All Amazing Babies

 

Marina froze in the middle of the kitchen with a towel in her hands. She had just finished making dinner—stewed chicken with vegetables, her husband’s favorite. Plates were already on the table, the cutlery neatly laid out. She had tried to create a cozy atmosphere after a long day at the medical center, where she worked as a head nurse.

“What did you say?” she asked again, hoping she’d misheard.

Igor stood in the doorway with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. A condescending smile played on his face—one that had been appearing more and more often lately.

“You heard me perfectly. Mom is moving into a new apartment—she needs money for renovations. And I’m strapped right now. They’re delaying my salary, you know how it is. Your bonus is coming in handy.”

Marina slowly set the towel down on the table. She’d received her quarterly bonus yesterday—twenty thousand rubles. Money she had honestly earned by working night shifts, saving lives, listening to patients’ complaints.

“Igor, that’s my money. I was going to buy a new washing machine—ours has broken down for the third time.”

“A washing machine?” he snorted. “You’re comparing some piece of metal to my mother? She gave her whole life to me, raised me alone without a father. And you’re clutching at twenty thousand?”

“I’m not clutching, I just…”

“Enough!” he cut her off. “I don’t want to listen to your excuses. I need the money tomorrow morning. End of discussion.”

Marina looked at the man she’d been married to for seven years. When they met at a mutual friend’s birthday party, Igor had seemed so charming, so attentive. He worked as a manager at a construction company, always had money, brought her flowers, took her to restaurants. After the wedding, something began to change. At first it was subtle—small jabs, remarks about her looks, her job. Then more and more often he started saying she wasn’t a good enough wife, not caring enough, not… enough.

“Igor, let’s talk about this calmly. Maybe we can wait until your paycheck? Or give half the amount?”

He stepped forward, and Marina instinctively stepped back until her spine hit the kitchen cabinets.

“Talk about it? Since when do we talk about anything in this house? I said it, so that’s how it’ll be. Or have you forgotten who the man is here?”

 

“I remember,” Marina replied quietly. “But it’s not fair. Your mother gets a good pension. She has savings…”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother!” he snapped. “She’s a saint! And you… you’re just an egoist who thinks only about herself and her rags.”

Marina flinched. He called her uniform “rags”—the one she put on with pride every morning. Medicine was her calling, her life. She helped people in their hardest moments. And at home… at home her work meant nothing.

“I’m tired, Igor. Let’s eat dinner, and then we can come back to this.”

“No, sweetheart. Money first, dinner later. And what is this chicken anyway? Cutting corners on groceries again? You could’ve made steak, since you got your bonus.”

Marina closed her eyes, holding back tears. When had it gotten this bad? When had a loving husband turned into a tyrant who treated her like a servant?

“The card’s in my bag,” she whispered.

“Good girl,” Igor said smugly. “See how simple that was? No need for drama over some money. We’re family—everything is shared.”

He walked over to her purse hanging on a chair and started rummaging through it. Marina watched as he pulled out her wallet and took the card.

“PIN?”

“Four eight two one.”

“Perfect. Tomorrow morning I’ll withdraw it and take it to Mom. She’ll be so happy! Oh—and on Sunday we’re going to her place for lunch. Make something tasty—she likes your salads.”

Marina nodded, unable to say a word. A cold, dark emptiness spread in her chest.

The next morning Marina woke with a heavy head. Igor was already gone—straight to the ATM, apparently. A note lay on the bedside table: “Going to Mom’s. Back by evening. Dinner at seven.”

She got up, showered, got dressed. Saturday was her day off; usually she spent it cleaning, cooking, doing laundry. But today… something inside her resisted the usual routine.

Marina brewed strong tea and sat by the window. The city buzzed outside—people rushing around, living their lives. And her? What life was she living?

Her phone vibrated— a message from her colleague Olga: “Marinka, how are you? Yesterday I saw how upset you left. Everything okay?”

Marina typed back: “All good, thanks.”

But was it good? No. It hadn’t been for a long time. She had just gotten used to it—accepted it—decided that this was how it was supposed to be. That her husband had the right to control her money, her time, her life.

Her phone rang—an unfamiliar number.

“Hello?”

“Marina Sergeyevna? This is Elena Vasilyevna, Igor’s mother.”

Marina tensed. Her mother-in-law rarely called; usually everything went through her son.

“Hello, Elena Vasilyevna.”

“Hello. I’m calling to thank you for helping out. Igor said you gave money for the renovation. That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” Marina replied mechanically.

“Though I was a little surprised. I had the renovation last year. But Igor said there are still a few things to finish. Strange he didn’t mention it earlier… but oh well, he knows best. He’s such a caring son!”

Marina went cold.

“Elena Vasilyevna… how much money did Igor give you?”

“Five thousand. He said he couldn’t withdraw more—some kind of limit. But thank you anyway. It’ll be enough for paint and new wallpaper in the entryway.”

“Five thousand,” Marina echoed.

“Yes. Is that not enough? I can add my own— I have some set aside…”

“No, no, it’s fine. Goodbye, Elena Vasilyevna.”

Marina ended the call without listening to the reply. Five thousand out of twenty. Where had the other fifteen gone?

She dialed Igor. Long rings, then his voice:

“What is it? I’m busy.”

“Where’s the money, Igor?”

“What money? What are you talking about?”

“Fifteen thousand. Your mother said you only gave her five.”

A pause. Then an irritated exhale.

“So you’re eavesdropping now? Spying? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m not spying. She called to thank me. So where is it?”

“None of your business! I’m the head of this family—I decide how we use finances. Maybe I have expenses you don’t know about.”

“What expenses? Igor, those were my money!”

“Were. Now they’re mine. And stop hysterics. We’ll talk tonight.”

He hung up. Marina stared at the dark screen. Inside her, slowly but surely, a feeling began to rise—one she’d suppressed for too long. Anger. Not hurt, not sadness, not disappointment—anger, pure and bright.

She paced the apartment. Their wedding photo stood on the shelf—young, happy, full of hope. Marina picked up the frame and looked at their smiling faces for a long time. Then she carefully put the photo into a drawer, face down.

All day she moved through a strange state—calm on the outside, boiling on the inside. She cooked dinner—beef stew; Igor liked meat. She set the table, lit candles. She put on the dress he once called beautiful. She did her makeup.

At seven, the front door slammed.

 

“Marina, I’m home!” Igor called.

She went into the hallway. Igor was taking off his shoes; he smelled of alcohol and someone else’s perfume.

“Well, look at you all dressed up!” he said, looking her up and down. “What—your conscience bothering you after this morning’s scene?”

“Dinner’s ready,” Marina said calmly.

At the table Igor ate with an appetite, praising the food. Marina watched him in silence.

“By the way,” he said with his mouth full, “tomorrow we’ll go to Mom’s around three. She asked for dumplings—help her make them.”

“I’m not going.”

Igor looked up from his plate.

“What do you mean, ‘I’m not going’?”

“I mean I have other plans.”

“What plans?” he barked. “Have you lost it? I said we’re going to Mom’s!”

Marina stood up.

“Igor. Where are the fifteen thousand?”

“Oh, here we go again. Enough! Forget the money!”

“No.” Marina’s voice was steady. “I won’t forget. You stole fifteen thousand from me. Stole. That’s theft. You’re a thief.”

Igor jumped up, knocking over his chair.

“How dare you! I’m your husband! Everything is shared!”

“If everything is shared, why did you take it without my consent? Why did you lie about your mother? What did you spend it on?”

“Get out!” Igor screamed. “Get out of my house, you ungrateful bitch!”

Marina stood in the middle of the living room, staring at her husband’s face, red with rage. In that moment she understood clearly—her fear was gone. Completely. What remained was anger and disgust.

“This is our home, Igor. We bought this apartment together. And by the way, my down payment was bigger than yours.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Igor took a step forward, but Marina didn’t back away.

“Or what? You’ll hit me? Go on. Just remember—I work in a hospital. We know how to document bruises. And I have plenty of friends who would be happy to help.”

Igor stopped, clearly not expecting resistance.

“You… you’re threatening me?”

“I’m defending myself. From you, from your lies, from your contempt. Seven years, Igor. Seven years I endured your humiliation, your rudeness, your disrespect. I kept thinking you’d change, you’d understand, you’d appreciate me. But you only got bolder every day.”

“What do you think you are? Look at you—an ordinary nurse, nothing special! I picked you up from nowhere, gave you my last name, the status of a married woman!”

“Gave?” Marina laughed, but there was no joy in it. “You think being your wife is a gift? Serving you, obeying your every whim, staying silent when you insult me? That’s not a gift, Igor. That’s hard labor.”

He tried to speak, but Marina kept going, her voice rising:

“Do you know how many lives I’ve saved all these years? How many people thanked me, cried with relief that their loved ones survived? And at home… at home I’m nobody. An empty space. A walking wallet.”

“Stop this hysteria! The neighbors will hear!”

“Let them hear! Let everyone know who you really are—not a loving son who cares for his mother, but a lying bastard who deceives everyone around him!”

Igor’s face darkened.

“Shut up, idiot!”

“No! I won’t shut up! Where’s my money, Igor? Did you gamble it away? Drink it away? Or spend it on a mistress—the one whose perfume is on your shirts?”

That hit its mark. Igor jerked as if slapped.

“I’m not blind and I’m not stupid. I just didn’t want to see it before. I hoped I was wrong. But today… today you finally opened my eyes.”

Marina went to the closet and pulled out a bag she had packed in advance.

“Where are you going?” Panic crept into Igor’s voice.

“To a friend’s. I’ll stay there until I decide what to do next.”

“You won’t dare leave! You’re my wife!”

“Look at me, Igor. I’m already leaving.”

She headed for the door, but he blocked her path.

“Stop! You’re not going anywhere! We’re not done talking!”

“We haven’t even started. All these years only you talked. I stayed quiet, endured, hoped. Enough.”

Marina tried to go around him, but Igor grabbed her arm.

“Let go. Now.”

“We need to talk first. You can’t just up and leave!”

“I can—and I am. And if you don’t let go, I’ll scream so loud the whole building will come running.”

Igor released her. In his eyes something new appeared—confusion, disorientation. He was used to a compliant wife who endured everything and forgave. This new Marina—angry, determined, fearless—threw him off balance.

“Marina… let’s talk calmly—”

“No, Igor. The time for talking is over. When we’ve both cooled down, then we’ll talk. About divorce.”

“Divorce? Are you insane? Over some miserable money?”

“Not because of money. Because of your attitude. The lies. The contempt. Because you turned our family into a farce. Because of your mistress.”

Marina opened the door.

“Marina! Stop! Come back!”

But she was already going down the stairs without looking back. Behind her she heard his shouting, threats—and then the slam of a door.

Outside, Marina stopped and inhaled the cool evening air. A strange feeling filled her—fear mixed with freedom, anxiety mixed with relief.

She took out her phone and called her friend.

“Olya? It’s me. Can I stay with you for a few days? Yes—I left. Finally left.”

For three days Marina lived with Olya. Her friend didn’t ask unnecessary questions—she was simply there: making tea, putting on comedies, hugging Marina when she felt like crying.

Igor called constantly. First he threatened, then begged, then threatened again. Marina listened but didn’t answer. After the twentieth call she just blocked his number.

On the fourth day Elena Vasilyevna called.

“Marina, what’s going on? Igor can’t find his place—he says you two had a fight.”

“We didn’t have a fight, Elena Vasilyevna. We’re separating.”

“Separating? Because of what? Igor says you snapped over some money…”

 

“He didn’t tell you the truth?”

“What truth?”

Marina took a deep breath.

“That he took my bonus—twenty thousand—supposedly for you. He gave you five, and the other fifteen he spent on who knows what—though I think on his mistress. And it’s not the first time, Elena Vasilyevna. Just the last straw.”

Silence on the line.

“That can’t be. Igor couldn’t do that.”

“He could, and he did. You can ask him yourself.”

“I… I’ll talk to him. This must be some misunderstanding.”

Elena Vasilyevna hung up. Marina shook her head. A mother will always defend her son, no matter what he does.

That evening Olya came home from work, shaken.

“Marinka, he’s standing by the entrance. Looks like he tracked you down.”

Marina looked out the window. Sure enough, a familiar figure lingered by the door.

“Should we call the police?” Olya offered.

“No. I’ll handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need to put an end to this.”

Marina went downstairs. Igor lunged toward her, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Don’t come closer.”

“Marina, sweetheart, forgive me! I was wrong! Let’s talk!”

“Talk about what? How you lied to me? How you spent my money on a mistress?”

Igor flinched.

“What mistress? You’re making things up!”

“Alla, right? Works at your company? Blonde, filled lips, loves expensive gifts?”

He went pale.

“Who told you?”

“No one. I figured it out. The perfume, hairs on your jacket, the constant ‘late at work,’ the mysterious expenses… I’m not an idiot, Igor—though you clearly thought I was.”

“It didn’t mean anything! Just a fling! You’re always at work, always tired…”

“So it’s my fault you cheated?”

“No—that’s not what I meant… Marina, please come home. I’ll fix everything. I’ll return the money, I’ll end it with Alla…”

“No. Too late, Igor. Trust is dead, love is gone. All that’s left is resentment and disgust.”

“But we’ve been together seven years! Does that mean nothing?”

“It means something. It means I wasted seven years on a man who didn’t value me, didn’t respect me, and didn’t love me.”

“I loved you! I love you!”

“No, Igor. You love yourself. I was a convenient add-on to your life—I cooked, cleaned, earned money, stayed silent. The perfect wife for an egoist.”

He tried to take her hand, but Marina stepped back.

“Don’t touch me. Tomorrow I’ll come for my things. I hope you’ll be at work. If you’re not, I’ll come with friends—they’ll help.”

“You can’t just leave like this! The apartment is ours, the property is ours!”

“We’ll divide it. In court, if needed. Or peacefully, if you show some sense.”

“You won’t do it!”

“I will. And you know what? I feel good. For the first time in a long time, I feel good without you. I feel like a person again, not a servant.”

