card Stas carried. He always kept it on him “for household needs.” The spending limit was 100,000 rubles. Veronica had trusted her husband—until this morning.

She tapped “Card settings.”

Purchase limit: 500 rubles per day.
Cash withdrawal limit: 0 rubles.
Online transfers: Disabled.
Notifications: Only to my phone.

And tapped “Save.”

Then she brewed coffee and drank it while looking out at the gray Moscow winter.

Stas came out of the bathroom, smelling like her expensive shower gel.

“Oh, you’re up, little fish!” He kissed the top of her head. “Listen, I need to swing by the service shop today—something’s knocking in the car, probably the transmission. Transfer fifty thousand to my card, yeah? For diagnostics and parts.”

Veronica turned to him.

“Stas,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “my app is frozen. Some big outage—can’t transfer anything, can’t withdraw anything.”

Stas tensed.

“What do you mean? And what about… the service shop?”

“Well, you’ve got my extra card. Pay with that. Or…” she paused, “…pay with your own.”

His eyes darted.

“Uh… yeah, I’ll use that one then. Okay, I’m off! Tons to do!”

He grabbed his jacket and bolted. Veronica knew he wasn’t going to a service shop—he was going to his mom and sister to promise them the moon.

“Run, Forrest, run,” she whispered. “The finish line’s close.”

December 29 was a “test drive.”

That evening Stas came home angry.

“Listen, what the hell is wrong with the card?” he started right from the doorway. “I tried to get gas and it said ‘Declined’! I had to put in my last five liters! Like an idiot!”

Veronica sat on the couch with her laptop.

“I told you—bank issues, technical work before New Year’s. They’re swapping servers. Support said it might glitch for three days.”

“Three days?!” Stas went pale. “And what about… gifts? We were going to the mall tomorrow with Mom and Lar’!”

“Well, the card works,” Veronica lied without blinking. “Big purchases just might not go through right away. Try splitting it into smaller amounts. Or…” she smiled, “…pull out your secret stash.”

“Fine, we’ll push through. Tomorrow everything will work, I can feel my luck turning.”

December 30.

Veronica was at work. She deliberately didn’t take the day off, saying she had year-end reports.

At 2:00 PM her phone pinged.

Purchase attempt: L’Etoile, 24,500 rubles — declined, limit exceeded.
A minute later—again.

Purchase attempt: Snezhnaya Koroleva, 89,000 rubles — declined.
And again.

Purchase attempt: Globus hypermarket, 15,600 rubles — declined.

Veronica stared at the screen, sipping tea, and laughed—picturing the scene.

At the mall:
Stas stood at the grocery checkout. Behind him his mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, hovered over a cart packed with delicacies: smoked sturgeon, three jars of caviar, pineapples, expensive champagne. Beside her whined Lara, who had just struck out with the fur coat and perfume.

“At least we’ll buy food!” Lara hissed. “Stas, you promised! What was that humiliation in the clothing store?! ‘The card got demagnetized’! You embarrassed me in front of the saleswomen!”

“Quiet!” Stas hissed, wiping sweat off his forehead. “It’ll work. It’s just the terminals glitching.”

The cashier—a heavyset woman in a New Year’s cap—scanned the last item.

“That’ll be fifteen thousand six hundred rubles. Card or cash?”

“Card,” Stas said confidently and tapped the plastic.

The terminal thought for a moment, then emitted an ugly beep.

“Declined. Insufficient funds.”

“Try again!” Stas squealed. “There’s money on it!”

“Sir, the terminal says: ‘Limit exceeded.’ What is this—some kind of kids’ card?”
Children’s story books

The line behind them began to grumble.

“Hey! My dumplings are melting!”
“How much longer?!”
“Ma’am, control your son, let him pay cash!”

Tamara Ilyinichna flushed in blotches.

“Stasik, what is happening? You said Veronica approved this!”

“She did!” Stas yelled. “It’s her… She pressed something!”

He grabbed his phone and called his wife.

Veronica answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“You!” Stas roared so loudly the line went quiet. “What did you do to the card?! We’re at the checkout! Mom’s with a cart, I can’t pay! You humiliated me!”

“Stas?” Veronica’s voice was calm. “Don’t yell. I’m in a meeting.”

“What meeting?! Turn the card on! Now! I have to pay for food and gifts!”

“Stasik, I can’t turn anything on. The bank blocked suspicious activity. They said there were too many attempts to flush money down the toilet.”

“What?!”

“That. You’re an investor—spend your own. My card is for my needs. Oh, and by the way, I bought myself an all-holidays spa package. So there’s no money left on the card. Happy New Year!”

And she hung up.

Stas stood with the phone in his hand, listening to the beeps.

The cashier looked at him with half pity, half contempt.

“Sir, cancel the transaction?”

“Cancel,” Stas whispered.

“Cancellation! Return items to the shelves!” the cashier shouted.

Lara snatched a bag from his hand—inside was a single chocolate bar she’d bought with her own spare coins.

“You’re such trash, Stasik,” she said loudly. “Some investor. Mom, let’s go—I’ll call a taxi.”

“And me?” Stas asked.

“You can walk.”

That evening Veronica sat at home. She didn’t go to the spa—she’d lied to Stas. She sat in the clean apartment, drank wine, and waited. At 8:00 PM the door opened.

Stas walked in, followed by Tamara Ilyinichna and Lara. They were furious, hungry, and empty-handed.

“There she is!” the mother-in-law shrieked, pointing at Veronica. “Sitting there! Drinking! Katya—ugh, Veronica! Have you no shame?! You left the family without a holiday! We spent half the day being humiliated in stores!”
Family games

Veronica set her glass down. Stood up.

“Good evening, Tamara Ilyinichna. Hi, Lara. And what are you doing here? I didn’t invite guests.”

 

“This is my son’s home!” the mother-in-law declared.

“Your son’s home?” Veronica laughed. “Interesting.”

She walked to the dresser and pulled out a folder.

“You know, I work in logistics—I love numbers. Here, Tamara Ilyinichna, take a look.”

She handed her a printed table with graphs.

“What is this?” the mother-in-law squinted.

“This is the financial report for LLC ‘Stas’s Family.’ See the line ‘Stas’s income for 2024’? See that number?”

“Zero?” Lara said, peering over her shoulder.

“Bingo—zero. And here’s ‘Stas’s expenses’—from my card. See it? Six hundred forty-two thousand rubles.”

“How much?!” the mother-in-law clutched her chest.

“Six hundred forty-two: for beer, for your gifts (which he gave you pretending they were from him), for gas, for Lara’s little wants.”

Veronica snatched the sheet back from the stunned woman.

“Your son is a kept man, Tamara Ilyinichna. A common parasite—and I’ve disinfected. Shop’s closed.”

Stas stood in the corner, red as a boiled crayfish.

“Veronica… why in front of Mom? We could’ve worked it out ourselves…”

“We did work it out, Stas. Your suitcase is by the door—I packed it an hour ago.”

“What suitcase?” he went pale. “You’re kicking me out? Before New Year’s?”

“Exactly. You wanted to be a man? Be one—rent a place, feed your mom. Just not on my dime. Keys on the table.”

Stas tried to play for pity.

“I’ve got nowhere to go! Mom, tell her!”

“My son…” his mother mumbled. “But we… the couch is broken and it’s cramped…”

“See?!” Stas spread his hands. “Veronica, come on, let’s talk! I’ll get a job! After the holidays!”

“No, Stas. You’ll get a job right now. Loader or courier—those pay well these days. This isn’t a shelter.”

Veronica opened the door wide.

“Out. All three of you.”

Lara tried to push past her.