Something like regret flashed in his eyes—but it was too late.

“Marina…”

 

“Goodbye, Igor.”

She turned and walked back to the building. Behind her he shouted:

“You’ll come crawling back on your knees! Who do you think you are without me? No one will want you!”

Marina didn’t turn around. She went back up to Olya, who met her with a cup of hot tea and a warm blanket.

“How did it go?”

“Fine. I said everything I think.”

“And him?”

“In shock. He didn’t expect me to actually leave. He thought I’d yell and come back like before.”

“But you won’t go back?”

“Never.”

A month passed. Marina rented a small apartment near the hospital and moved her things. Igor didn’t appear anymore—apparently he understood she was serious.

She filed for divorce two weeks after leaving. Igor tried to drag out the process, demanded meetings, but Marina wouldn’t budge. All discussions—only through a lawyer.

Life gradually began to improve. Work brought her satisfaction; her colleagues supported her. It turned out many of them had noticed long ago how she was wilting next to her husband, but they hadn’t dared to say anything.

Igor tried to stall, hoping Marina would give in, but the court sided with her and demanded a division of property. Marina offered for him to buy out her share, but he didn’t have the money—so she offered to buy out his share. He agreed, surprised and asking where she got the funds, but Marina only smiled coldly: her parents had helped with a loan. Igor moved out and went back to his mother, but Elena Vasilyevna—having learned the full truth about her son’s cheating and lies—received him coldly and said he had a week to find his own place and move out. Igor tried to guilt her, reminding her of the money he’d given her, but his mother cut him off: “You betrayed an honest woman, and I’m ashamed of you.” He cursed his defiant ex-wife who had dared to rebel, failed to “appreciate” his “generosity,” and ruined his comfortable life. Meanwhile, Marina stood by the window of that same apartment, which now belonged only to her—yes, there was a loan ahead, but her parents promised to help, and she knew she would manage, because for the first time in many years she felt truly free and happy

Anna parked her black BMW by the gates of the country house and let out a long breath. It had been a brutal day—an audit meeting, urgent reports for her father, a tense call with the bank about the loan to expand the warehouse. All she wanted now was a glass of dry red wine, a hot bath, and a cuddle session with her cat.

“Lyosh, I’m home!” she called out, slipping off her blazer and setting her bag on the bench.

No answer. Only a muffled voice drifted from the study—the door was closed, but not all the way. Anna tiptoed closer, ready to crack a joke or sneak up and kiss her husband on the neck. But her steps slowed when she caught a familiar name.

“…Yeah, Mom, she bought it,” Alexey’s voice was one she’d never heard before—cold, dry, чужой. “She said she wants to get you a gift. Can you imagine? Buying a dacha. The one by the lake, remember?”

Galina Ivanovna laughed into the receiver, her voice clear.

“Well, that’s perfect. Let her buy it. Just don’t forget: register the house in your name right away, otherwise she’ll try to claw it back. And hurry up with that divorce, Lyosha—how much longer are you going to drag this out?”

Anna froze. Something inside her snapped, as if someone had abruptly muted the sound of her life. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

“Wait, Mom, I’ll just—” Alexey pulled the phone away and, without looking, hit “end call.” He missed. Or not fully. Or the app didn’t close. Anna didn’t know. But she knew one thing for sure: she’d heard everything.

She walked back to the entryway, took out her phone, and in absolute silence recorded a voice message to her lawyer:

“Lena, we need to meet urgently. Tomorrow. I’m filing for divorce. And one more thing… handle the division of property. Everything needs to be documented as fast as possible.”

In the morning Alexey found Anna in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. She was composed—makeup flawless, eyes ледяные.

 

“Good mor—” he began, but Anna подняла руку.

“Don’t. I heard everything. You didn’t manage to switch it off.”

“What are you—” he started uncertainly. “Listen, you just misunderstood—”

“Stop. I’m a grown woman, Lyosha. And you’re a pathetic coward. I’m filing for divorce. Today. And you’re moving out. Today.”

When Alexey brought his things to his mother’s apartment on the outskirts, Galina Ivanovna met him with the face of a victor.

“Is it done?” she asked, lips tight.

“No,” he snapped. “Nothing went according to plan. She filed for divorce before I managed to register anything. The lawyers say I’m getting nothing.”

“How—nothing?!” his mother’s voice shot up into hysteria. “We agreed on this! You were supposed to convince her—make her sign everything over to you: the apartment, the shares, the car, the jewelry… We planned it all out!”

Alexey sank onto a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“She’s not who we thought she was. Too smart. She documented everything. Locked everything down. She knew. She knew before I even walked back into the room.”

Galina Ivanovna swore. Then went quiet. Then boiled over.

“It’s all her father. We should’ve gone through him from the start. Manipulate him. Pressure him. He’s old, weak. The business doesn’t work without her—he would’ve forced her. But you, as always…”

Alexey slammed his fist on the table.

“Enough! It’s over. She’s not just smart—she’s ruthless. Everything’s already with the notary. I’m nobody now. I don’t even have a car anymore—she drove off in it today.”

Galina Ivanovna fell silent. Only her взгляд darted around. It wasn’t the look of a mother grieving her son’s mistake. It was the look of a predator searching for her next move.

Anna sat in her father’s office, staring silently at his hands—fingers interlaced in a tight clasp. His face was tense, but calm.

“Are you sure you want to do this officially through court? He’ll get nothing.”

“I want it to be an example, Dad. For everyone. Neither Alexey nor his mother will ever try to climb onto my back again. And for others, too—no one is going to lay claim to my money ever again.”

“And what about the dacha?” her father asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The gift was almost ready.”

Anna smirked.

“I’ll redo the paperwork in my name. And I’ll make the house for myself. No guests. Especially not anyone with the surname Galkin.”

Her father nodded.

“I’m proud of you, доченька. And… don’t forget: you can always count on me.”

Anna left the office feeling strength at her back. This wasn’t just a divorce. It was a war. And she had won the first battle.

But Galina Ivanovna hadn’t surrendered. And she wasn’t the type to disappear into the shadows without a fight…

Two weeks passed since Anna filed for divorce. Everything was going to plan: her lawyer worked clean and fast, the assets were protected, accounts frozen, the company’s charter capital reallocated into shares held by her father and Anna. Alexey was cut off from everything—both the business and the money.

Anna slipped back into her routine. Mornings—meetings with suppliers. Afternoons—briefings with lawyers about the new logistics hub project. Evenings—the gym and solitude in a new apartment where not a single item reminded her of her ex-husband. She even replaced the coffee machine.

She thought the hardest part was over.

She was wrong.

On Friday, close to midnight, Anna sat on the couch with a glass of wine, mentally running through tomorrow’s tasks, when her phone vibrated. An unknown number. She figured it was spam—but answered anyway.

“Anna Vladimirovna?” The voice was familiar—raspy, with smoky, cigarette-worn notes. “This is Boris, from your security. We haven’t crossed paths in a while, but… I have urgent information.”

“Go on,” she said, instantly alert.

“Tonight I saw Galina Ivanovna. She met with your former driver, Nikolai. By the roadside café. They were talking about the dacha keys. Nikolai got an envelope from her. And… documents for the car. The one you and Alexey used to share. Looks like she wants to re-register it through him.”

Anna went still.

“The car is in my name. And it’s on a guarded lot under camera. They can’t—”

“If the papers are forged, they can. And if Nikolai shows up with a tow truck and a power of attorney, security won’t check too hard. Especially on a Friday night.”

Anna swore under her breath.

“Thank you, Boris. I’ll handle it from here.”

She opened her laptop and checked the car’s GPS access—everything looked fine. The car was still parked by her building. But for how long?

The next day she filed a police report—for attempted fraud and document forgery. Her lawyers added two more points: conspiracy to steal property and violation of the divorce agreement conditions, in which Alexey had pledged not to make claims to joint property.

Galina Ivanovna bet on brute force again—and miscalculated again.

But that was only the first act.

On Monday Anna arrived at work and found a woman at reception with a short haircut and aggressive makeup. She was holding a thick folder and demanding something from the secretary.

“And you are?” Anna asked, stepping closer.

“I’m Galina Ivanovna’s new attorney,” the woman replied flatly. “I’m here with claims. My client asserts that during the marriage your husband, Alexey, entrusted you for safekeeping with family valuables: a set of jewelry allegedly inherited from his grandmother. The items have supposedly disappeared. We demand that you return them or compensate their value.”

Anna laughed.

“Seriously? That costume-jewelry set from ‘Moscow Jewelry’ he bought her for her anniversary is ‘an inheritance’ now?”

“Are you confirming the existence of the items?” the attorney pressed sharply.

Anna leaned in.

“Everything is documented. Photos, receipts, insurance. All of it. I returned them before filing for divorce. Handed them directly to Alexey—there’s a receipt. My lawyer has a copy. If you want to play games—go ahead. Just know this: I play better.”

The woman’s lips tightened, and she left.

By evening that same day, Anna received an email from a notary. Her mother, who had passed away five years earlier, had left Anna a portion of shares in a major construction company. Anna had always thought it was a small holding. But now she learned the shares had surged in value.

Their market value now exceeded 40 million rubles.

The next day a piece appeared in the media on a regional portal:

“Family Secrets of Millionaires: How a Business Heiress Hides Assets from Her Ex-Husband.”

Anna read the article. It included names, dates, snide insinuations. The source? An anonymous “close relative” of the Galkin family. Sue? Pointless—technically it wasn’t libel.

Anna’s father called her into his office.

“It’s her,” he said, nodding at the printout. “Your ex mother-in-law. She won’t stop until she gets either compensation or humiliation. Or both.”

Anna nodded.

“Then we take away the last thing she’s clinging to. There’s one thing left—her illusion that she can manipulate people.”

“What are you planning?”

“The dacha,” Anna said. “She thought it would be her fortress. Let it become my площадка.”

“You wanted to keep it for rest.”

Anna looked out the window. Outside it was summer—dust, heat, the road Alexey had driven down for the last time.

“I’ll convert it into an office for a foundation that protects women from family fraud and property blackmail. I’ll name it after Mom. Galina Ivanovna will see it. And she’ll understand she lost окончательно.”

That same evening, through her lawyers, Anna sent an official request to block any actions involving the car, the jewelry, the dacha plot, and the bank accounts of her ex-husband and his mother. Any possible claims were filed in court as counterclaims.

And Galina Ivanovna… hired a new attorney. More experienced. More aggressive.

He arrived in the city two days later. And the first thing he did was request a review of the divorce settlement terms, citing “moral pressure” and “hidden assets.”

Anna watched it like a chess match. She knew they had no real moves—only noise, manipulation, and грязь.

 

But then… something happened that she didn’t expect.

A man in a strict suit with a briefcase appeared at her office. He introduced himself as an employee of the notarial chamber. He said that in her mother’s case file they had discovered a new will—an unknown document, notarized a month before her mother’s death. And it stated that part of the inheritance… was to be transferred to “a future grandchild, born within the marriage of Anna Vladimirovna and Alexey Sergeyevich Galkin.”

Anna went pale.

“What nonsense is this? We weren’t planning to have children. He didn’t even want to hear about it!” she whispered, voice tight.

“Nevertheless, the document is certified. And if Alexey decides to challenge it, he may lay claim to part of the inheritance—provided that… he proves pregnancy or potential paternity.”

Anna’s hands clenched into fists.

This was no longer just a game for money.

It became a war for the right to be herself.

Anna didn’t believe it at first.

A future grandchild? A will with wording that could never have existed? Her mother had died a year before Anna and Alexey had even started talking about the possibility of a child.

She knew Alexey was категорически against children for the next few years. He said he “wasn’t ready for fatherhood.” They fought about it. Once they even seriously discussed breaking up.

And now—he was ready to use a child that had never existed to get into her inheritance?

It was rock bottom.

Alexey resurfaced a couple of days later. He called her himself. She’d blocked his number, but he found a way through another SIM.

“Anna, we need to talk. No lawyers. No cameras. Just you and me.”

“You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going to listen to you again,” she said.

“Please… just once. One evening. I need to explain something. You don’t know everything. Not about the will. Not about your mother. Not about… me.”

Fate had it that she agreed anyway.

They met in a public restaurant, around people, with security nearby. Anna was sure he’d dodge, extort, beg. But it went differently.

“That will is fake,” Alexey said immediately. “I found out only the day before yesterday. Mom showed it to me. She hired a fake notary through some old acquaintance. This is all her revenge.”

Anna didn’t react.

She stared at his face—no remorse. Only fatigue and indifference.

“And you? Did you agree to take part in it?”

“No. But…” he exhaled, “I didn’t refuse right away. I thought maybe it was a chance to get something back. Then I realized: this isn’t my fight anymore. And not my path.”

“It took you a month and a half to realize that?”

“It took me a month and a half to be left with what I still have. I’m leaving. Novosibirsk. I’ve got a job lined up, a place to live. I’m out of this game.”

Anna was silent for a long time.

Then she said:

“You left much earlier. Only your body was still hanging around. Now—finally.”

A week later she received an official conclusion from an independent expert examination: the will was forged—signatures didn’t match under handwriting analysis, and the notary didn’t even exist. Her lawyers were already preparing a criminal case against Galina Ivanovna.

But events spun out of control again.

Galina Ivanovna disappeared.

She didn’t come to the court hearing, didn’t answer calls. Her apartment was sealed— a neighbor called the police after a strange smell had been coming from inside for three days… and then suddenly stopped, as if someone had scrubbed everything spotless.

No traces. No tickets. No calls. Everything wiped.

Anna didn’t sleep all night.

In the morning she received a letter. By regular mail. No sender name. Only an address on the envelope—her new apartment, an address no one knew except close people.

Inside was a sheet of paper covered in sweeping handwriting:

“You think you’ve won. But I вложила years of my life into that son. I did everything so he would live well. You took him from me, you broke him, you destroyed my family. I asked for the dacha—you used it to rub my face in it. I wanted respect—you buried me under courts and police. May it come back to you in life. I’m leaving, but not empty-handed. I have something to leave behind. Only now it won’t be you.” —G.I.