“I just need the bathroom! And I’ll grab my perfume—I left it here last time!”

Veronica blocked her.

“Bathroom’s at McDonald’s. And the perfume…” she nodded at the shelf where a Chanel bottle stood. “That’s my perfume. Yours is in Mom’s bag—right there.”

They left noisily. The mother-in-law screamed that Veronica would “end up alone.” Lara squealed that “her brother will find a younger one.” Stas trudged out last, dragging the suitcase and sniffling.

When the door clicked shut, Veronica locked it with two deadbolts and the chain.

December 31. 11:55 PM.

She sat in an armchair in reindeer pajamas, a plate of sandwiches with red caviar on her knees.

The Christmas tree blinked its lights. On TV, Zhenya Lukashin was flying to Leningrad for the hundredth time.

Her phone pinged.

A message from Stas:

“Nika, forgive me, I’m an idiot. We’re at Mom’s, there’s nothing to eat, Lara’s hysterical. Can I come back? I’ll work it all off!”

Veronica smiled.

She tapped “Block contact.”

Then she opened champagne—the pop of the cork совпided with the first chime of the Kremlin bells.

“Happy New Year, Veronica,” she told herself. “New happiness—and a new, clean budget.”

Behind the wall, the neighbors shouted “Hurray!” And Veronica just stretched her legs out and closed her eyes.

Shut up! Masha, you’d better not make me angry, or you’ll get it! My mom and my sister need a car, and you’re going to buy it!” her husband hissed.

Kirill’s words hung in the kitchen air like a poisonous cloud. Masha stood at the stove with her back to him and felt something inside her turn cold. Not burn, not tear—freeze. Turn into shards of ice. She slowly set the ladle down. The rassolnik still bubbled in the pot, it smelled of dill and garlic, October rain drizzled outside the window, and in her life an invisible tectonic shift had just taken place.

 

“What did you say?” She turned around. Her voice came out quiet, but firm.

Kirill was sitting at the table, slouched in his chair, scrolling on his phone. He didn’t even look at her. Forty-two years old, a department head at a trading company, a suit worth thirty thousand rubles, and a rude expression on his face. Once, she’d seen this man as support. Now she saw only arrogance.

“You heard me. My mother has been riding the same bus for thirty years. Karina is pregnant—she needs transportation too. You manage the money, so you’ll buy it.”

Masha gave a crooked little smile. Strange—her world was collapsing, and she was smiling.

“What money, Kirill? The money I earn at the salon? Sixty hours a week, my legs aching, picky clients—those are my earnings.”

“Ours,” he finally looked up from the screen. His eyes were cold, like a stranger’s. “We’re a family. Or did you forget?”

Seventeen years of marriage. Two children—Danya at university, Sonya in ninth grade. A mortgaged apartment she’d carried right alongside him. Her size-37 shoes worn down between work and home, her hands smelling of creams and polish, her back hurting every evening. And he sat there and said, “you’ll buy it.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Masha said, turning the stove off. “I just can’t remember your family ever asking what I need.”

Kirill stood up. Tall, broad-shouldered—once, she’d felt protected beside him. Now she only saw how he was trying to press her down with his sheer size.

“Here we go,” he said, walking to the window and lighting a cigarette, even though she’d asked him not to smoke in the apartment. “Your grievances again. My mother is an elderly woman, Karina is about to give birth…”

“Karina’s twenty-eight, she has a husband—let him buy it!” Masha felt something hot start to boil inside her, breaking through the ice. “And I’ve been giving your mother ten thousand a month for ‘medication’ for three years, even though she’s healthier than I am!”

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

That was the turning point. Masha understood it by the way the space in the room changed—as if the air had become denser.

“I’m going,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it on the hook by the door. “Borscht is on the stove. Heat it up yourself.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kirill darted toward the hallway, but Masha was already putting on her jacket. Her hands trembled, but she managed the zipper.

“To get some air. To think.”

“Masha!”

She didn’t turn around. The door slammed, the stairs carried her down, and there was the street—wet, dark, smelling of autumn and freedom.

Masha walked quickly, not even knowing where. Past the grocery store where she usually shopped on Fridays. Past the bus stop where tired-faced people crowded every morning. The city looked different in the rain—blurred, unreal, like in a film. Streetlights reflected in puddles, cars hissed over wet asphalt, music drifted from the open doors of a café.

She stopped at the window of a jewelry store. Gold chains, bracelets, rings—everything glittered under bright lamps. When was the last time she’d gotten a gift? For her birthday, Kirill had handed her an envelope with money: “Buy whatever you want.” She’d bought Sonya sneakers and Danya a new backpack.

Her phone buzzed. Kirill. Masha declined the call.

She needed to keep moving. To the mall—warm, bright, somewhere she could sit in a food court with coffee and pull herself together. The minibus got her there quickly. She walked into a huge hall that smelled of popcorn and new clothes, where people hurried around with shopping bags and smiled. Someone else’s life—light, carefree, the way her own hadn’t been for… a long time. A very long time.

She went up to the third floor, bought a cappuccino, sat by the window. The evening city shimmered beyond the glass. Her phone came alive again—now her mother-in-law was texting:

“Mashenka, Kirill told me everything. Why are you acting like a child? We’re family. Karina really needs a car—the little one will be here soon…”

“The little one.” Masha had two children, but no one ever called her children “the little ones.” Her children were her responsibility—her sleepless nights, her money for tutors and activities.

The coffee cooled. A strange picture assembled in her mind: for seventeen years she’d lived “the right way.” Worked, endured, invested, kept quiet. And what had she gotten in return? An order to buy a car for people who never even properly said thank you.

“Oh—sorry!” Someone bumped her bag; it fell. Masha picked it up and smiled automatically at a stranger.

And suddenly she thought: when was the last time I smiled without it being automatic?

Masha came home around ten. The key turned quietly in the lock, but Kirill heard her anyway. He was in the living room. The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching—just waiting.

“Back at last,” he stood up, and Masha immediately understood: this was going to be worse than in the morning.

“Kirill, I’m tired. Let’s talk tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow?” he stepped toward her, his face flushed, eyes blazing. “You made me a laughingstock in front of my mother! She called me—crying! Says you were rude to her!”

“I didn’t even speak to her today,” Masha took off her shoes and placed them neatly by the wall. Her feet throbbed after all that walking.

“Don’t lie! You rejected her call! My mother tried to talk to you nicely, and you…”

“Kirill, stop. Please. We’re both angry. We’re tired. In the morning—”

“No!” He slammed his fist into the back of the couch. “We’ll talk now! You’re taking out a loan and buying a car. Got it?!”

Masha exhaled slowly. She looked at this man—the father of her children, the person she’d lived with for almost twenty years—and didn’t recognize him. Not at all.

“I’m not taking out a loan,” she said quietly.

“What do you mean you’re not?!” Kirill’s face went even redder. “Have you completely lost it?! What did I tell you?!”

“I heard you. But I’m not taking out a loan. I already have a mortgage, and a loan for Danya’s university. I can’t handle another one.”

“You will handle it!” He stepped right up to her, looming. “You’ll work more! You’ll take extra shifts! My mother spent her whole life—”

 

“Your mother, your mother!” Masha suddenly raised her voice, and Kirill actually faltered for a second. “And who am I?! Am I not a person?! I work sixty hours a week! My back hurts so much by evening I can’t straighten up! My children barely see me because I’m always earning money! For what?! For your mother, your sister, your demands?!”

“Shut up!” he roared. “Don’t you dare talk like that! You’re my wife! You’re obligated!”