Anna handed the letter to her lawyers. Later it turned out that Galina Ivanovna withdrew all her savings in the last twenty-four hours before disappearing—more than 4 million rubles. No trails, no cameras, no hotel registrations. As if she’d evaporated.

Alexey confirmed: his mother told him on the phone, “We won’t see each other again.” He didn’t know where she was. He didn’t even know whether to believe her.

A year later.

Anna sat on the veranda of that very dacha. Now it truly housed the office of a foundation helping women who faced property blackmail inside the family. More than 300 appeals had come in; dozens of cases had been won. Anna’s story became the basis of a handbook on how to legally and competently get out of such traps.

Her father retired and moved to Spain.

Anna’s company expanded. She found a new partner—both in business and in life.

Galina Ivanovna’s jewelry was found in a pawn-shop chain in Ryazan. The car was almost driven across the border, but it was stopped—the plates were fake.
But Galina Ivanovna… was never found.

Maybe she was living somewhere under a чужим именем. Maybe she fled abroad. Or maybe… she truly was gone.

But one thing was clear:

Anna went through collapse, betrayal, pressure, lies—and held her ground.

She no longer believed in families where the word “love” is used to cover manipulation.

But she believed in herself

“Irina, I wanted to talk to you about something important,” Igor tapped his fingers nervously on the table, avoiding his wife’s eyes.

Irina tore herself away from her laptop and looked at her husband closely. Something in his voice put her on guard.

“About what?” she asked, closing the lid.

“You see, my mom needs to make her mortgage payment this month, and she’s run into some financial trouble…”

Irina raised her eyebrows in puzzlement.

“And? What does that have to do with us?”

“I thought maybe we could help?” Igor finally looked up at his wife. “After all, we’ve been living here for two years…”

“This is your mother’s apartment—why should I be the one to pay for it?” Irina asked in surprise when he asked for money for the mortgage payment.

Igor sighed.

“Ira, try to understand, Mom’s in a tough spot right now. She’s done so much for us, she took us in.”

“Igor,” Irina tried to keep her voice even, though she was boiling inside, “we pay the utilities, we buy the groceries, I helped with the kitchen renovation. We’re not living here for free. But paying your mother’s mortgage is a completely different matter.”

“Different?” Igor’s voice took on a hurt tone. “And where do you think we’ll live if they take Mom’s apartment for nonpayment?”

Irina froze. For the first time in four years of marriage, she heard that kind of note in her husband’s voice.

“They’ll take your mother’s apartment? What happened? Why can’t she pay all of a sudden?”

Igor looked away.

“They… cut her hours at school. Her salary went down.”

Something about his answer struck Irina as insincere. He said it too quickly, too pat. But she decided not to press—yet.

“Fine, let’s talk to your mom first, find out what’s going on, and then decide how we can help.”

Valentina Alekseyevna sat at the table with her hands folded like a model student. The impeccable posture of a teacher with thirty years’ experience, the stern gaze over her glasses—everything about her projected someone used to staying in control.

“Valentina Alekseyevna, Igor said you’re having trouble making your mortgage payments?” Irina decided to get straight to the point.

“Yes, Irinochka,” the mother-in-law sighed. “School’s hard right now. They cut my hours, my pay fell. And one still has to live on something.”

“How much are you short?”

“The monthly payment is twenty thousand. I can manage half.”

Irina did the math quickly. Ten thousand a month wasn’t catastrophic, but it wasn’t nothing either—especially when she and Igor were saving for a place of their own.

 

“And how long would you need help?”

Valentina Alekseyevna spread her hands.

“Who can say… Maybe a month, maybe a year. Everything’s unstable at school now.”

“A year?!” Irina couldn’t hide her surprise. “But that makes a hundred and twenty thousand!”

“And what did you think?” steel crept into the mother-in-law’s voice. “That you could sit on the old mother’s neck for two years and not have to help?”

“Valentina Alekseyevna,” Irina felt herself starting to boil over, “we are not living off you. We pay the utilities, we buy the groceries, we helped with the renovation…”

“Oh, renovation!” the mother-in-law cut her off. “You put up some wallpaper in the kitchen and think that’s a renovation? And who does your laundry? Who cooks?”

“I do our laundry myself, and I often cook for everyone!” Irina protested.

“Mom, Ira really does help a lot,” Igor, who had been sitting silently to the side, spoke up.

“Oh, go on, defend her!” Valentina whipped around to her son. “So I’m supposed to be paying a mortgage at my age, while the young and healthy just enjoy the apartment?”

Irina felt the conversation was going nowhere.

“Let’s all calm down and think about how to solve the problem,” she said, trying to keep her tone gentle.

“There’s nothing to solve,” Valentina snapped. “Either you help with the mortgage, or you find somewhere else to live.”

“I can’t believe your mother gave us an ultimatum like that,” Irina paced their room while Igor sat on the bed with his head down.

“She’s just upset,” Igor tried to excuse her. “It really is hard for her.”

“I don’t think it’s just about the money,” Irina stopped in front of him. “Your mom never mentioned mortgage problems before. Why now?”

Igor dropped his eyes guiltily.

“Actually… she’s been asking me to help with the payments for a few months.”

“What?” Irina froze. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to worry you…” Igor looked like a schoolboy caught misbehaving. “For the last three months I’ve been giving her part of my salary.”

“Igor! We agreed to discuss all major expenses! You know how important it is for us to save for our own place!”

“I know,” Igor looked up at her pleadingly. “But she’s my mother. I couldn’t refuse her.”

Irina took a deep breath, fighting back hurt and disappointment.

“How much have you given her already?”

“Thirty thousand…”

“Thirty thousand!” Irina threw up her hands. “Igor, that’s almost half our monthly savings for our future apartment!”

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

The next day, Irina met her friend Natalia in a little café near work.

“I can’t believe Igor kept something like that from you,” Natalia shook her head after hearing the story.

“I was shocked too,” Irina admitted. “But the strangest thing is that Valentina Alekseyevna never complained about money before. She was always proud of managing on her own.”

“Maybe she’s just testing you?” Natalia suggested. “You know, a loyalty test to her son’s family.”

“If so, it’s a very odd way to do it,” Irina frowned. “Besides, Igor said they really cut her hours at school.”

Natalia stirred her coffee, thinking.

“Ira, I’ve known you for years. You’ve always been principled. But sometimes it’s worth giving ground for the sake of family peace. Maybe you should agree? Ten thousand isn’t that much.”

“It’s not about the amount,” Irina countered. “It’s about how it was done. Behind my back. As an ultimatum.”

“You’re right, the method isn’t exactly honest,” Natalia conceded. “But think about the consequences. You’ll have to rent, and that’s a lot more than ten thousand a month.”

Irina sighed.

“I get that. But something tells me if I give in now, it’ll only get worse later.”

That same evening guests gathered at Valentina Alekseyevna’s. Igor’s sister Marina and her husband Sergey had supposedly come just to visit, but Irina sensed a setup right away.

“How are you lovebirds?” Marina asked, though Irina and Igor had been married four years.

“Fine,” Irina answered curtly.

“Mom said you’re having some financial disagreements?” Marina went on, with an innocent face.

So that’s it, Irina thought. A family council.

“Not disagreements—discussions,” Igor said diplomatically.

“What discussions!” Valentina burst out. “Your bride refuses to help with the mortgage even though she’s been living in my apartment for two years!”

“Mom!” Igor looked at her pleadingly.

“What ‘Mom’?” Marina chimed in. “She’s telling the truth. We rented for five years before we could buy our place. No one helped us.”

“So you’re saying we should pay to live here?” Irina asked, feeling anger rise in her. “Then let’s call things by their name: this isn’t ‘help with the mortgage,’ it’s rent.”

“No need to be crude,” Valentina winced. “I’m just asking for help from close family.”

“You ask close family openly—not behind someone’s back,” Irina shot back. “And you don’t issue ultimatums.”

“You see what she’s like?” Valentina said theatrically to her daughter. “I took them in, and she’s the one laying down conditions!”

“Mom, stop,” Igor tried to intervene.

“And you be quiet!” his mother snapped. “Spineless! Can’t you put your wife in her place!”

A heavy silence fell.

“Let’s go, Igor,” Irina said softly, standing up. “We need to talk in private.”

“That was a staged row,” Irina said once they were outside. “Your mother invited Marina on purpose to put pressure on us.”

“I don’t think she planned it,” Igor said uncertainly.

“Igor, open your eyes!” Irina turned to him. “Your mother is manipulating you. First she secretly asked you for money, now she’s pulling in relatives.”

Igor looked lost.

“What do you suggest?”

“Let’s move out. We’ll rent.”

“Move out?” Igor went pale. “But that’s much more expensive!”

“More expensive than ten thousand a month—yes. But cheaper than losing our self-respect and wrecking our relationship.”

Igor said nothing, and that silence hurt Irina most of all.

“You don’t want to leave your mother, do you?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know, Ira,” he answered honestly. “I’m caught in the middle. I love you, but I can’t just abandon Mom.”

“No one’s asking you to abandon her. We’ll just live separately, like a normal family.”

Igor rubbed his forehead.

“Let’s think a bit more. Maybe there’s another way.”

At work Irina couldn’t focus. The numbers in the reports swam before her eyes, and her thoughts kept circling back to the conflict at home. Her colleague Svetlana noticed and invited her to lunch.

“I had a similar situation with my mother-in-law,” Svetlana said after Irina shared. “Ours wasn’t about the mortgage, but about renovating her apartment.”

“And how did you solve it?” Irina asked hopefully.

“We didn’t,” Svetlana smiled sadly. “I gave in—we paid for the renovation. Six months later she demanded new furniture. Then a car. In the end my husband and I divorced because he couldn’t say ‘no’ to his mother.”

A chill ran down Irina’s back.

“You think it could come to divorce for us?”

“Not necessarily,” Svetlana shrugged. “But if you give in now, the boundary will be crossed. After that—it’s a snowball.”

“What would you advise?”

“Stand your ground. If your husband really loves you and values your marriage, he’ll understand that your family has to come first.”

That evening Irina ran into Valentina’s neighbor, Pyotr Semyonovich, in the stairwell.

“Ah, Valentina’s daughter-in-law!” the elderly man greeted her cheerfully. “How are things?”

“Hello, Pyotr Semyonovich,” Irina replied politely. “Well, they’ve been better.”

“Family squabbles?” he nodded knowingly. “I heard you talking loudly yesterday.”

Irina was embarrassed.

“Sorry if we disturbed you.”

“Oh, no apologies necessary,” he waved it off. “I understand. Valentina Alekseyevna’s no sugar, character-wise. I’ve been her neighbor thirty years—I know.”

On impulse, Irina decided to confide in him.

“Pyotr Semyonovich, you’ve known her a long time. Tell me, does she really have financial trouble? She says they cut her hours at school…”

The neighbor raised his eyebrows.

“At school? She’s been retired for a year! She only tutors on the side.”

Irina went still.

“Retired? But she leaves for work every day!”

“Well, maybe to students, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “But she definitely doesn’t work at the school. She told me herself she left as soon as she qualified for her pension.”

Something clicked in Irina’s head. If Valentina had lied about the school, what else was she hiding?

“Do you happen to know if she has any other income?” Irina asked carefully.

Pyotr Semyonovich squinted slyly.

“You mean her parents’ apartment? She’s been renting it out for about ten years. Says she gets good money.”

It was like a bolt from the blue. Irina barely kept herself from gasping.

“Are you sure?” she asked again.

“Of course,” he nodded. “She bragged to me that she takes the rent in foreign currency. Says it’s safer that way.”

Igor didn’t believe it when Irina told him about the conversation.

“That’s impossible,” he shook his head. “Mom would’ve told me if she’d retired. And she said her brother lives in Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment.”

“Her brother?” Irina was surprised. “What brother? You never mentioned your mom had a brother.”

Igor frowned.

“A cousin… I think. I’ve never met him.”

“Igor, we’re being lied to,” Irina took his hands. “Let’s check. Do you have the address of that apartment?”

“Somewhere…” he said uncertainly. “But what do you suggest? Spying on my mom?”

“Not on your mom—on the apartment. Just to make sure it’s really her ‘brother’ and not tenants.”

Igor hesitated.

“I don’t know, Ira… It feels wrong.”

“And lying to your son and daughter-in-law is right?” Irina shot back. “If we’re wrong, I’ll be the first to apologize to your mother. But if we’re not…”

“Okay,” he gave in. “I’ll find the address.”

Valentina’s parental apartment was in a neighboring district. Igor and Irina went there on Saturday morning, when Valentina had left “for work.”

“This is it,” Igor pointed to an old five-story building. “Apartment twelve.”

They climbed to the second floor and stopped at the door. Irina pressed the bell decisively.

A young woman holding a child opened it.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked with a slight accent.

Igor faltered, and Irina took the lead.

“Hello, we’re looking for Valentina Alekseyevna—it’s her apartment.”

“Oh, the landlady!” the woman nodded. “She comes on the first to collect the money. Today is the sixteenth, too early.”

“So you’re renting this place?” Igor clarified.

“Yes, for the third year now,” the woman replied. “And you are?”

“I’m her son,” Igor looked completely stunned.

The woman stared at him in surprise.

“Her son? She never said she had a son. Only that she’s a single pensioner.”

Igor turned pale.

“Sorry, we must have made a mistake,” Irina said quickly, taking her husband by the arm. “Thank you for the information.”

“I can’t believe it,” Igor sat on a bench in the park, head bowed. “She’s been lying to me all this time. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Irina put a hand on his shoulder. “But now we know for sure she’s not in financial trouble. She gets a pension and rent from that apartment.”

“And she still demands that we pay her mortgage,” Igor gave a bitter laugh. “How could she?”

“People do strange things sometimes,” Irina said gently. “Maybe she just wanted to test how devoted you are to her.”