“Obligated?” Masha felt something inside her burn out for good—like a wire holding their whole marriage together had simply melted. “Obligated to tolerate rudeness? Obligated to work for your relatives? Obligated to keep quiet?”

“Yes!” he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Yes, you are! Because you’re my wife! We’re family!”

Masha tore herself free. Her heart pounded so hard her temples throbbed.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Or what?” Something new entered his voice. A threat. Real, undisguised. “What are you going to do to me? Masha, I’m sick of you. Last time I’m saying it: tomorrow you go to the bank, take out a loan, and buy my mother a car. If you don’t—I’ll divorce you.”

The word hung between them, heavy and final.

“What?” Masha didn’t believe her ears.

“What you heard.” Kirill crossed his arms. “Divorce. The apartment is mine—it’s in my name. The kids will stay with me. And you can go wherever you want. To your precious job, for example. You can sleep there.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” she whispered.

“No—you’ve lost your mind!” he stepped closer again. “You think you’re indispensable? You think we can’t manage without you? My mother will put this place in order in a week! Raise the children properly—not the way you have, spoiling them! Danya spends all day ‘hanging out’ at university, Sonya with her little friends…”

“Enough,” Masha raised her hand. “Just enough.”

“Not enough!” he was already shouting. “Tomorrow you go to the bank! Do you hear me?! Or start packing!”

Sonya’s door cracked open. Her pale face, tearful eyes.

“Mom?”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Masha pulled herself together instantly. “Go to bed.”

“Nothing is okay!” Kirill yelled. “Sonya, come here! Let the kid see what kind of mother she has—greedy, selfish—”

“Shut up right now!” Masha stepped between him and her daughter. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare drag the children into this!”

Sonya sobbed and shut the door. Music started up behind the wall—she turned it louder so she wouldn’t hear.

Kirill breathed heavily. Masha stood opposite him and, for the first time in many years, saw him for who he really was. No masks, no act of a loving husband. An egoist. A manipulator. A man used to taking everything and giving nothing back.

“So,” she said slowly, pronouncing each word clearly. “I am not going to the bank. I am not taking out a loan. I am not buying your mother a car.”

“Then we’re getting divorced!” he flashed his eyes. “And you’ll end up with nothing!”

“We’ll see.” Masha walked into the bedroom, pulled a bag from the closet, and started packing.

“What are you doing?” Kirill followed her in.

“What I should have done a long time ago. I’m leaving. For a few days. To think.”

“Masha!” New notes appeared in his voice. Confusion? Fear? “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“Where will you go? You have no one!”

Masha zipped the bag. True—where? Her parents had died long ago, she had no real close friends—there’d never been time, only work and home. But that didn’t matter now.

“I’ll find somewhere to sleep. A hotel, at worst.”

“With what money?” he sneered viciously. “With your pathetic little paycheck?”

“With mine,” she said, picking up her phone and bag. “The money I earned honestly.”

At the door she turned around.

“And one more thing, Kirill. The apartment isn’t only yours. I paid the mortgage fifty-fifty with you for seventeen years. I have every receipt, every transfer. So don’t scare me. And no one is taking the kids from me—you’re at work morning till night, who’s going to watch them? Your mother?”

She left. The stairs, the entryway, the street. The night city met her with cool air and silence. Masha stopped and drew a breath.

For the first time in many years, she was truly scared. But at the same time—light. So light, as if she’d finally dropped a huge sack of stones from her back.

The trial lasted three months. Kirill tried to take the apartment, insisting he’d made the main contribution. He brought his mother as a witness. She cried, swore that Masha didn’t work at all, sat at home spending her husband’s money.

But Masha’s lawyer—an older woman with an iron stare and a steel backbone—laid a stack of documents on the judge’s desk. Bank statements spanning seventeen years. Every mortgage payment—fifty-fifty. Utility bills—paid by Masha. Receipts for groceries, children’s clothes, medicine—Masha. Even that infamous thirty-thousand-ruble suit Kirill showed off at work had been paid for with her card.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer said calmly but firmly, “this is not a housewife supported by her husband. This is a woman who, alongside her spouse, supported the family, raised the children, and endured moral pressure. The documents confirm: she has full rights to half of the jointly acquired property.”

The judge—an elderly man with gray eyebrows—studied the papers for a long time. Then he looked at Kirill over his glasses.

“Do you have objections? Documentary rebuttals?”

Kirill said nothing. Beside him his mother sat with her lips pressed into a thin line.

The decision was unambiguous: the apartment would be split in half. Kirill could either buy out Masha’s share or sell the home and split the money.

He couldn’t buy it out. As it turned out, there was no money. His vaunted salary went to expensive restaurants with coworkers, to his car, to endless “needs” of his mother and sister.

“Then we sell,” Masha said firmly.

Kirill stared at her with hatred.

“You were always a bitch. You just hid it well.”

“No,” Masha smiled at him for the first time after the divorce. “I just stopped being convenient.”

They sold the apartment for a good price. Masha bought a two-room place in the same neighborhood—for herself and Sonya. Danya was studying at university and living in a dorm, but he knew: home was always there for him. There was money left for renovations, and even some to save.

Kirill disappeared from their lives right after the court decision. A week later he called, voice angry.

“I’m going north. Found a job—double the pay. I’ll live there.”

“Okay,” Masha said. “Good luck.”

“The kids…”

“The kids stay with me. But you can visit them. If you want.”

He didn’t want to. He left three days later. And a week after that, his mother and Karina with the newborn went there too. Before leaving, her mother-in-law called Masha.

“You destroyed our family! Because of you my son is going off to the ends of the earth!”

“Because of me?” Masha gave a short laugh. “It’s because of you he lost his family. You raised him this way—a consumer, an egoist. Now go after him. Live on his salary, since it’s so good. Only you know what’s interesting?”

“What?” her mother-in-law hissed.

 

“Life up north is expensive. Very expensive. Utilities cost a fortune, food costs three times what it does in Moscow. And it’s cold, dark half the year—and terribly boring. Good luck.”

She ended the call and never answered that woman again.

Half a year passed.

Masha stood at the window of her new apartment, drinking her morning coffee. Outside was spring—bright, noisy, smelling of lilac. Sonya was getting ready for school, humming under her breath. Danya had come for the weekend yesterday and brought his girlfriend, a sweet student with intelligent eyes.

“Mom, meet Yulia.”

Masha watched the way her son looked at this girl and saw respect. Care. Equality. Maybe she had raised something right after all.

Business at the salon was going well. Masha even took on two apprentices—girls from a technical college who dreamed of becoming nail technicians. She taught them patiently in the evenings. She passed on not just skills, but faith: you can live by your own labor. You can be independent. You can.

And the day before yesterday, something strange happened. Masha stopped by a bookstore—just to browse. She hadn’t bought books for herself in ages; there was never time. And she came across a poetry collection. She opened it at random and read:

“I thought this was called living. It turned out it was called enduring.”

She stood there in the middle of the store and cried—quietly, so no one would see. Because it was about her. About her whole former life.

She bought the book. Brought it home. Put it on the nightstand.

That evening Sonya asked:

“Mom, are you happy?”

Masha thought. Was she happy? She didn’t have a husband. But she also didn’t have a man who humiliated her every day. She had a modest apartment. But she could hang any paintings she wanted, paint the walls any color, invite guests—or not—as she pleased. She didn’t have an expensive car. But she had the freedom to wake up and know: today belongs to her.

“You know, sweetheart,” she said, pulling her daughter close, “I don’t know if I’m happy. But I know one thing for sure: I’m finally living. For real.”

Sonya hugged her tighter.

And then a message came in from Kirill—the first in half a year: “Masha, I was wrong. Can we talk?”