“Devoted? That’s just deceit!” Igor flared. “All these years I thought she was honest, principled… And she…”

He didn’t finish, but Irina understood. Betrayal by someone close is one of life’s worst pains.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

Igor lifted his head, and Irina saw a resolve she’d never noticed before.

“Move out. You were right. We need to live on our own.”

Valentina didn’t expect her son and daughter-in-law back so soon. She was cooking lunch, humming to herself, when they walked in.

“Back already? I thought you’d be out until evening,” she smiled.

“Mom, we need to talk,” Igor’s voice was unusually firm.

Valentina sensed something and grew wary.

“About what?”

“About your job at the school,” Igor looked her straight in the eyes. “And about Grandma’s apartment.”

Valentina’s face changed.

“What do you mean?”

“We know you’ve been retired for a year,” Igor said. “And that you rent out Grandma’s apartment. You’re not in financial trouble, Mom. Why did you lie to us?”

For a moment Valentina was taken aback, but she quickly pulled herself together.

“Who told you that? It’s all gossip!”

“We were at that apartment,” Irina cut in. “We spoke to your tenant. She said she’s been renting for three years.”

“You were spying on me?” Valentina went on the offensive. “What right did you have?!”

“And what right did you have to deceive us?” Igor shot back. “To demand money for the mortgage when you have income of your own!”

“I’m your mother!” Valentina raised her voice. “I raised you—you’re obliged to help me!”

“I would help you if you truly needed it,” Igor tried to speak calmly. “But you lied to me. You used me.”

 

“It’s all her!” Valentina pointed at Irina. “She turned you against your own mother!”

“Leave Irina out of it,” Igor stepped between them. “This is between us, Mom. You betrayed my trust.”

Valentina fell silent. She hadn’t expected this pushback from a son who had always yielded to her.

“What are you going to do?” she asked at last.

“We’re moving out,” Igor said firmly. “We’ll start looking for a place today.”

“Moving out?” Valentina went pale. “Over such a trifle?”

“It’s not a trifle, Mom,” Igor shook his head. “It’s about trust. And respect.”

“You won’t find anything as cheap!” Valentina switched tactics. “You’ll go broke on rent!”

“That’s our business,” Irina replied calmly. “We’ll manage.”

“All right,” Valentina gave in unexpectedly. “I admit I was wrong. Let’s forget it. Live here as before, free of charge.”

Irina and Igor exchanged glances.

“It’s not about the money, Mom,” Igor said gently. “It’s that you tried to manipulate us. We can’t live together anymore.”

“But I apologized!” there was a pleading note in Valentina’s voice. “What more do you want?”

“We want to live as our own family,” Irina said firmly. “Separate from you.”

A week later Irina and Igor moved into a small rental. Valentina tried to interfere—she cried, she threatened, she offered various compromises. But the decision had been made.

“I thought it would be harder,” Igor admitted when at last they were alone in their new place.

“How do you mean?” Irina asked, unpacking boxes.

“Standing up to Mom,” Igor paused. “She always got her way. And I always caved.”

“What changed?”

“I realized she isn’t always right. And that my real family is you.”

Irina hugged her husband.

“I’m proud of you. That wasn’t easy.”

“You know what’s strange?” Igor looked thoughtfully out the window. “I feel relieved. Like some weight fell off my shoulders—one I’d been carrying all my life without noticing.”

“That’s normal,” Irina came up behind and wrapped her arms around him. “Living under constant pressure is very hard.”

The doorbell rang. The couple exchanged glances—they weren’t expecting anyone.

“I’ll get it,” Igor said and went to the door.

Marina, his sister, stood there with a small basket.

“May I come in?” she asked in an unusually timid voice.

Igor stepped aside silently to let her in. Irina tensed—their last meeting had been anything but friendly.

“I brought some homemade food,” Marina set the basket on the table. “I thought you might not have time to cook.”

“Thanks,” Irina said coolly. “But we’re managing.”

Marina fidgeted with the hem of her sweater.

“I didn’t just come for that. I wanted to apologize.”

It was so unexpected that Irina and Igor both raised their eyebrows.

“For what?” Igor asked.

“For taking Mom’s side without getting the facts,” Marina sighed. “I talked to Pyotr Semyonovich. He told me about Grandma’s apartment and that Mom has been retired for a year.”

“And you believed us?” Igor was surprised.

“Not right away,” Marina admitted. “First I went to the apartment myself. I talked to the tenant too. Then I gave Mom the third degree.”

“And what did she say?” Irina asked.

“At first she denied everything,” Marina smiled sadly. “Then she confessed. She said she just wanted the mortgage paid off by the young and healthy so she could enjoy herself.”

Igor shook his head.

“I can’t believe it. She always taught us to be honest.”

“She’s ashamed,” Marina said. “Though she’ll never admit it. But I saw it.”

“What happens now?” Igor asked.

“I don’t know,” Marina shrugged. “She said she’ll manage on her own, like before. And she asked me to tell you that if you want to come back, you can live free of charge.”

“We’re not coming back,” Irina said firmly, looking at her husband. “Right, Igor?”

“Right,” he nodded. “We need to build our own life. Apart from Mom.”

Marina nodded in understanding.

“I figured. And honestly, I’m on your side. What Mom did wasn’t fair. I couldn’t live with someone who lied to me either.”

“Thank you,” Irina said sincerely. “That means a lot.”

After Marina left, Igor looked at Irina thoughtfully.

“Do you think Mom will ever admit she was wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Irina answered honestly. “For some people it’s very hard to admit mistakes—especially to those they consider dependent on them.”

“I’m not dependent on her anymore,” Igor said firmly. “And that’s thanks to you.”

Three months passed. Irina and Igor settled into their new apartment and, despite the added expense of rent, got their routine in order and even kept saving bit by bit for a place of their own. Relations with Valentina remained tense—Igor called his mother once a week, but the conversations were short and formal.

One evening the doorbell rang. When Irina opened it, she was surprised to find her mother-in-law on the threshold.

“Good evening,” Valentina said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “May I come in?”

Irina stepped aside silently to let her in. Igor came out of the room and froze when he saw his mother.

“Mom? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened,” Valentina looked embarrassed. “I just… came to talk.”

Irina and Igor exchanged glances.

“Come in, sit down,” Irina gestured to the couch.

Valentina sat, smoothing the folds of her skirt.

“I’ve been thinking for a long time about how to start this. I decided it’s best just to say it as it is. I was wrong.”

Igor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You admit that?”

“Yes,” Valentina sighed. “I’m ashamed. I lied to you about my situation. I tried to manipulate you.”

“But why?” Irina asked. “You have enough money to pay the mortgage.”

“I…” Valentina hesitated. “I just got tired of paying. I thought, why shouldn’t the young help their old mother? After all, you were living in my apartment…”

“We paid the utilities,” Irina reminded her. “And we helped with repairs more than once.”

“I know,” Valentina lowered her eyes. “It was a foolish idea. I got greedy.”

“And you lied to us,” Igor added.

“And I lied,” Valentina agreed. “That’s inexcusable.”

Igor looked at his mother carefully.

“What changed, Mom? Why admit it now?”

“I realized I was losing my son,” she said simply. “And that’s scarier than any money.”

Silence fell. Irina could see Igor wrestling with himself—he always forgave his mother easily, but this was about more than just him; it was about their family.

“I’m not asking you to come back,” Valentina went on. “And I’m not asking for money. I just want you to know I understand my mistake and I regret it.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Irina said after a pause. “That matters to us.”

“What are you doing about the mortgage now?” Igor asked.

“Paying it myself, as before,” Valentina answered. “I have enough, you’re right. I’m not destitute.”

Igor nodded.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“May I ask a question?” Valentina looked at Irina. “Why did you resist so stubbornly? Ten thousand a month isn’t that much.”

“It wasn’t about the amount,” Irina replied. “It was about principle. You tried to manipulate us, and you did it behind my back. If you had told us honestly that paying the mortgage was hard, we would have helped. But lies and manipulation… that’s no basis for a relationship.”

Valentina nodded slowly.

“I understand. And you’re right.”

She stood.

“I won’t bother you anymore. I just wanted you to know: my door is always open to you. Without conditions and without manipulation.”

After she left, Igor stood at the window for a long time, watching his mother walk toward the bus stop.

“What are you thinking about?” Irina asked, coming up beside him.

“How strangely things turned out,” he said. “Six months ago I couldn’t imagine living apart from Mom. That I could stand up to her. And now…”

“And now you’ve grown up,” Irina finished softly. “And that’s how it should be.”

“Are you angry with her?”

Irina thought.

“I’m not angry. But I don’t fully trust her. Trust is fragile; it’s hard to restore.”

“Do you think she’s changed?”

“I don’t know,” Irina said honestly. “People rarely change completely. But at least she admitted her mistake. That’s something.”

“Do you think we should visit her more often?”

“We can,” Irina nodded. “But live separately. We have our own family now, our own rules. And your mom has to respect that.”

Igor hugged his wife.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For standing up for our family. Even when I was too weak to do it myself.”

“We stood up together,” Irina smiled. “And now we’ll build our life together. By our rules.”

It was starting to rain outside, but the apartment was warm and cozy. Their own home, their own rules, their own life. And no manipulation could change that.

A year passed. Irina and Igor saved enough for a down payment and took out a mortgage on a small but their-own apartment. Their relationship with Valentina gradually improved, though it never went back to the way it was—now it was a relationship between adults, based on mutual respect rather than dependency and manipulation.

And whenever Irina remembered the day Igor asked her for money for his mother’s mortgage, she always thought: sometimes you have to go through a conflict to build truly healthy relationships. And she didn’t regret a thing.

Marina’s kitchen was exactly the kind every woman over thirty dreams of: spacious, spotless, the tiles gleaming, a tablecloth on the table—not stained with borscht—and food in the fridge that you wouldn’t be ashamed to serve even your mother-in-law. Though, of course, for Tatyana Petrovna you could serve it on a golden tray and she’d still find something “dirty” and “not done properly.”

Marina sat with her laptop, checking work reports. Alexey had just come home, kicked off his shoes so hard his sneakers flew under the cupboard. She rolled her eyes out of habit.

“Did you throw your shoes around like that when you were a kid too?” she tossed out dryly.

“My mom used to say a man should enter the house big and loud, so everyone can see who’s the boss,” Alexey smirked and headed for the bathroom.

Marina snorted: the boss, sure—when his wife’s salary was three times higher… right, right.

She hadn’t even managed to return to her spreadsheet when the doorbell rang. Long, insistent, with that familiar rattling buzz that always meant one thing: Tatyana Petrovna had come “to visit.”

“Oh, Mom!” Alexey brightened, as if it were a pizza delivery knocking.

Marina clenched her teeth. Again, no warning… she could at least text: “On my way to ruin your evening.”

Tatyana Petrovna walked in like this wasn’t Marina’s apartment—bought by Marina before the wedding—but her own nest. She took off her boots without looking and plopped her bag прямо on the sofa.

“Well hello, my unhappy children,” she declared in a tragic voice, like she’d come not for tea but for a funeral.

“Mom, what’s with you?” Alexey grew wary.

“How am I supposed to be cheerful when my son has nothing? No apartment, no car, not even a garage!” Tatyana Petrovna announced, wringing her hands.

Marina looked up from the laptop.

“Sorry, do you work at the property registry?” she asked calmly. “Where are you getting such precise information?”

Tatyana Petrovna narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t be smart. I’m his mother—I can see. There you sit, all business, in your apartment… and who is my son to you? A lodger?”

“Mom, why are you like this…” Alexey mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

Marina closed the laptop and placed her hands on the table like a teacher about to address a difficult student.

“Tatyana Petrovna, let’s be honest. The apartment is mine, bought by me before marriage. Alexey is registered here, everything’s official. What exactly are your complaints?”

Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes.

“People’s tongues are sore already! Valentina Ivanovna from next door asked: ‘So why is your Lyosha living off his wife? What’s that supposed to mean?’ What am I supposed to say—that he has neither a stake nor a yard of his own?”

“Tell her Valentina Ivanovna’s personal life is so boring she lives off other people’s apartments,” Marina smirked.

Alexey gave a nervous little snort but stayed silent.

“See, son,” his mother raised her voice, “she humiliates you right in front of me! And what did I tell you? You should’ve made her put half the apartment in your name before the wedding! Then you’d feel like a real man.”

 

Marina straightened sharply.

“Excuse me—so a ‘real man’ is now defined by square meters and a registry extract?”

“Don’t you talk back!” Tatyana Petrovna screeched. “You ruined everything! Now my son has no apartment and no advantage!”

Alexey stepped between them, hands raised like he was breaking up a fight.

“Mom, that’s enough, seriously…”

“No, Lyosha, it’s not enough!” she cut him off. “You live like a tenant and you’re even happy about it! And your wife—she only thinks about herself!”

“About myself?” Marina scoffed. “Sorry, but who paid the mortgage on your ‘beloved three-room’ while Lyosha was looking for a job? Wasn’t it me?”

Tatyana Petrovna leaned forward.

“That was temporary! And now…”

“And now I’m supposed to sign over part of my apartment to your son—is that it?” Marina interrupted.

“Of course! That’s only fair. A man needs something to stand on.”

“You know what ‘something to stand on’ is? It’s when a person works and buys their own apartment—rather than Mommy marching into someone else’s home demanding a share,” Marina replied coldly.

Alexey dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“I’ll pour some tea,” he said thickly, trying to steer the conversation away.

“Tea!” his mother snorted. “You should be pouring yourself a cup of bitter truth!”

Marina picked up a mug, but her hands shook so much the spoon clinked against the rim.

How much longer could she take this? Every time it was the same. Some woman thought it was her duty to decide what Marina should do with her property. And the worst part—Lyosha stayed quiet. Standing there like a schoolboy at recess while his mother argues with the teacher.

“Mom,” Alexey finally breathed out, “let’s do this without scandals. Marina is right: it’s her apartment. Everything’s fair.”

Tatyana Petrovna froze like she’d been hit.

“So you’re against me? Against your mother?”

“I’m with my wife.” Alexey’s voice was quiet, but firm.

His mother-in-law went pale.

“Oh, I see. So I gave birth to you, raised you, dragged you up alone, and now you throw me out for some stranger…”

Marina shoved her chair back abruptly.

“A stranger?” her voice trembled. “I’m his wife. And you… you’re a guest. An uninvited one.”

Silence hung so thick that even the kettle on the stove whistled awkwardly—like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong crowd.

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed her bag and marched to the door.

“Remember this, both of you!” she shouted from the hallway. “You, Lyosha—you’ll regret it! And you, Marina… you ruined everything!”

The door slammed so hard a cup fell off the shelf.

Marina stood in the kitchen, trying to catch her breath. Alexey came up and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t expect her to be like that.”

“Expected it or not—what difference does it make,” Marina said tiredly. “The real question is: whose side are you on?”

Alexey looked into her eyes and, for the first time in years, didn’t look away.

“Yours. Always.”

Marina sat back down at the table and gave a crooked half-smile.

“Then brace yourself, Lyosha. The war has only just begun.”

After that scandal, a strange quiet settled over the apartment. For a whole week Tatyana Petrovna didn’t call, didn’t come by—so much so that even the neighbor upstairs complained:

“Listen, Marinochka, how come your husband’s mom stopped walking through our stairwell? I got used to it—every evening by the elevator: a rally, news, advice. Now it’s boring…”

Marina just smirked. This isn’t the end. It’s the calm before the storm, she thought. And she wasn’t wrong.

On Saturday morning, when she and Alexey were getting ready to go to the market for vegetables, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood her mother-in-law—fully done up: hair lacquered into place, amber earrings, and a folder of papers in her hands.

“Good morning, kids,” she sang sweetly. “I’ve come to discuss something.”

Marina tensed immediately. Alexey tried to smile.

“Mom, we were just—”

“No problem, the market can wait,” Tatyana Petrovna said confidently, and strode into the kitchen.

She opened the folder and spread the documents on the table.

“Here, take a look. I got advice. By law, if an apartment is purchased during marriage, it’s joint property.”

Marina squinted.

“Except my apartment was bought before marriage. Want me to bring you the registry extract?”

Without batting an eye, Tatyana Petrovna went on:

“What difference does it make when! You live with my son—so you have to share.”

Alexey tried to cut in timidly:

“Mom, come on, enough already…”

“Quiet!” his mother snapped. “You’re always quiet—that’s why you live like a lodger. I’ll speak for you.”

Marina raised an eyebrow.

“So you’ve decided to become his lawyer? Pro bono, I hope?”

“Very funny,” Tatyana Petrovna hissed. “I’m his mother. And I won’t let my son be humiliated.”

“And I won’t let random papers be waved around in my home,” Marina shot back.

Tatyana Petrovna slapped her palm on the table.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Then know this: you’ll destroy the family!”

Marina laughed—dry, sharp.

“Families aren’t destroyed by apartments. They’re destroyed when third parties stick their noses where they weren’t invited.”

Alexey exhaled heavily and stood.

“Mom, seriously, stop. This is crossing every line…”

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed his hand.

 

“Lyosha, wake up! Are you blind? She’s using you! She only needs your hands to move furniture and your salary for utilities. Everything else—she keeps for herself.”

Marina smiled coldly.

“Right, very convenient—‘using’ a man who bought himself new sneakers with my money a week ago. Alexey, go on—confirm I paid.”

Alexey flushed like a kid at a school assembly.

“Well… yeah. That happened.”

“There!” his mother howled triumphantly. “She even counts your sneakers!”

Marina stood, stepped closer, and looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes.

“No, Tatyana Petrovna. I’m not counting sneakers. I’m counting respect. And there’s zero of it.”

Alexey’s mother flinched, but recovered quickly.

“You’re going to lecture me about respect? Why, you… you’re a crow in peacock feathers! You think because you work, because you have money, you’re better than everyone? And you don’t have children. But I have a son. That’s my blood!”

Marina went pale, but didn’t look away.

“So what—are we holding a contest now? Whose blood is thicker?”

Alexey finally snapped:

“Mom, stop! I’m asking you!”

“I gave birth to you, Lyosha!” Tatyana Petrovna screamed. “And you’re going to ask me?”

Marina took the “documents” from the table and shoved them back into the folder.

“Take these. Your papers mean nothing. By law, it’s my property. If you want—go to court. But keep in mind: in court people speak in facts, not in neighbors’ gossip.”

Tatyana Petrovna pressed her lips tight, snatched the folder, and left without saying goodbye. The door slammed; a bit of plaster crumbled.

Marina sank onto the couch and covered her face with her hands.

“God… when will this end?”

Alexey came over quietly and sat beside her.

“I’m sorry. She… she’s just afraid she’ll lose me.”

“Alexey,” Marina looked at him closely, “I’m not against your mother. I’m against her dictating how we live. We’re a family. We need to be a team.”

He nodded.

“I know. It’s just… hard. She is my mother.”

Marina gave a bitter little smile.

“And who am I? An enemy of the state?”

He said nothing.

That evening, while they were eating dinner, the phone rang. It was the neighbor, Valentina Ivanovna—her voice practically buzzing with curiosity:

“Marinochka, is it true you had a scandal? People say you want to kick Alexey out of the apartment!”

Marina almost choked on her cutlet.

“What?!”

“Oh yes! Tatyana Petrovna was telling everyone by the entrance. Said you’re an evil person and you’re preparing divorce papers!”

Alexey clenched his fists.

“That’s it. Enough. I’ll talk to her myself.”

Marina laid a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Now I’m the one who’ll talk.”

There wasn’t a drop of doubt in her voice.

Sunday. The apartment smelled of fresh coffee and syrniki. For the first time in a week, Marina felt calm: the window cracked open, a light rain outside, and quiet indoors. Alexey sat with a newspaper, but his eyes gave him away—his thoughts weren’t on the weather or pensions.

And then again—the doorbell. Loud. Long.

“Well then,” Marina said, “the final act begins.”

Tatyana Petrovna burst in like a storm—coat unbuttoned, a bag of pies in her hands.

“I came to make peace!” she announced, setting the bag on the table like a bribe. “Let’s do it the human way: the apartment—half and half. Period.”

Marina sat down and folded her arms over her chest.

“That’s how you make peace? Interesting.”

“Marina, don’t push it!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Either you sign half over to my son, or I’m going to court!”

Alexey stood up.

“Mom, stop it!”

“Shut up!” Tatyana Petrovna barked. “You’re under her heel—I can see it!”

Marina rose too.

“Tatyana Petrovna, you’re crossing lines. Go to court—fine. But there they’ll explain to you that the apartment is mine and your son isn’t entitled to any share.”

Her mother-in-law turned crimson.

“So now you’re laughing at me?!”

She yanked the bag, and the pies scattered across the floor. Alexey stepped toward her, trying to stop her, but Marina got there first.

“That’s it. Enough. This is my home. And there will be no more scandals in it. Leave.”

“You’re throwing me out?” Tatyana Petrovna hissed.

Alexey walked up and said firmly:

“Yes, Mom. Leave. And don’t come back here without an apology.”

Silence. Tatyana Petrovna looked from her son to Marina. Her lips trembled like a child being punished—rightly—for the first time.

“You… you chose her?” she whispered, barely audible.

“I chose myself, Mom. And the family Marina and I are building,” Alexey replied, steady.

She silently took her coat and left. The door closed softly—too softly, almost.

Marina sank into a chair.

“Well. Now the war of rumors will definitely start.”

Alexey took her hand.

“Let it. The main thing is—we’re together.”

They sat in the kitchen among the scattered pies. And suddenly Marina laughed.

“Symbolic, you know? Everything fell apart… but we stayed.”

For the first time in a long while, Alexey smiled too.

“Then we’ll start picking it up. But this time—our own.

 

Marina’s kitchen was exactly the kind every woman over thirty dreams of: spacious, spotless, the tiles shining, a tablecloth on the table that wasn’t splattered with borscht, and a fridge stocked with food you wouldn’t be ashamed to serve even to your mother-in-law. Although, of course, for Tatyana Petrovna you could serve it on a golden tray—she’d still find something that was “dirty” or “not done properly.”

Marina sat with her laptop, checking work reports. Alexey had just come home from work, kicked off his shoes so hard his sneakers flew under the cupboard. She rolled her eyes out of habit.

“Did you throw your shoes like that when you were a kid too?” she tossed out dryly.

“Mom used to say a man should enter the house wide, so everyone can see who the master is,” Alexey smirked and headed for the bathroom.

Marina snorted: master of the house, while his wife’s salary was three times higher… sure, sure.

She hadn’t even gotten back to her spreadsheet when the doorbell rang—long, insistent, with that familiar rattling that always meant one thing: Tatyana Petrovna had come “for a visit.”

“Oh, Mom!” Alexey brightened, as if it were a pizza delivery at the door.

Marina clenched her teeth. Again without warning… She could at least send a text: “On my way to ruin your evening.”

Tatyana Petrovna walked in like it wasn’t Marina’s apartment—bought by Marina before the wedding—but her own nest. She took off her boots without looking and put her bag right on the couch.

“Well hello, my unhappy children,” she said in a tragic voice, as if she hadn’t come for tea but for a funeral.

 

“Mom, what’s with you?” Alexey tensed.

“How am I supposed to be cheerful when my son has nothing? No apartment, no car, not even a garage!” Tatyana Petrovna declared, wringing her hands.

Marina looked up from the laptop.

“Sorry, do you work at Rosreestr?” she asked calmly. “Where are you getting such precise information?”

Tatyana Petrovna narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t get smart. I’m his mother—I can see. There you are, all businesslike, in your own apartment… and who is my son to you? A tenant?”

“Mom, why are you like this…” Alexey mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

Marina closed her laptop and placed her hands on the table like a teacher facing a difficult student.

“Tatyana Petrovna, let’s be honest. The apartment is mine; I bought it before the marriage. Alexey is registered here—everything is official. What complaints do you have against him?”

Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes.

“People’s tongues are already sore from talking! Our neighbor Valentina Ivanovna asked, ‘So why is your Lyosha living off his wife? How am I supposed to understand that?’ What am I supposed to say—that he has neither stick nor yard to his name?”

“Tell her Valentina Ivanovna’s personal life is so boring she lives in other people’s apartments,” Marina smirked.

Alexey gave a nervous snort but stayed quiet.

“See, son?” his mother raised her voice. “She’s humiliating you right in front of me! And what did I tell you? You should’ve registered half the apartment in your name before the wedding! Then you’d feel like a real man.”

Marina straightened sharply.

“Excuse me, so now a ‘real man’ is defined by square meters and an extract from the property register?”

“Don’t you talk back!” Tatyana Petrovna screeched. “You ruined everything! Now my son has no apartment and no benefit!”

Alexey stepped between them, hands raised like he was breaking up a fight.

“Mom, that’s enough, seriously…”

“No, Lyosha, it’s not enough!” she cut him off. “You live like a renter and you’re happy about it! And your wife—she only thinks about herself!”

“About myself?” Marina scoffed. “Sorry, and who paid the mortgage on your ‘beloved three-bedroom’ while Lyosha was looking for a job—wasn’t it me?”

Her mother-in-law leaned forward.

“That was temporary! And now—”

“And now I’m supposed to transfer part of the apartment to your son, right?” Marina interrupted.

“Of course! That’s fair. A man needs a support.”

“You know what support is? It’s when a person works and buys himself an apartment—not when his mother walks into someone else’s home and demands a share,” Marina replied coldly.

Alexey sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“I’ll pour some tea,” he said hoarsely, trying to change the subject.

“Tea!” his mother snorted. “You should pour yourself some bitter truth!”

Marina picked up a mug, but her hands trembled so much the spoon clinked against the rim.

How much more could she take? Every time it was the same. Some outsider considered it her duty to decide what Marina should do with her own property. And the worst part—Lyosha stayed silent. Standing there like a schoolboy at recess while his mother argued with the teacher.

“Mom,” Alexey finally exhaled, “let’s do this without scandals. Marina’s right: it’s her apartment, everything’s honest.”

Tatyana Petrovna froze as if she’d been hit.

“So you’re against me? Against your mother?”

“I’m for my wife.” Alexey’s voice was quiet, but firm.

His mother turned pale.

“Oh, I see. So I gave birth to you, raised you, carried it all alone—and now you’re throwing me out for some stranger…”

Marina shoved her chair back.

“Stranger?” her voice shook. “I’m his wife. And you… you’re a guest. An uninvited one.”

A silence fell so thick that even the kettle on the stove whistled awkwardly, like a schoolkid who’d ended up with the wrong crowd.

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed her bag and went to the door.

“Remember this, both of you!” she shouted from the hallway. “You, Lyosha—you’ll regret it! And you, Marina… you ruined everything!”

The door slammed so hard a cup fell off the shelf.

Marina stood in the kitchen trying to catch her breath. Alexey came up and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t expect her to be like that.”

“Expected it or not—what difference does it make?” Marina said wearily. “The question is: whose side are you on?”

Alexey looked her in the eyes and, for the first time in years, didn’t look away.

“Yours. Always.”

 

Marina sat back down at the table and gave a crooked half-smile.

“Then get ready, Lyosha. The war has only just begun.”

After that scandal, a strange quiet settled over the apartment. For a whole week Tatyana Petrovna didn’t call, didn’t come by— even the upstairs neighbor complained:

“Listen, Marinochka, why has your husband’s mother stopped walking around our stairwell? I got used to it: every evening a meeting by the elevator—news, advice. Now it’s boring…”

Marina just smirked. This isn’t the end. It’s the calm before the storm, she thought. And she wasn’t wrong.

On Saturday morning, when she and Alexey were getting ready to go to the market for vegetables, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood her mother-in-law—fully dressed up: hair sprayed into place, amber earrings, a folder of papers in her hands.

“Good morning, kids,” she sang sweetly. “I came to discuss something.”

Marina tensed immediately. Alexey tried to smile.

“Mom, we were just—”

“Nothing, the market can wait,” Tatyana Petrovna said confidently and walked into the kitchen.