Masha looked at the screen. Then deleted the message without replying.

Warm wind blew in through the window and ruffled the curtains. Somewhere below, children were playing, laughing. Life hummed, moved, beckoned forward.

And Masha thought: how good it is that she finally learned to say “no.” That small word had opened up a whole world for her—a world where she could breathe deeply.

She finished her coffee and smiled. Just because. Not automatically, not out of politeness—because she wanted to.

And that was a real miracle.

My childhood unfolded in silence. Not the silence you find in libraries or morning forests, but the kind born of constant tension—the need to keep quiet so as not to betray something that wasn’t supposed to exist. We lived in an old house on the edge of the city, in a neighborhood where the asphalt crumbled underfoot and the neighbors knew everything about each other—except the most important thing. Mom worked as an accountant at a small firm, earned a modest salary, took public transport, and never complained. She would say, “We live modestly, but honestly.” I believed her. And I loved her for that resilience, for her quiet, unbending pride that was worth far more than any wealth. Every look of hers, every touch told me there are things in this world that money can’t buy, and our love was one of them.

 

Dad left when I was five. He didn’t leave—he disappeared. One evening he went out to take out the trash and never came back. Mom didn’t cry in front of me, but I heard her at night—quiet, stifled sobs, as if she was afraid of waking even the walls, as if the very silence of our home was fragile and could shatter at any loud sound. Later she said he “couldn’t handle it.” She didn’t specify what exactly he couldn’t handle. I thought it was some kind of illness, that he’d caught it like the flu and simply couldn’t be with us anymore. Only years later, looking into her tired but kind eyes, did I understand: he couldn’t handle the truth, couldn’t bear the weight of the honest, poor life she had chosen for the two of us.

By the standards of the world I grew up in, Mom and I were poor. I didn’t have trendy sneakers; I wore sundresses remade from her old dresses, and for my birthday I got books from the used bookstore. But I wasn’t ashamed. Mom knew how to turn poverty into dignity. “Money isn’t the main thing,” she’d say, stroking my hair. “What matters is being a decent person. What matters is staying yourself, no matter what.” I memorized that like a prayer, like a set of rules by which our little universe lived—two rooms and an endless mutual devotion.

At twenty-two I married Mark. He was an engineer at a factory—smart, calm, with warm eyes and a habit of reading me Brodsky’s poems before bed. He wasn’t wealthy—he had a one-room apartment, an old car, and a loan for renovations. But he was kind. At least that’s how it seemed then, in the happy haze of those first months when the future looked endlessly bright and cloudless. He knew my parents were “penniless.” I didn’t hide it. On the contrary, I was proud of how Mom and I had survived, how we’d supported each other through the hardest times.

But sometimes Mark let slip barbed remarks that pierced my heart like fine needles.
“Your mother can’t even afford a new handbag,” he’d say when we argued about something trivial.
Or, looking at an old photograph:
“Good thing your father ran off—with an income like that he’d only have dragged you down, like a stone around your neck.”
I kept silent. I thought he just didn’t understand. That he’d been raised in a different environment—where status is valued over character, where the wallet speaks louder than the heart. I believed our love could melt that ice of misunderstanding.

Mom died suddenly. A stroke. One morning she simply didn’t wake up. I stood by her bed, holding her cold hand, and felt the last bastion of my world collapse, the ground give way beneath my feet, leaving only emptiness and an unbearable silence that settled over my life forever. The funeral was modest. The neighbors came, two of Mom’s friends, the local GP. Mark came in a suit but watched it all with faint irritation—as if this were an obstacle to his workday, an annoying hiccup in his carefully scheduled life.

A week after the funeral, when the pain was still raw and sharp, a notary visited me. His suit was impeccable, his beard neatly trimmed, and he spoke as if every word had been weighed on golden scales. He introduced himself—Mikhail Stanislavovich, a trusted representative of the family. I didn’t understand what family he meant until he said a name that meant nothing to me.
“Your grandfather, Viktor Ivanovich Zimin, left you an inheritance.”
I laughed. First from amazement, then from pain, from the absurdity of it all.
“You’re mistaken. I don’t have a grandfather. My mother… she was an orphan. She always told me that.”
The notary smiled gently, and a shadow of regret flickered in his eyes.
“No, Sofia Viktorovna. Your mother was the daughter of Viktor Zimin. An oligarch. Owner of the Zimstroy holding, a shareholder in three banks, holder of properties in London, Monte Carlo, and on the Côte d’Azur. He died three years ago. But he left a will. And you are his only granddaughter.”

I couldn’t breathe. The room swam before my eyes. Everything I knew about my origins collapsed in five minutes. Mom… my modest, quiet mother… was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Why did she hide it? Why did she live in poverty, denying herself everything? Why did she let me grow up in a world where we were considered nobodies, where I’d heard whispers behind my back so many times about the poor girl and her unfortunate mother? The notary handed me a folder. Inside were documents, safe-deposit keys, bank statements, a list of assets. And a letter. From Mom.

“Sofia, if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Forgive me for not telling you the truth. I left my father when I was seventeen. He wanted to marry me off to his partner’s son—for money, for connections, to expand his empire. I ran away. Then I had you. He tried to find us, offered millions. But I didn’t want you to grow up in that world—a world of lies, intrigue, betrayal. I wanted you to be free. To love not for status but for the soul. Forgive me for depriving you of luxury. But I gave you honesty. I hope you’ll understand me. And forgive me… for the fact that now you will have to decide who to be: an heiress or a human being.”

I cried for two days. I sobbed as I hadn’t even at her funeral. They were tears not only of loss, but of confusion and fear in the face of the truth that had crashed down on me. At first Mark was silent, then he started asking questions. Cautiously, at first:
“Is it true? Are you serious?”
Then insistently:
“How much? What are we talking about?”
And then—greedily:
“What are you going to do with the money? We need to re-register everything right away, find good lawyers!”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know yet. My world had turned upside down, and I needed time to find a new point of balance.

But a week later everything changed. Mark began to “court” me. Not like before—with books and poetry. Now he brought me coffee in bed, stroked my hair, said, “You’re so strong, Sofia… so smart…” He started calling me “my queen.” He offered massages, dinners at expensive restaurants I hadn’t been able to afford before. He began praising my “noble posture,” “aristocratic features,” “innate taste.” I looked at him and didn’t see love. I saw calculation. I saw a new, unfamiliar fire in his eyes—the fire of greed and the vast, suddenly opened possibilities.

One evening he asked, hugging me with an unnatural tenderness:
“You’re not going to share the inheritance with anyone, are you? You understand we’re a family now. My interests are your interests. We have to be a single whole.”
“You mean—your debts are now mine?” I asked quietly, looking off to the side.
He faltered, let me go, and walked to the window.
“Well… I mean, we can start a new life. A completely different one. We’ll buy a house. Maybe even abroad. You deserve better than this… Khrushchyovka. You were born for more.”
“And you?” I asked, my voice cold. “Do you deserve this new life?”
He didn’t answer. But something flickered in his eyes—not love, not care. Pure, unvarnished greed. That evening, for the first time, I thought: what if he married me not because he loved me, but because he saw in my poverty a convenient wife? Someone easy, grateful, undemanding of luxury, someone he could control?

The next day I decided to test him. I said the lawyers had found an error in the will. That other relatives might contest the inheritance. That I might not get anything, that it had all been a cruel mistake.
Mark turned pale. His face became a mask of disappointment and fear.
“What do you mean—nothing?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “That can’t be…”
“It can,” I said, watching his every emotion. “We might have to return everything. Or divide it with distant relatives who’ve already asserted their rights.”
He was silent. Then he stood up, paced the room, stopped at the window, his fists clenched.
“Well… we’ll manage,” he said uncertainly, without a hint of warmth. “We have each other. That’s what matters, right?”
But his voice lacked its former confidence. There was only fear. Fear of losing what he hadn’t yet received but already considered his by right.

Two days later he began to grow cold. He stopped kissing me goodnight. He stopped asking how my day had gone. Once I overheard him on the phone with a friend, thinking I was in the bathroom:
“What a fool… thought she’d get rich and everything would take off. And now it turns out the whole thing’s hanging by a thread. Nothing but problems. Maybe it’s not worth holding on to her… Easier to find another option.”
I didn’t say a word. There was no anger, no resentment—just bitter disappointment and emptiness. I simply packed my things into an old suitcase and left while he was at work.
He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t call. He didn’t write. His silence said more than any words.

I didn’t sell the apartment. I didn’t rent a mansion in a prestigious neighborhood. I transferred a significant part of the funds to charity—to animal shelters, homes for the elderly, children’s hospitals. I put the rest into reliable funds so it would work and do some good. And I left. Not for Monte Carlo. Not for London. For a small town on the shore of Lake Baikal, where there was no Wi-Fi, where people drank tea from a samovar and knew each other by name, where time flowed slowly and thoughtfully.

There I met Leonid. He was a forester. He was thirty-five. His hands were calloused, his gaze calm and deep, and he had a habit of keeping quiet when there was nothing to say. He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know I had millions. He only knew that I’d arrived alone, with a suitcase and a book by Chekhov, and that there was a sadness in my eyes he seemed to understand without words. He helped me find a place to live—a small house by the lake. He brought firewood, fixed the stove, showed me where the mushrooms grew and which birds sang in the mornings. We didn’t kiss for a month. We just talked. About books. About the stars. About how last year a mother bear brought her three cubs to the river and he watched them all morning. He never asked where I got the money for rent. He didn’t pry into what I’d done before. He just was there. His presence felt as natural and necessary as breathing.

One evening, sitting on the shore and watching the sunset, I asked him:
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll leave? What if I get bored of this quiet?”
He looked at me as if the question were strange and smiled gently.
“Why would you leave? You’re happy here. I can see it in your eyes. They’ve become calm.”
“What if I’m not who I seem?” I pressed. “What if I have a past I don’t talk about?”
“You are who you seem,” he said simply, and his words sounded like a final verdict. “There’s nothing else I need to know. You are you.”

We married a year later. In the local church, small and wooden. No guests, no lavish dress, no fireworks. Just us, a kind, gray-haired priest, and the wind off the lake tugging at the hems of our simple clothes. I still haven’t told him about my grandfather. Not because I’m hiding it. It just doesn’t matter. He loves me not for what I have. He loves me for who I am. And in that simplicity there was a depth, a trust I had never known.

Sometimes, when we sit by the fire and the flames cast dancing shadows on his face, he lays his head in my lap and says softly, almost in a whisper:
“You’re my greatest gift. The greatest miracle of my life.”
I stroke his thick hair, feel the warmth of his body, and think: Mom, you were right. You were right about everything. Honesty is more precious than luxury. And love is the most precious thing of all.

 

Three years passed. One day a man arrived in our town, wearing an expensive but rumpled suit. He asked the locals where Sofia lived. They brought him to me. It was Mark. He had aged. Deep bags under his eyes, gray in his hair. He stood by the gate holding a pitiful roadside bouquet of wildflowers, looking lost and broken.
“Sofia…” he said, his voice cracking. “I came to apologize. It took me a long time to get here.”
I didn’t invite him into the house. We talked outside by an old birch tree.
“I was a fool,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “I thought money solved everything. That it was the key to happiness. And then I realized: it only shows who you really are. Turns your soul inside out. And I… I turned out to be nothing. An empty place.”
I stayed silent, letting him speak.
“I lost my job. Got married again—she left when she understood I had no money, that I couldn’t give her the life she dreamed of. I… I’m alone. Completely alone.”
“And you came for me to pity you?” I asked without reproach, just to understand.
“No,” he finally looked up, and there was genuine pain in his eyes. “I came to say you were right. Back then. And to… see you happy. Truly. I heard you got married.”
I looked at him. And for the first time in all these years I felt neither anger nor resentment. Only a light, gentle pity for a man who had ruined himself.
“I’m happy, Mark. But not because I have money. Because I’m with someone who doesn’t expect me to blow specks of dust off him. He just… loves. And I love him. That’s all.”
He nodded. His head drooped, his shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry. I know it won’t change anything.”
“I forgive you,” I said sincerely. “But don’t come back. You have your own life. Go find your way.”
He left. I watched his lonely figure slowly recede and disappear around the bend in the road that led into the big world that was foreign to me. Then I went back inside.

Leonid was making dinner. Fish soup from the lake hissed on the stove; the air smelled of fresh bread and herbs. He smiled when I came in, his eyes radiant with warmth.
“Everything okay?” he asked, knowing nothing yet understanding everything.
“It is,” I said, stepping close and hugging him. “Better than okay. Everything is just as it should be.”

Another two years passed. We had a daughter. We named her Viktoria—after the grandfather I never knew. But I haven’t told her about him. Not yet. When she’s older, I will. Not about the money. Not about the accounts or villas. About choice. About how each person can choose in life—to be a slave to wealth or its master, to be the ruler of things or their servant. I will teach her what my mother taught me.

Leonid works in the forest. I write children’s stories—about kindness, friendship, about how the real treasure is always inside us. We live modestly. We don’t have a mansion, but we have a home full of light, laughter, and understanding. We don’t have a chauffeur, but we have each other, and that support is worth more than any service. We don’t have diamonds, but we have a child’s laughter in the mornings, her first steps, and questions whose wisdom leaves us stumped.

Sometimes, when I look at Leonid—when I see him fixing the fence or rocking our daughter in his arms—I think: if I had stayed with Mark, I would have lived in luxury. I would have had diamonds, expensive dresses, trips to the world’s capitals. But I would never have known whether he loved me. Here—I know. Every day. In every gesture. In every look full of tenderness and respect. Mom was right. The main thing is to be a decent human being. And I became one. Not the heiress to a fortune, but the heiress to her wisdom and her love.

One winter, when Baikal was covered with thick, transparent ice and the sky was so clear and deep it seemed you could touch the farthest stars, Leonid asked me as he adjusted the logs in the stove:
“Have you ever regretted leaving him? Choosing this life instead of that glittering one?”
I looked at the fire in the stove, at our daughter’s face as she slept in her wooden cradle, at my husband’s hands—strong, warm, honest, bearing the marks of his labor. I let my eyes roam over our little living room strewn with books and toys, and breathed in the familiar, homely scent of our house.
“Never,” I said firmly and calmly. “Not once. Because he wanted me to blow specks of dust off him, to serve his ambitions. And you… you blow the snow off my eyelashes when we walk in a blizzard. That’s the whole difference between our worlds.”

He smiled. A quiet, happy smile lit his face. He came over, embraced me, and held me tight.
Outside the window, snow was falling—large, fluffy, endless. It settled on the ground softly. Gently. Tenderly. As if the whole vast, noisy world had held its breath so as not to disturb, not to frighten away our simple, unshadowed happiness.

And I understood completely and irrevocably: I am not an oligarch’s heiress. I am not dust on his marble floors. I am a woman who is loved not for money, not for connections, not for the past. And that knowledge, that feeling, is worth more than any fortune in the world. It warms the soul even on the coldest Baikal nights.

“Do you clean the toilets here?” Victoria threw out with a smirk, stopping by my desk. Her voice—loud and deliberate—spread across the office floor, making even the clatter of keyboards pause for a moment.