She opened the folder and spread the documents across the table.

“Here, take a look. I consulted someone. By law, if an apartment is purchased during marriage, it’s shared property.”

Marina squinted.

“Only my apartment was bought before the marriage. Want me to bring you the registry extract?”

Without blinking, her mother-in-law went on:

“What difference does it make when! You live with my son—so you must share.”

Alexey timidly tried to step in.

“Mom, enough already…”

“Quiet!” his mother snapped. “You’re always quiet—that’s why you live like a tenant. I’ll speak for you.”

Marina raised an eyebrow.

“So you’ve decided to become a lawyer? For free, I hope?”

“Very funny,” Tatyana Petrovna hissed. “I’m his mother. And I won’t allow my son to be humiliated.”

“And I won’t allow someone to wave random papers around in my house,” Marina shot back.

Tatyana Petrovna slammed her palm on the table.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Then know this: you’ll destroy the family!”

Marina laughed—dry and angry.

“A family isn’t destroyed by an apartment. A family is destroyed when third parties meddle where they weren’t invited.”

Alexey sighed heavily and stood up.

“Mom, really—enough. This is crossing every line…”

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed his hand.

“Lyosha, wake up! Are you blind? She’s using you! She only needs your hands to move furniture, and your salary for utilities. Everything else she keeps for herself.”

Marina gave a cold smile.

“Right, ‘using’ a person who bought himself new sneakers last week with my money. Alexey, confirm it was me who paid.”

Alexey blushed like a schoolboy at assembly.

“Well… yeah. That happened.”

“There!” his mother howled triumphantly. “She even counts your sneakers!”

Marina stood, stepped closer, and looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes.

“No, Tatyana Petrovna. I’m not counting sneakers. I’m counting respect. And there’s zero of it.”

Alexey’s mother flinched, but recovered quickly.

“You’re going to lecture me about respect? You… you’re a crow in peacock feathers! You think if you work and have money, you’re better than everyone? But you don’t have kids. And I have a son. He’s my blood!”

Marina went pale but didn’t look away.

“And what—now we’re having a contest of whose blood is thicker?”

Alexey snapped.

“Mom, stop! I’m asking you.”

“I gave birth to you, Lyosha!” Tatyana Petrovna screamed. “And now you’re asking me?”

Marina took the “documents” off the table and shoved them back into the folder.

“Take this. These papers mean nothing. By law, it’s my property. If you want—go to court. But keep in mind: in court people talk in facts, not in neighbors’ gossip.”

Tatyana Petrovna pressed her lips together, grabbed the folder, and left without saying goodbye. The door slammed, plaster crumbling somewhere.

Marina sat on the couch and covered her face with her hands.

“God… when will this end?”

Alexey quietly sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry. She… she’s just afraid she’ll lose me.”

“Alexey,” Marina looked at him closely, “I’m not against your mother. I’m against her dictating how we live. We’re a family. We have to be a team.”

He nodded.

“I understand. It’s just… hard. She’s my mother.”

Marina gave a bitter smile.

“And who am I? An enemy of the people?”

He stayed silent.

That evening, while they were having dinner, the phone rang. It was the neighbor Valentina Ivanovna. Her voice buzzed with curiosity:

“Marinochka, is it true you had a scandal? People are saying you want to throw Alexey out of the apartment!”

Marina nearly choked on her cutlet.

“What?!”

“Oh yes! Tatyana Petrovna was telling everyone by the entrance. Said you’re a mean person and you’re preparing divorce papers!”

Alexey clenched his fists.

“That’s it. Enough. I’ll talk to her myself.”

Marina put a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Now I’ll talk.”

There wasn’t a drop of doubt in her voice.

Sunday. The apartment smelled of fresh coffee and syrniki. For the first time in a week Marina felt calm: the window was cracked open, outside a light rain fell, and inside there was silence. Alexey sat with a newspaper, but his eyes showed it—his thoughts weren’t about the weather or retirement.

And then—again—the doorbell. Loud, long.

“Well,” Marina said, “the final act is starting.”

Tatyana Petrovna swept in like a storm: coat unbuttoned, a bag of pies in her hands.

“I came to make peace!” she announced and dropped the bag on the table like a bribe. “Let’s do this like human beings: the apartment—half and half, period.”

Marina sat down, arms folded across her chest.

“So this is how you make peace. Interesting.”

“Marina, don’t push me!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Either you transfer half to my son, or I’m going to court!”

 

Alexey stood up.

“Mom, stop!”

“Shut up!” Tatyana Petrovna shouted. “You’re whipped, I can see it!”

Marina stood too.

“Tatyana Petrovna, you’re crossing boundaries. Go to court if you want. They’ll explain there that the apartment is mine and your son isn’t entitled to any share.”

Her mother-in-law turned purple.

“So you’re mocking me now?!”

She jerked the bag, and the pies flew across the floor. Alexey stepped toward her to stop her, but Marina got there first.

“That’s it! Enough! This is my home—and there will be no more scandals in it. Leave.”

“You’re throwing me out?” Tatyana Petrovna hissed.

Alexey came up and said firmly:

“Yes, Mom. Leave. Don’t come back here without an apology.”

Silence. Tatyana Petrovna looked from her son to Marina. Her lips trembled like a child’s who’s being punished for the first time—and deservedly.

“So… you chose her?” she whispered.

“I chose myself, Mom. And the family Marina and I are building,” Alexey replied, steady.

She silently took her coat and left. The door closed quietly—too quietly.

Marina sank into a chair.

“Well, now the war of rumors will definitely begin.”

Alexey took her hand.

“Let it. The main thing is—you and I are together.”

They sat in the kitchen among scattered pies. And suddenly Marina laughed.

“Symbolic, you know? Everything fell apart—but we stayed.”

For the first time in a long while, Alexey smiled too.

“Then we’ll start gathering it up again. But our own.

 

Marina was drying her hands on a kitchen towel when the phone rang. The number was familiar—Lena Sokolova, her classmate from the design faculty. They hadn’t spoken in over three years, ever since Marina went on maternity leave.

“Marish, hi! How are you, how’s the baby?” Lena’s voice sounded energetic, almost infectious. “Listen, I’m opening my own firm. A design studio. Remember how we dreamed about it? Well, I’ve decided! And I need people. Talented people. Do you remember that loft project of yours? I still keep the photos for inspiration.”

Marina felt something inside her stir after a long sleep. She glanced automatically at the calendar on the fridge—Thursday, an unremarkable day. Her son Timofey was at kindergarten; at home there was emptiness and a silence that had long since stopped being cozy and had simply become habitual.

“Lena, I… I haven’t worked for three years. I have a child, the house…”

“That’s why the pay won’t be great at first,” Lena cut in. “But the projects will be interesting, I guarantee it. Marish, at least think about it. You weren’t planning to bury your talent forever under pots and diapers, were you?”

After the call, Marina stood at the window for a long time, looking out at the familiar courtyard. She recalled herself five years earlier—an ambitious graduate with shining eyes, working at a small firm and dreaming of big projects. Then Viktor appeared—a reliable, solid man with a good salary as a mid-level manager. A wedding, a pregnancy, and the dreams were put off somewhere far away, for later.

 

In the evening, when Viktor came home from work, Marina met him with unusual enthusiasm.

“Vitya, just imagine—Lena called me! Remember I told you about her? She’s opening her own design bureau and she’s offering me a position!”

Viktor took off his shoes, set them neatly on the rack, and walked into the kitchen. Marina noticed his face take on that closed expression she’d learned to recognize over the years of their marriage.

“Marin, let’s be realistic,” he began, pouring himself tea. “What kind of salary will that be? Pennies, I bet. And what about home? I’ll come back from work to frozen dinners, the kid left to run wild. No, that doesn’t work for me.”

“Vitya, this is my profession. I put so much effort into my studies…”

“All my friends’ wives stay home, and everyone’s happy,” he said calmly, even a bit condescendingly, as if explaining obvious things. “Sergey’s, Kolya’s, Andrey’s. Normal families. A woman should run the household and raise the child. Why do you need this job? So the apartment gets dirty and you crawl home exhausted in the evenings?”

“It’s not just about money! I want to do what I love. I want to grow, to feel like a person and not a maid!”

“A maid?” Viktor set the cup down so hard tea sloshed onto the table. “Do I not earn enough for you? We have everything we need. You live in a nice apartment, you lack nothing. And you call yourself a maid?”

They quarreled. For the first time in a long while—truly, with raised voices and slamming doors. Marina lay awake half the night, replaying her conversation with Lena. By morning, she had made a decision.

A week later, she started work.

The first weeks were like a breath of fresh air after a long spell in a stuffy room. Marina woke with a sense of anticipation, hurried to the small office on the outskirts of town that smelled of fresh paint and coffee. She was once again discussing color palettes and composition, once again feeling like a professional whose opinion mattered.

She had to drop Timofey off at her mother-in-law’s—the latter was not thrilled with this turn of events, but kept quiet, only sighing meaningfully whenever they met. Viktor, for his part, demonstratively ignored his wife in the evenings, ate dinner in stony silence, and retreated to the room to watch football.

Two months later he spoke up.

“Marin, when is this going to end?” His voice sounded tired and irritated. “I’ve been eating pasta with hot dogs for a week. We haul Timka to my mom’s every day; he’s already getting fussy. And at home… I even have to find my own slippers when I get in.”

At that moment, Marina was at her laptop polishing a presentation for a client—Igor Vladimirovich Kruglov, the owner of a chain of stores who had commissioned the design of his new country house. It was their most promising project yet, and she couldn’t let the team down.

“Vitya, I understand, but I’m at a crucial stage right now. One more week and I can come up for air, I promise.”

“A week, then another week. When does normal life start?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to argue.

On the eve of an important meeting with Kruglov, Marina stopped by a boutique and bought a suit—strict, elegant, and, of course, not cheap. She understood that meetings with clients like this required the right look. You can’t show up in old jeans and a sweater.

When Viktor saw the receipt that popped up in his mobile banking app, his patience snapped.

“Forty-five thousand for a suit?! Are you out of your mind?!” He waved the receipt in her face. “Where did you get that kind of money? From our family budget? I work, I provide for the family, and you spend it on rags?”

“Vitya, it’s work attire, I need to look presentable…”

“Presentable?!” He was beside himself. “You know what? Enough. You wanted to work—then work. Live on your salary and don’t touch my money,” he declared, not realizing how badly he was miscalculating. “I’m not going to bankroll your hobbies anymore. Starting tomorrow you’re on your own. You’ll buy the groceries, pay for kindergarten—everything yourself, on your designer’s salary.”

Marina stood silent. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot, but she didn’t argue. She just nodded and left the room.

The following weeks passed in a strange silence. They hardly spoke. Viktor ostentatiously cooked for himself, not touching the food she now bought separately. Marina plunged headlong into work. The Kruglov project expanded—he was so pleased with her ideas that he also ordered designs for a guest house and a bathhouse. And then something unexpected happened.

A month after their quarrel, Marina met Viktor in the entryway holding the keys to a new car.

“What’s this?” He stared at the shiny key fob in complete bewilderment.

“A car. I took it on credit,” she replied calmly, fastening her coat.

“On credit?! With what money are you going to pay it off?! Do you even realize what you’re doing?!”

Marina turned to him. There was no gloating or resentment on her face—only quiet confidence.

“With my own, Vitya. You said yourself—live on your salary, don’t touch your money. So I’m not touching it. I need a car for work. Igor Vladimirovich recommended me to his friends—they have houses outside the city, and I need to drive out to their sites. I’ve already signed three contracts, and five more are in the pipeline.”

“What contracts?” Viktor sank onto the sofa, and for the first time in a long while Marina saw confusion in his eyes instead of the usual certainty.

“It turns out wealthy people move in tight circles. Kruglov told his partners about our work. Then they told their acquaintances. Now our studio has a waiting list for a year ahead. Lena offered me a partnership in the bureau—I brought in so many clients. My share is now thirty percent of the profits. In the last two months I’ve earned more than you have in half a year.”

Viktor was silent. Marina could see his entire picture of the world reshuffling itself in his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally managed.

“You didn’t ask. You were busy punishing me with silence and showing me how wrong I was.” Her voice wasn’t accusatory; it stated the facts. “By the way, the loan isn’t straining the family budget. The monthly payment is less than I currently spend on taxis to clients.”

Over the next few days Viktor moved quietly and thoughtfully around the house. Marina noticed him open his mouth to say something several times and then lose his nerve. Finally, on Saturday evening, after Timofey had fallen asleep, he knocked on the kitchen door, which served as her office in the evenings.

“Marish, can I come in?”

She looked up from her sketches.

“I wanted to… say I’m sorry.” The word came hard to him—she could tell. “I was wrong. I acted like a jerk, honestly. I thought I knew better how things should be. That my work mattered more, that I was the boss. And you… You’re amazing. You really are.”

Marina leaned back in her chair.

 

“You know, Vitya, I didn’t need your boss-of-the-house games. I needed you to support me. To believe in me. I didn’t ask you to bankroll my hobby, as you put it. I asked for the right to be myself.”

“I get it. Really.” He came closer and sat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m ashamed of what I said. Of making you prove to me that you had the right to work. You never should have had to prove anything.”

They were quiet for a long time. Then Marina handed him the tablet with her sketches.

“Want to see what I’m working on?”

Viktor took the tablet and began to scroll. His face slowly changed—surprise, then admiration.

“This… this is really beautiful. I didn’t realize you did things like this.”

“Because you never took an interest.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

In the weeks that followed, something shifted between them. Viktor began asking about her projects, listening, studying her sketches. He started picking up Timofey from kindergarten himself when she had late meetings.

One evening at dinner he set down his fork and said:

“Marish, what if we think about a house. A country one.”

“A house?”

“Well, yeah.” He smiled a little shyly. “We’re doing well now. We can afford it. And you’ll design it—I’ve seen your projects, you’re great at this. It’ll be our family home, created by you.”

Marina felt a warm wave spread through her chest.