She stood before me in a tight cream dress that fit her figure perfectly, with impeccable makeup and hair, as if she’d just stepped off the glossy pages of a magazine about the rich and beautiful. A leather designer bag dangled carelessly from her slender fingers, adorned with a massive diamond ring, and her gaze was filled with the cold arrogance so typical of her. I was watering a modest ficus in my simple beige blazer, feeling my colleagues’ curious eyes on me.

“No, Victoria,” I answered evenly, meeting her mocking look. “And you, I see, still haven’t learned to knock before entering someone else’s office. In polite society, that’s considered a basic rule.”

She merely snorted, as if my words were a child’s amusing babble, and pivoted easily on her sky-high heels, radiating complete disdain. I caught her tossing to someone in the hallway, deliberately loud: “Well, of course. An old school acquaintance—same boring, plain manners.”
Child care tips

I didn’t flinch. No rush of blood to my cheeks. No involuntary clench of my fingers. I simply dabbed the drops of water off the ficus leaf and returned to my work, to the reports waiting for my attention. Because it had been a very long time since I allowed Victoria—or anyone else—to decide what I was worth. I knew perfectly well we would meet again, but next time everything would be entirely different, and she would no longer be that self-adoring Victoria whose happiness was so fragile and uncertain.

Our paths first crossed many years ago in an ordinary school. She was the undisputed queen of the schoolyard: dazzlingly beautiful, brash, utterly confident in herself and in her right to command. I was just the quiet straight-A student who hid a keen gaze behind thick glasses and wore modest braids. She never stooped to open ridicule—that would have been too simple, too plebeian. But every “accidental” glance, every barely perceptible condescending smirk thrown my way seemed to say: “You’re nothing, and your world is as small and uninteresting as you are.” After graduation, our lives diverged decisively. I entered the economics faculty, moved to the capital to study, plunged into my coursework, and, thanks to persistence and brains, got a job at a large international company. Years passed; step by step I climbed the career ladder, first becoming head of promising projects, then director of strategic development at a major development firm. A loving husband appeared in my life, a wonderful son, a cozy apartment in the very center of the city, and a stable financial footing most people only dream of.

Victoria’s fate, as I learned from mutual acquaintances, took another path—more convoluted and dramatic. She married a wealthy man, but the marriage quickly collapsed—her husband caught her with a lover. Then came a string of short yet flashy affairs, steadily mounting debts, and loud scandals that became public. The last time I saw her photo on social media, she was striking a pose on the deck of a luxury yacht in the company of an elderly oligarch, but the ring on her finger was already gone.

And then, several years after that fleeting encounter at the office, she appeared on my horizon again. This time she stood at the door of my private office; I saw her reflection in the slightly open blinds on the window. My secretary knocked and stepped in carefully.

“Sofiya Konstantinovna, Victoria Semyonova is here for an interview.”

I almost laughed to myself, tasting the bitter irony. “But of course. Why not? The logic of fate.”

 

“Please send her in,” I nodded.

Victoria entered with the same triumphant smile as before, but now there was a clear nervousness and uncertainty at the corners of it. She sank gracefully into the chair opposite my desk, laid her résumé in front of me, and crossed her legs with habitual ease.

“What an unexpected meeting,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “I had no idea you worked here, let alone in such an office.”

“And I didn’t think you were looking for work at all,” I parried, without even glancing at the papers. “Especially given your long-standing, unwavering love of luxury and a carefree life.”

She paled, her fingers tightening slightly on the bag’s handle.

“People change, Sofiya. I’m very serious and responsible now. I want to start my life over with a clean slate, forget my past mistakes.”

“A clean slate?” I finally raised my eyes to hers, feeling steel harden in my gaze. “You didn’t even bother to find out that our company currently has no openings for so-called ‘public relations assistants’ who boldly write vague phrases in their résumés like ‘conflict resolution skills’ and ‘working with VIP clients.’ That sounds rather… abstract.”

Her shoulder twitched as she tried to keep the mask of indifference in place.

“It’s just a figure of speech, a bit of imagery. I actually can find common ground with all sorts of people. Especially those in high positions who make important decisions.”

“Especially when those decisions directly concern the state of their wallets,” I observed calmly.

She fell silent, and in her eyes—always so self-assured—something new flickered: not the familiar anger, but a deep confusion, even fear. She had apparently expected me to feel awkward, to blush, maybe even to try to justify myself for our shared past. I had no intention of playing by her old, worn-out rules.

“Listen,” she said much more softly now, for the first time with a note of sincerity. “I understand perfectly that in school… we didn’t always see eye to eye. But that’s all far behind us. I really want to work. Honestly, a lot. I have a child now. I really need—”

“You have a child?” I repeated, stressing the last word. “How old?”
Child care tips

“A girl, already three,” she answered, dropping her gaze. “Her name is Arisha.”

I simply nodded, and a thought flashed through my mind: “I wonder who her father is?”

“All right,” I said after a brief pause. “Let’s assume I’m willing to consider your candidacy. But our company has a strict rule: every applicant takes a special test for honesty and integrity. It’s our internal policy introduced after an unpleasant theft incident.”

She drew her perfectly plucked brows together.

“What test exactly? What is it?”

“Very simple. We ask only three key questions. All answers are recorded and then carefully cross-checked with our extensive database and verified for complete accuracy. If even one answer turns out to be knowingly false, the application is rejected immediately without explanation. And, more importantly, that information is promptly passed along to our entire partner network of recruiting agencies. Which means… you can forget about getting a job at any self-respecting company in this city.”

She grew even paler; her lips trembled.

“Is that… even legal? Those methods?”

“Absolutely legal and transparent. You signed consent for data processing when you entered the building, with security. You saw it, didn’t you?”

She nodded uncertainly, realizing she’d been cornered.

“In that case, let’s begin,” I said, taking out my tablet and turning on the recorder. “Question one: where exactly did you work for the last two years?”

“At the well-known PR agency ‘LuxMedia,’” she blurted quickly. “I handled strategic promotion of premium brands.”

“Incorrect,” I said coolly. “‘LuxMedia’ closed a year and a half ago due to bankruptcy. You got in for just two months, and they fired you for systematically siphoning off event budgets. Haven’t forgotten how you tried to write off several bottles of expensive champagne and a luxury dinner at an elite restaurant as ‘unforeseen expenses’ for yourself and… what was his name? Your companion then, Artyom?”

She shot to her feet, her face contorted with rage.

“Were you spying on me?! Did you have me followed?”

“No, Victoria. I’m simply doing my job carefully and well. Just as you… ‘did yours’ back then—slipping someone else’s expensive lipstick into my schoolbag and happily telling the homeroom teacher I’d stolen it.”

She froze as if struck by lightning.

“That was in eighth grade! It was so long ago!”

“And you, unfortunately, still behave as if you’re stuck in that very eighth grade. Only now, instead of trinkets like someone else’s lipstick, it’s other people’s money, other people’s husbands, other people’s lives and fates.”

She slowly, as if with great effort, sank back into the chair, letting her head drop to her chest. Her shoulders trembled.

“I just… really need a job. I’m up to my ears in debt. There’s no one to help me…”

“That, sadly, isn’t my problem,” I said gently but with unshakeable firmness. “But I am willing to give you one single chance. The last.”

Her tearful eyes lifted to me with hope.

“Really? You’re not joking?”

“Yes. But not here. Not in this company or this building. I have another, more suitable idea for you.”

Exactly a week later I drove to a modest shelter for women in difficult life situations, in one of the Moscow region’s small towns. Victoria was already waiting by the main entrance. No usual makeup, simple jeans, a worn jacket. She looked unbelievably tired, but there was something new in her eyes—calm, serious.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” she asked, looking straight at me.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I nodded. “You’ll work here as a job-placement coordinator. Your task is to help women who, like you, have ended up in tough situations: find work, compile proper résumés, prepare for interviews. You’ve always known how to make a strong first impression. Let that skill serve a real purpose now, not just short-term gains.”

She nodded silently, absorbing every word.

“Why? Why did you decide to help me after everything?”

“Because I know from experience what it’s like to be cornered and feel utterly helpless. And also because I don’t want your little daughter someday to hear from someone the same hurtful, humiliating question: ‘Do you clean the toilets here?’”

She cried. Quietly—no theatrical sobs or hysterics—the way people cry at sudden relief.

“Thank you, Sofiya. Thank you so much.”

“No need for thanks. Just try not to let these women down—and, above all, don’t let yourself down.”

Several months passed. Victoria worked at the shelter with surprising honesty and dedication. She helped place several residents in good positions, using all her old contacts and natural charm, but now channeling them in the right direction.

Then one day a new junior employee, recently hired on Victoria’s recommendation, knocked on my office door. She brought a finished report on a new project; her movements were precise and sure. My eye happened to fall on her graceful hand, where a simple yet very beautiful silver bracelet gleamed—the exact twin of the one my mother had worn for years, a piece I would recognize anywhere.

“Forgive my curiosity—where did you get such a lovely bracelet?” I asked politely, feeling a strange stirring inside.

“It wasn’t bought, Sofiya Konstantinovna,” the girl smiled. “It’s a family heirloom. My grandmother passed it to my mother many years ago, and my mother, in turn, gave it to me recently for my birthday.”
Family games

I felt my heart stop.

“And what was your grandmother’s name, if you don’t mind?”

“Anna Petrovna,” came the simple, achingly familiar reply.

My heart began to pound wildly. Anna Petrovna—the name of my own mother. But as far as I knew, my mom had no other daughters besides me. Or… was there something I didn’t know?

“And your mother… where is she from?” I continued, trying to keep my voice even.

“She’s from Rostov. But she was born, if I’m not mistaken, in a small settlement near Voronezh. Unfortunately, she was placed in an orphanage when she was only three. Her parents—my grandparents—died in a terrible car accident.”

I rose slowly from my chair and walked to the large window, beyond which stretched the vast many-faced city where I had built my whole life. In that moment, it suddenly seemed strange and unfamiliar.

“What’s your name, dear?” I asked softly, almost in a whisper, still looking out the window.

“Alina,” she answered just as softly.

I took a deep breath, turned back to her, and tried to smile as naturally as possible.

“Alina… I happen to have a little time. Would you like to share a cup of hot tea with me? I have a lovely, fragrant bergamot.”

She smiled warmly.

 

“With great pleasure, Sofiya Konstantinovna.”
Family games

That evening I dialed my mother’s number; my fingers trembled slightly.

“Mom, you… you never told me I might have had a sister. Why?”

A long, heavy silence filled the line, and I heard my mother struggle to hold back tears.

“You must understand, dear… she came into the world after something terrible happened to me. I was assaulted. I was coming home late from work—there were several of them. They tormented me for a long time. My mind couldn’t bear it; I was severely traumatized. And I… I just couldn’t, didn’t want to see or hear anything about the child who was born from that horror. It was a little girl… And your father had no choice but to place her in a good orphanage. Later, when I gradually came back to myself and began to live again, she had already been adopted by another family—loving, but strangers.”
Child care tips

“I thought you would never learn about it,” she whispered through quiet sobs. “Your father and I didn’t want to wound or upset you. You were so fragile then, so sensitive after my illness… And then your school, your studies, your exams… We decided it would be better if we all just tried to forget.”

“Forget?” I echoed, my heart twisting with pain. “Mom, how can you simply forget your own child? How?”

“We didn’t forget her, Sofiyusha. Not for a single day. We secretly visited her, brought presents while she was very small and still in the orphanage. Then… then she was adopted and we lost every trace. We had no right to interfere in her new life.”
Child care tips

I sat in complete silence, staring at the big family photo on the wall: Mom, Dad, me in my graduation dress. And no one else. It seemed it had always been that way.

“Alina works at my company now,” I finally exhaled. “She’s incredibly smart, strong, and very, very beautiful. And you know, she looks astonishingly like you, Mom. The spitting image of you in your youth.”

My mother began to cry in earnest, pain and relief mingling in her sobs.

“Please bring her home to us, Yulechka. I beg you.”

The next day I invited Alina to lunch at a quiet, cozy restaurant not far from the office.

“I want to introduce you to an extraordinary woman,” I began carefully. “She has loved you with all her heart, always. She just… didn’t know how to find the right words or how to tell you everything. She was afraid of shattering your peace.”

Alina looked at me with mild puzzlement and curiosity.

“Who are you talking about, Sofiya?”

“About your birth mother.”

And Victoria? She’s still working at that shelter, having found a new calling and meaning in life there. Sometimes we share a coffee, recalling the past without bitterness or malice. She no longer smiles that condescending, icy smile. Now I read in her eyes sincere respect and a quiet, clear gratitude.

Sometimes life—so unpredictable and strange—gives us a second chance, not to repeat old mistakes, but to finally correct them after learning the important lessons. The main thing is not to miss that gift and not to ruin everything a third time, because there may be no more chances left. And the soft whisper of the past, like an echo, sooner or later finds us in the present, weaving the torn threads of our fates into one strong fabric

Natalia stared at the phone screen, unable to move. The red call-end button remained lit, and from the speaker came the muffled sound of a woman’s laughter. So young, carefree… nothing like her tired voice after a twelve-hour shift at the hospital.

— Andrei, stop! — whispered an unfamiliar voice playfully. — We really need to get to work…

Natalia’s fingers turned cold. Fifteen years of marriage flashed before her eyes like frames from an old film: their first meeting in the university library, their modest wedding, the birth of Mashenka, sleepless nights by the crib… All this time, she thought she knew her husband.
Online movie streaming services

— I told you I’d be late tonight, — Andrei’s voice sounded unusually soft. — Important project…

Natalia bitterly smiled. Important project. Of course. For the past six months, he had talked only about work, the new young team, and modern approaches to business. And she had been proud of his success, proud of him.

The woman’s voice laughed again, now quieter, more intimate. Finally, Natalia found the strength to press the red button. The apartment fell into dead silence, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock—the wedding gift from his parents.

She slowly sank into a kitchen chair. On the fridge still hung their last family photo from vacation: tanned, happy faces, Mashenka between them, holding both of their hands. Natalia remembered how long they had debated over the location for the trip, how Andrei had insisted on this particular resort…

Her phone vibrated—a message from him: “Sorry, I’m late. The important meeting ran long. Don’t wait for dinner.”

Natalia looked at the set table, at his favorite dish she had prepared all evening after her shift. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She had to decide what to do next. Mashenka would be back from practice soon, and her daughter couldn’t see her like this.

 

Rising from the table, she walked to the window. The rain had started outside, drops slowly running down the glass, blurring the lights of the evening city. Natalia took out her phone and opened her contacts. Her finger hovered over her lawyer’s name—an old friend who had offered help several times, noticing Andrei’s strange behavior recently.

— Mom, I’m home! — Mashenka’s bright voice rang out from the hallway.

Natalia took a deep breath, tucked the phone into her pocket, and forced a smile. She had time to think about what to do. For now, she had to be strong—for her daughter, for herself. Life didn’t end with betrayal, even if it seemed that way right now.