“Vitya, are you serious?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be our project. Together. The way it should have been from the start.”

She stood, walked over to him, and hugged him.

“You know, I agree. On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You stop comparing our family to your friends’ families. We are us. We have our own path.”

Viktor pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

“Deal.”

That night, after everyone finally fell asleep, Marina lay for a long time staring into the darkness. She thought about how easy it would have been to lose herself in other people’s expectations. How she could have lived her life considering herself a maid in her own home, smothering her dreams with resentment and obedience. How their marriage might have turned into a cold coexistence of two people who had once loved each other.

But she took a chance. She pushed through the misunderstanding and hurt. And it turned out that beyond that wall there wasn’t a cliff, as she had feared, but a new road—for both of them.

Viktor turned in his sleep and held her tighter. Marina closed her eyes, feeling at last that she was home—not in an apartment, not in an office, but in her own life, the one she had chosen for herself.

And in the morning she had a meeting with a new client; then she’d need to pick up Timofey; in the evening—work on the sketches for their future house. An ordinary day. Her day. And it was wonderful

The taxi smelled of gasoline and a tiredness not its own, soaked into the seats. The driver glanced a couple of times in the rearview mirror at Katya and at the white envelope in her hands, but kept quiet. Wise guy, or just indifferent.

Katya watched the city lights flicker by, smeared into dirty streaks on the window. She wasn’t crying. Inside everything had simply become very light and cold, like an empty glass vessel that had been poured out.

Little Nikita, her son, slept in the infant car seat she had barely managed to wedge into the back. His quiet snuffling was the only real thing left in her collapsed world.

Right up to the end she kept running a different scenario in her head. She’d open the door and there would be Vadim. Flustered, guilty, with some ridiculous explanation about traffic, a dead phone, or a biblical flood. She wouldn’t even listen—just nod and go into the nursery. The main thing was that he was there.

But her husband hadn’t met her after the delivery. Not at the maternity hospital steps with silly balloons, not now at the entrance to their—apparently now only her—building.

The driver helped her lift out the heavy car seat.

 

“Congratulations on the new addition,” he muttered, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

Katya nodded silently and handed him the money.

The ride up in the elevator felt like an eternity. The walls, scribbled over by teens, pressed in from all sides. Each floor—like a new circle of her personal hell.

The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if reluctantly, as if the apartment itself resisted her returning alone.

Inside it was dark and echoing. No smell of dinner, no sliver of light under the bedroom door. Only the sharp, barely-there trace of his cologne, the one he always used before going out “on business.”

On the hall table lay a sheet of paper folded in half. Not an envelope, not a card. Just a page torn from an expensive planner.

She read it, and the words didn’t sink in at once; they clung to the edges of her thoughts, refusing to fall to the bottom.

“Kat, I can’t. I tried, honestly. But this isn’t for me. A child, the routine, all that responsibility… I want to live, to travel, to breathe. I’m leaving everything to you—the apartment, the car. Just don’t look for me. This will be better for everyone.”

She read the note again. And again. She searched the even, almost calligraphic letters for a drop of doubt, pain, regret. There was none. Only a cold, selfish statement of fact. He had simply written himself out of their life like out of a boring novel.

Katya didn’t scream. She carefully set the car seat on the floor, took off her jacket, and hung it on the rack. Mechanical, as if watching herself from the outside.

She went into the nursery. The room they had arranged with such love. Light-blue walls, a crib with a mobile of felt stars, a changing table. Everything was perfect. Sterile. And dead.

Nikita grunted a little in his sleep and stirred, pulling her back to reality.

Katya went to the window and looked down at the night city. The lights no longer blurred. They had become sharp, clear, prickly.

She was alone. Absolutely alone with a tiny human in her arms in a huge, alien city. And the only thought beating in her head was:

“Mom… I need to call Mom.”

The phone was picked up almost immediately, as if they’d been waiting.

“Katya? Well, did you get there? How’s the grandson?”

Her mother’s voice, Valentina Petrovna’s, was even and businesslike. Not a hint of suspicion in it.

“Mom…” Katya swallowed the viscous saliva. “Vadim left.”

Silence hung on the other end. Not surprised, not frightened. A heavy, all-understanding silence of someone who has lived life and knows it can be like this.

“Pack your things. Only the essentials for you and the baby.”

No questions—“how,” “why,” “what happened.” Just a clear, brief instruction.

“Where to?” burst out of Katya. A stupid question.

“Home, where else. Your father will set out in the morning to get you. Give him the address.”

Katya dictated the address that her father, Sergei Ivanovich, knew perfectly well anyway. They had visited her parents with Vadim last New Year’s. Back then everything still seemed unshakable.

“Block his cards if you have access,” her mother suddenly said sternly. “Do it right now.”

Katya blinked, confused. She hadn’t even thought about that. About money, about the cards. Her world had shrunk to the note on the table and her sleeping son.

“Got it.”

“Don’t fall apart there. You’re not alone now. You have Nikita. Sleep. Morning is wiser than evening.”

Short beeps sounded in the receiver.

The night passed in a fog. Katya fed Nikita, changed diapers, rocked him in her arms, staring at one spot on the wall. She didn’t unpack, didn’t prepare to leave. She simply existed, obeying instinct.

In the evening an old Niva pulled up by the entrance. Sergei Ivanovich—stern, taciturn, as always—hugged her without a word, glanced into the bundle with his grandson, and began carrying the bags down.

As they were getting into the car, her father looked at Vadim’s shiny sedan parked by the building and asked:

“And what about this one?”

“Mom said to sell it,” Katya answered flatly.

Her father grunted.

“Your mother’s right. Leave me the keys and documents. I’ll handle it when I have time. No need for you to bother with that now.”

They hardly spoke the whole drive. Katya watched as the bright lights of the metropolis gave way to the sparse lamps of small towns, and then sank altogether into the autumn dark. Nikita slept.

The village met them with the smell of smoke from stove pipes and barking dogs. Her parents’ house was old but well kept. Warm light glowed in the windows.

Her mother met them on the porch. She didn’t hug Katya, didn’t pity her, didn’t lament. She simply took the precious snuffling bundle from her hands.

“Come in, your father’s heated the banya. Have dinner and go wash up. I’ve prepared a room for you and Nikita.”

The house smelled of wood and dried herbs. On the table sat a plate of hot potatoes and pickles. Food whose taste Katya felt she had forgotten.

She ate silently, mechanically. Then she sat in the hot, steamy bathhouse and, for the first time in two days, cried. Soundlessly, letting tears fall into the wooden basin. It wasn’t the pain that left. It was the former her. The Katya who believed in “happily ever after.”

The following months blurred into one long, drawn-out, gray day. Feedings by the clock, sleepless nights, walks with the stroller along village roads turned to mush by the rains.

Life narrowed to a simple, almost animal cycle: sleep, food, caring for her son. She hardly looked in the mirror, forgot what music sounded like that wasn’t a lullaby.

A week later her father brought a thick wad of cash. Said he’d sold the car. Got a good price. Katya just nodded and put the money in a dresser drawer without counting. It was money from another, past life.

She hardly spoke with her parents. And they didn’t pry. Her mother took over the household; her father split firewood, carried water, fixed what broke. Their quiet support was far more important than any words.

One day, stepping out onto the porch, she saw their neighbor, Aunt Vera, talking to her mother over the fence. When she spotted Katya, the neighbor fell silent, following her with a long, sympathetic-and-curious look.

That look had everything in it: pity, judgment, and a touch of gloating. Katya realized the whole village already knew her story. The story of a girl who’d gone to the city for a pretty life and came back alone with a baby in her arms.

She didn’t hide. She just nodded to the neighbor and slowly went back inside. Let them look. Let them talk. She didn’t care. She was building a new fortress. Inside herself.

Eight months passed. Nikita learned to sit up and laugh out loud. That laughter became Katya’s tuning fork, setting her to life.

The money from the car and what was left in the accounts was dwindling. She knew it, seeing how her mother, without a word, bought another pack of expensive diapers or jars of baby food.

 

Dependence on her parents, a lifesaver at first, began to weigh on her. She loved them, was endlessly grateful, but felt infantile, a grown girl perched on their necks again.

In the evening, after Nikita fell asleep and her father watched soccer on TV, Katya sat with her mother in the kitchen. Her mother was sorting buckwheat, and there was an ancient wisdom in that simple act.

“Mom, I need a job.”

Valentina Petrovna didn’t look up.

“What job? Who’ll be with Nikita?”

“I’ll talk to Zoya Vasilievna. Maybe the school will take me. I have a teaching degree. Russian, literature.”

Her mother finally lifted her eyes to her daughter. Her gaze was piercing, with no trace of pity.

“At our school? Think Zoya will take you? No experience, a nursing baby. And the village will wag their tongues to no end.”

“Let them,” Katya’s voice was unexpectedly firm. “They have their life, I have mine. I can’t sit on your neck forever. Self-pity is an unaffordable luxury.”

The next day, leaving Nikita with her mother, Katya went to the school. An old two-story building smelling of paint and chalk. The smell of her own childhood.

The principal, Zoya Vasilievna, a stout woman with tired but intelligent eyes, listened in silence, tapping a pen on the desk.

“You’ve got a good diploma, with honors, I remember. But zero experience. And the baby is small. You’ll be out on sick leave all the time.”

“I won’t,” Katya cut her off. “My mom will help. I really need this job, Zoya Vasilievna.”

The principal sighed.

“I only have one opening. Lyudmila Sergeevna is going on maternity leave. But it’s a tough class, seventh grade. Mostly boys, lots from troubled families. They’ll eat you alive, girl.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Zoya Vasilievna looked at her for a long, appraising moment. She saw not a frightened abandoned woman but someone with a straight back and a stubborn gaze.

“Fine. Start in September. But mind you, I won’t go easy on you.”

Leaving the office, Katya nearly bumped into a tall man in a work jacket in the corridor. He was fixing a loose door in one of the classrooms.

He turned at the sound of her steps. He had fair hair bleached by the sun and very calm gray eyes.

“Careful, the threshold creaks here,” he said simply, without curiosity.

“Thanks, I know,” Katya replied. “I studied here.”

He nodded and went back to work.

Katya walked home and, for the first time in a long while, felt not the weight of the past but a fragile hope for the future. She just knew she’d taken the first step. The hardest one.

September first smelled of chrysanthemums and fresh paint. Katya stood before her seventh graders and felt like a gladiator in an arena. Twenty pairs of eyes looked at her with varying degrees of hostility and curiosity.

They were exactly as the principal had warned. Noisy, cocky, almost-grown boys and a few girls who kept to themselves. The ringleader was Yegor Kovalyov, a lanky kid with an insolent look, sitting at the back.

“Hello. My name is Ekaterina Sergeevna. I’m your new homeroom teacher and your Russian language and literature teacher.”

“So what, the old one ran away?” someone yelled from the back row. The class snickered.

Katya found Yegor with her eyes. He wasn’t laughing; he just watched her, studying her with lazy superiority.

“Lyudmila Sergeevna had a baby girl. She’s got more important things now than teaching you where to put commas,” Katya answered calmly.

The bell cut off the brewing back-and-forth. The first lesson passed in a state of cold war. They didn’t listen, whispered, dropped their textbooks. Katya didn’t raise her voice.

She methodically taught the class, addressing the few who tried to listen. Among them was a quiet girl with huge gray eyes, sitting at the front desk.

Katya remembered her name: Masha Zavyalova. The carpenter’s daughter.

It went on like that for a week. She came home wrung out like a lemon, hugged milk-scented Nikita, and remembered what she was doing it for. Every day at school was a small battle she had no right to lose.

The breakthrough came unexpectedly. They were studying “Taras Bulba.” The class was openly bored.

“This is all crap,” Yegor declared loudly. “About some old geezers with sabers.”

“What isn’t crap, Yegor?” Katya asked, walking up to his desk.

“Video games! That’s where the action is, real battles!”

Katya perched on the edge of the chair next to him. The class froze.

“Fine. Let’s imagine Ostap and Andriy are two players on the same team. They have a common goal, a shared mission. But at some point one of them betrays the whole team for a girl on the enemy side. What do they do with those in games?”

Yegor frowned, thinking.

“Well… they kick him from the clan. Ban him. Call him a traitor.”

“Exactly. Gogol basically wrote about the same thing. About betrayal. About the choice between duty and love. And about what happens when your best friend—your brother—ends up on the other side. Do you have a best friend, Yegor?”

The boy said nothing, just looked away. But Katya could see she’d hit the mark. For the first time, she’d dented his armor.

After classes, as she was leaving the school, Oleg Zavyalov caught up with her. He’d come for his daughter.

“Ekaterina Sergeevna.”

“Hello, Oleg,” she answered.

“Just Oleg,” he smiled. The smile transformed his stern face. “Masha says you put Kovalyov in his place today. That’s almost impossible.”

“I just talked to him,” Katya shrugged.

“Not many people talk to him. His father drinks, his mother works in the city. He’s on his own. Thank you.”

They stood a moment in silence.

“You’ve got chalk on your sleeve,” he said suddenly.

Katya looked at her sleeve and awkwardly tried to brush it off. Oleg stepped closer and lightly, barely touching, flicked away the white mark. His fingers were warm and rough.

Their acquaintance began with little things like that. He’d tighten a wobbly desk in her classroom; she’d send him a book through Masha when she learned he liked science fiction.

One winter, in a heavy snowfall, her car got stuck at the village exit. It was Oleg, in his old UAZ, who pulled her out, then spent half the night helping her father clear the yard.

They hardly spoke about personal matters. But in his calm presence, in his readiness to help without extra words, there was more support than in hundreds of empty phrases.

Two years passed. Nikita was already going to the village kindergarten. The seventh graders were now ninth graders, and Yegor Kovalyov, strangely enough, was preparing to take the literature exam.

One summer evening they sat on a bench by the river. Nikita and Masha were floating little bark boats.

 

“Katya,” Oleg said, looking at the water. “My house is big. For just Masha and me it’s too spacious. And I think Nikita would like his own room.”