— How was practice, sweetheart? — Natalia asked, stepping into the hallway and helping her daughter take off her backpack.

— Great! The coach said I’m ready for the competition. Is dad coming to the performance?

Natalia froze for a moment but quickly composed herself:

— Of course, darling. He’ll definitely come.

— Where is he now? — Mashenka looked around the empty kitchen. — Is he at work again?

— Yes, he has… an important meeting, — Natalia turned towards the stove. — Are you going to eat?

— Mmm, it smells delicious! — the girl sat down at the table. — Can I call dad? I want to tell him about practice!

— Let’s do it later, sweetheart, — Natalia replied softly, setting the plates. — He’s very busy right now.

Mashenka shrugged and started eating, while Natalia watched her and thought about how much she would have to explain. And how much she would have to hide to protect her daughter’s innocent heart from the harsh truth of adult life.

When her daughter went to do her homework, Natalia took out her phone and dialed her mother-in-law’s number.

— Hello, Vera Nikolaevna? Good evening.

— Natasha, is something wrong? — Vera Nikolaevna’s voice held concern. — You usually don’t call this late.

Natalia took a deep breath:

— Tell me… Has Andrei said anything to you lately… about me? About our relationship?

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line.

— Natasha… — Vera Nikolaevna’s voice trembled. — Did you find out something?

Natalia’s heart stopped. So, her mother-in-law knew. She knew and stayed silent.

— Why didn’t you tell me? — she whispered.

— I was hoping he would come to his senses, — Vera Nikolaevna replied quietly. — She’s just a girl, his new assistant. I thought it was just a midlife crisis…

Natalia abruptly ended the call. The ringing in her ears was deafening. Assistant. Of course. The “promising employee” he had been talking about at dinner all the time. How could she have been so blind?

The phone vibrated again—it was Andrei calling. Natalia stared at the screen, where their shared photo smiled back at her, and thought about how strange life was: years spent with someone, trusting them with all her secrets, building plans for the future… And then, in a moment, realizing that even his smile in the photo now seemed foreign and unfamiliar.

The call ended, and within seconds, a message appeared: “I’ll be home soon. We need to talk.”

Natalia went upstairs to check Mashenka’s homework quickly.

— Sweetheart, it’s already late. Time for bed.

— And dad? — her daughter sleepily asked, snuggling under the covers.

— Dad is staying late. I’ll tell him you were waiting.

After kissing her daughter, Natalia went down to the kitchen. She heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. She stayed at the table, staring at the cold dinner.

Andrei entered hesitantly, as though he were in a stranger’s house. He smelled of expensive perfume—not the one she had given him for their anniversary.

— Natasha… — he began, but she interrupted.

— How old is she? — Her voice sounded surprisingly calm.

Andrei froze in the doorway.
– What?

– Your assistant. How old is she?

– How do you… – he stopped himself, noticing her gaze. – Twenty-six.

Natalya bitterly smiled.

– Fourteen years younger than me. Almost the same age gap as between me and Masha.

– Natasha, listen…

– No, you listen, – she finally lifted her eyes to him. – I know everything. I know about the late-night meetings, about “important projects.” Today you forgot to hang up the phone after our conversation.

Andrey turned pale and sank heavily into a chair.

– I didn’t want you to find out like this.

– How did you want me to find out? – Natalya felt her voice betray her with a tremor. – After you’ve decided that a young lover is better than an old wife?

– Don’t say that, – he tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. – You don’t understand. Everything has changed at work, new opportunities, young team…

– And a young lover to go with it? – Natalya stood up from the table. – Do you know what’s the scariest part? It’s not that you betrayed me. It’s that you betrayed Masha. She asked today if you were coming to her competition.

– Of course, I’ll come! – Andrey exclaimed. – I’m her father!

– Really? I thought you were now a manager dealing with young talent.

Andrey jumped up from his chair.

– Stop it! You don’t understand how hard it is for me right now!

– It’s hard for you? – Natalya lowered her voice to a whisper, not wanting to wake Masha. – How do you think it feels for me? How do you think it will feel for Masha when she finds out that her dad…

– I’m leaving you, – Andrey suddenly said quietly.

Those words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Natalya felt the ground slip away from under her feet.

– Just like that? – She sank back into her chair. – Fifteen years of marriage, and that’s it?

– Katya is pregnant, – he looked away.

Natalya covered her face with her hands. So that’s her name. Katya. And she’s already carrying his child.
Children’s story books

– Mom? Dad? – Masha’s sleepy voice made them both flinch. – What’s going on?

They turned. Their daughter stood in the kitchen doorway, her confused eyes shifting from one parent to the other.

– Why are you shouting?

– Masha, sweetie, go back to bed, – Natalya tried to smile. – We’re just having a talk.

– You’re fighting, – Masha frowned. – It’s about that lady from work, right? I heard grandma talking on the phone…

Andrey turned pale:

– What did you hear?

 

– That some Katya took you away from the family, – the girl’s voice trembled. – Dad, is it true? You still love us, right?

Natalya watched as her now ex-husband helplessly opened and closed his mouth, unable to find the words. Fifteen years she loved this man, trusted him, built a family with him. And now he couldn’t even find the words to explain to their daughter why he was destroying her world.
Family games

– Dad loves us very much, – Natalya said firmly, walking over to her daughter. – Sometimes grown-ups… get confused. Come on, I’ll tuck you in.

– I’m not going anywhere! – Masha shook her head stubbornly. – I want to know the truth!

Andrey took a step toward his daughter:

– Masha, honey…

– Don’t come near me! – the girl screamed and ran out of the kitchen.

In the ensuing silence, they could hear the door to her room slam shut and the key turn in the lock.

– I’ll talk to her, – Andrey moved toward the exit of the kitchen.

– No, – Natalya blocked his way. – You’ve done enough. Pack your things and leave.

– This is my home too!

– It was, until you decided to start a new family, – she looked him straight in the eyes. – I’ll send you my lawyer’s contact in the morning. And don’t even think about fighting for custody – you saw how Masha reacted.

Andrey slumped his shoulders.

– I really didn’t want it to turn out like this.

– But it did, – Natalya felt a cold resolve growing inside her. – You have an hour to pack what you need. You can come back for the rest later.

While her ex-husband packed his things in the bedroom, she went upstairs to her daughter. She knocked on the door:

– Masha, it’s mom. Can I come in?

The sound of the lock clicking. Natalya entered the room. Her daughter was sitting on the bed, hugging her knees.

– I don’t want to see him, – she said in a muffled voice.

– You don’t have to, – Natalya sat down beside her and hugged her daughter’s shoulders. – Today, dad will leave. But you need to know – he loves you. Sometimes… grown-ups make mistakes.

– Big mistakes, – Masha sniffled. – You know, Lenka from the parallel class is crying because of the same thing. Her dad also got a new family.

Natalya squeezed her daughter tighter. Downstairs, the front door slammed – Andrey had left.

– Mom, – Masha whispered later, as they walked home. – Can I… can I call dad? I want to tell him about the new moves I learned.

Natalya felt her heart tighten. – Of course, sweetie. That’s your decision.

In the evening, after putting her daughter to bed, she sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, flipping through photos from the competition. The phone quietly dinged – a message from a colleague at the hospital, Mikhail. He had been persistently inviting her for coffee for the past two months.

“I saw the photos from the performance. Masha is a real champion! Maybe we could celebrate her victory with dinner? I know a great family restaurant…”

Natalya smiled, looking at the screen. Maybe it was time for her to take a step forward. Life doesn’t end with betrayal – she had told herself that on that awful night. And now, six months later, she truly believed it for the first time.