It wasn’t a flowery declaration of love. It was something bigger. An offer to share a life. Not passion, but a quiet, deep certainty.

Katya looked at him, at his calm face, at the children laughing by the water, and realized she had long been home already. That her world, once shattered into a thousand pieces, had come together again. And this new picture was stronger, truer, and far more beautiful than the old one.

She didn’t go looking for freedom or travel. She found something more important. Herself.

Another five years passed.

A Saturday noon at the Zavyalovs’ smelled of freshly cut grass and meat roasting in the oven. Seven-year-old Nikita, the spitting image of Katya, was solemnly fixing his bike with Oleg in the yard.

Masha, already sixteen, sat on the veranda with a book, but kept glancing toward the gate. She had her first date today and was nervous.

Katya watched them from the kitchen window, stirring a sauce, and felt the absolute fullness of the moment.

Her life was here, in these simple sounds and smells. In her son’s laughter, in her husband’s focused snuffling, in the soft rustle of pages as Masha turned them.

She had long since sold that city apartment, investing the money in a large plot next to the house. A young orchard grew there now, which they had planted together.

Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar expensive car stopped at the gate. A man got out. Well dressed, fashionable glasses on his face, but somehow crumpled, tired. Too city for their village.

Katya recognized him at once. Vadim.

Her heart didn’t skip, didn’t beat faster. She felt only mild surprise, as if she’d seen a character from a long-forgotten film.

Oleg lifted his head from the bike and stood up silently, wiping his hands on a rag. Nikita looked at the stranger with curiosity.

Vadim came up to the gate but didn’t dare open it. He looked at Oleg, at the boy; then his gaze found Katya in the window. There was something like shock in his eyes.

He had apparently imagined a different picture. A tear-streaked, aged, unhappy woman in a shabby robe. Not this calm, self-possessed woman in a simple summer dress, standing on the threshold of her big, solid home.

Katya stepped out onto the porch.

“Hello, Vadim.”

“Katya… I… I’ve been looking for you.”

“What for?” Her voice was even, without a shade of emotion.

“I wanted to see… my son.”

Nikita stopped fussing with the bike and came over to Oleg, pressing against his leg. He didn’t know this man. Oleg was his dad.

“He doesn’t know you, Vadim.”

“But I’m his father!” Desperation broke through in his voice. “I’ve been a lot of places, Katya, seen everything. But it’s all… dust. I realized I left the most important thing here.”

Katya looked at him without anger and without pity.

“You didn’t leave it. You threw it away. There’s a difference. The freedom you chased turned out to be just emptiness, didn’t it?”

Vadim was silent, gripping the handle of his expensive bag. His world of travels and adventures collapsed into this awkward scene at a stranger’s gate.

“You have five minutes,” Katya said. “You can talk to him. Here. At the gate. Oleg, let’s go in the house. Nikita, come here.”

She didn’t humiliate Vadim, didn’t try to prove anything. She simply showed him his place. The place of an outsider who was politely given a few minutes.

The conversation didn’t take. Nikita answered in monosyllables, hiding behind his mother. To him this handsome man was nobody. After three minutes, Vadim gave up.

“He… he doesn’t look like me at all,” he said to Katya, bewildered.

“Of course not. He looks like someone who knows what a home is.”

Vadim looked at her calm face, at the solid man behind her, at the two children who were her family.

And for the first time, real, sharp understanding appeared in his eyes—not regret for what he’d done, but what he had lost. Not a woman with a child. An entire life he had traded for a glossy postcard.

He turned and walked to his car. Without looking back.

Katya watched him go and returned to the house, where the table was already being set. She hugged Oleg and ruffled Nikita’s hair.

Her world was here. And there was no place in it for ghosts from the past

 Girl, do you even realize what you’ve done?!” Semen shouted, waving a ladle. “Soup on the floor, the customer splashed, and you’re just standing there like a statue!”

Alyona looked at the dark stain on the man’s expensive suit and felt her insides tighten. This was the end of her job. Six months of effort — and all for nothing. Now this rich man would make a scene, demand compensation, and she’d be fired without severance.

“Please, I’m sorry… I’ll clean it up right away,” she stammered, grabbing napkins from the table.

The man raised his hand to stop her:

“Wait. It’s my fault. I turned suddenly and got distracted by a phone call.”

Alyona froze. In two years of working as a waitress, she had heard all kinds of things, but a customer apologizing to her — that had never happened before.

“No, it was clumsy of me…” she muttered.

“Don’t worry. The suit can be cleaned. But did you get burned?”

She shook her head, still not believing what was happening. The man was about forty-five, with graying hair and glasses. He spoke calmly, without the fake polite tone usually put on by wealthy customers.

“Then let me change clothes, and you bring a new soup. Just be careful this time,” he smiled slightly.

Igor, the hall administrator, appeared out of nowhere.

“Mr. Sokolov, sorry for the incident! We will definitely compensate for the suit…”

“Igor Petrovich, no need. It’s fine.”

Alyona brought a new serving of soup, her hands still trembling. Sokolov ate slowly, occasionally glancing at her thoughtfully.

“What’s your name?”

“Alyona.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six months.”

“Do you like it?”

She shrugged. What was there to say? A job is a job. The salary is okay, and the team depends on luck.

“And where did you work before?”

The question was easy, but Alyona tensed inside. Rich men don’t just casually ask about waitresses’ pasts.

“At another café,” she answered shortly.

Sokolov nodded and didn’t ask more. He paid, left a generous tip, and left.

“You’re lucky,” Semen grumbled. “If I’d had a client like that in my youth, I’d be retired by now.”

A week later, Sokolov came to the restaurant again. He took the same table and asked to be served by Alyona.

“How are you?” he asked when she brought the menu.

“Fine.”

“Where do you live?”

“I rent a room.”

“Alone?”

Alyona put down the menu a little sharply.

“And?”

 

Sokolov raised his hands in peace:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My sister. She was independent at your age too.”

Alyona felt something tighten inside. “Was” — meaning she’s no longer alive.

“Does she work somewhere?”

“No,” Sokolov paused. “She’s been gone for a long time.”

Their conversation was interrupted by another customer asking for the bill. When Alyona returned, Sokolov was finishing his salad.

“Can I come here often?” he asked. “I like it here.”

“Of course, it’s a public place.”

“And if I ask to always be served by you?”

Alyona shrugged. The customer is always right, especially when he pays well.

Sokolov started coming twice a week. Ordered the same thing: soup, salad, main course. Ate slowly, sometimes spoke quietly on the phone. The perfect visitor.

Gradually, he began to tell about himself. Owns a chain of hardware stores, lives with his wife in a house outside the city. They have no children.

“Where are you from?” he asked once.

“From the city,” Alyona answered evasively.

“Are your parents alive?”

“No.”

“Have they been gone long?”

“I don’t remember them. I grew up in an orphanage.”

Sokolov paused, his spoon hanging over the plate.

“Which one?”

“The fourteenth boarding school on Sadovaya.”

“Got it. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“When did you leave the orphanage?”

“At eighteen. First, they gave me a dormitory, then I rented on my own.”

Sokolov stopped eating. He looked at her strangely, as if just noticing.

“Is something wrong?” Alyona asked.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just… my sister also grew up in an orphanage.”

“Poor her.”

“Yes. I was twenty then, studying at university. I couldn’t take her in — I lived in a dormitory, barely making ends meet on a scholarship.”

“And then?”

“Then it was too late.”

There was such pain in his voice that Alyona didn’t ask more. It wasn’t her place to stir up someone else’s memories.

The next week, Sokolov brought her a gift — a small, neat box.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

Inside were gold earrings — simple but elegant.

“I can’t take these.”

“Why not?”

“Because we hardly know each other.”

“Alyona, it’s just a token of attention. No strings attached.”

“For what?”

He paused a moment.

“Do you have any plans for the future?”

“What plans? I work and save money for an apartment.”

“Would you like to change jobs?”

“To what?”

“There’s a manager vacancy at one of my stores. The salary is three times higher than here.”

Alyona leaned back from the table.

“And do I have to do something for that?”

“Work. Receive goods, supervise salespeople, prepare reports. You’ll learn everything.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re responsible. No complaints in six months, always polite to guests. And because I want to help.”

“Why?”

Sokolov took off his glasses, wiped them with a napkin.

“My sister was sent to an orphanage at twelve — our parents died in a fire. I was in my third year at university. I thought I’d hang on a couple of years, get my degree, find a good job, and bring her to me.”

“What happened?”

“She died of pneumonia, a year before I graduated. I found out about the funeral only a month later.”

Alyona was silent. The story was touching, but what did it have to do with her?

“I’ve thought my whole life: if I had acted earlier, dropped out, got a job somewhere…”

“So what? You both would have survived, instead of struggling alone?”

“Maybe. But she would be alive.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do. They treated her badly there. If she had lived with me…”

“Listen, I’m very sorry about your sister. But I’m not her.”

“I understand. But let me at least try to fix something.”

Alyona took the box with the earrings.

“I’ll think about the job. But take these back.”

“Alyona, come on! It’s just a gift, no conditions.”

 

“That’s exactly why I’m not accepting it.”

At home in her rented room, Alyona told her friend Valentina, who grew up with her in the orphanage.

“I don’t believe in kind rich men,” Valentina said, biting an apple. “They all want something.”

“He acts like an older friend. Even like a father.”

“Even worse. That means he has strange ideas.”

“Stop it, Val. Don’t say nonsense.”

“Alyona, we heard many times as kids: don’t trust adults who are too kind. Remember what happened to Natasha Krylova?”

She remembered. Natasha left with a man promising the world. Returned pregnant and bruised.

“But the salary really is good…”

“Talk to Igor. He’s experienced.”

Igor was cautious about the offer:

“Alyona, rich people don’t give anything for nothing. He definitely has his own goals.”

“What goals?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he wants to cheat his wife. Maybe he’s looking for a replacement daughter. Maybe worse.”

“He says he wants to atone for his guilt to his sister.”

“And you believe him?”

“Why not? The story sounds plausible.”

“You’re smart, Alyona. But you don’t understand people well. You expect too much.”

But after a week, Alyona agreed. Not for the money, though it was important. She was just tired of carrying trays and putting up with customers’ whims every day.

The store was on the city’s outskirts, selling building materials. Staff: three salespeople, a loader, an accountant, and her.

Sokolov trained her for a week. Explained patiently, repeated without anger at mistakes.

“You have a good memory,” he said. “And you can find common ground with people. I think you’ll manage.”

The first month was hard. The salespeople didn’t accept her — young, inexperienced, and with a patron. But Alyona wasn’t used to giving up. She worked from morning till night, studied the assortment, memorized prices, learned to deal with suppliers.

Over time things improved. Sokolov came once a week — checked documents, talked to staff. He treated Alyona kindly, but without familiarity.

“How are things?” he usually asked.

“Okay. Getting the hang of it.”

“If something is unclear — call. Don’t hesitate.”

“Okay.”

“And how’s the housing? Still renting a room?”

“For now. But I’m already looking for an apartment.”

“Maybe I can help? I know some realtors.”

“Thanks, I’ll manage myself.”

He nodded and didn’t insist.

Two months later, Sokolov invited her to dinner.

“To a restaurant?” Alyona asked, surprised.

“No, home. My wife cooks great. She wants to meet you.”

Alyona hesitated. It felt awkward to refuse the boss, but going to strangers’ home was strange.

“Don’t worry,” Sokolov laughed. “We’re not scary. Just want to chat in a calm atmosphere.”

The Sokolovs’ house was big, with a garden and pool. Marina, his wife, greeted Alyona rather reservedly.

“Marina,” Alyona introduced herself, extending her hand.

A beautiful, well-groomed woman, but her gaze was cold.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “Boris told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully good things.”

“Some good, some not,” Marina smiled, but her eyes stayed indifferent.

During dinner, Sokolov asked Alyona about work and plans. Marina barely spoke, only occasionally making sharp remarks.

“Have you thought about getting a higher education?” she asked.

“I have. Just not now.”

“Got it. Work is more important.”

“Marish,” her husband gently corrected.

“What? I’m just curious. Rare to meet people who become independent so early.”

“In orphanages, you have to grow up fast,” Alyona replied.

“Yes, of course. Boris told me about your… background.”

That “background” sounded like something low.

“Marina, we agreed,” Sokolov said more strictly.

“About what? I said nothing bad. On the contrary, I admire it. Not everyone can survive those conditions.”

Alyona understood: it was time to leave.

“Thank you for dinner. I have to go.”

“How to go? We just ate!” Sokolov protested.

“Got to get up early tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you.”

“No need, I’ll get there myself.”

On the way home, she thought about Marina. She clearly hadn’t accepted her. And it made sense — the husband suddenly began caring for a young girl from an orphanage, spending time and money on her. Any wife would worry.

The next day, Sokolov called.

“Alyona, sorry about last night. Marina was in a bad mood.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. She had no right to behave like that.”

“I understand her. I’d worry too if I were her.”

“About what?”

“That my husband suddenly started helping some stranger.”

Sokolov was silent.

“You’re not a stranger to me. You’re… special.”

“Because I remind you of your sister?”

“Not only because of that.”

“Why else?”

“Because you’re strong. You didn’t break, didn’t complain about fate, didn’t lose faith. You keep moving forward.”

“There are many like that.”

“More than you think.”

A month later, what Alyona feared happened. She came to the store, and the staff were whispering.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing special,” the senior saleswoman Svetlana replied. “Yesterday the boss bought an apartment.”

“What apartment?”

“A studio in a new building on Rechnaya. They say he’s putting it in your name.”

Alyona’s heart stopped.

“How do you know?”

“My son-in-law works in real estate. Says the papers are almost ready.”

Alyona waited until lunch and called Sokolov.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Come to the office.”

“Better at a café.”

“Okay. You know ‘Europa’ on Central? I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Sokolov was already waiting at the table.

“Something wrong at work?”

 

“Are you buying me an apartment?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to help you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. But it’s important for me to do this.”

“For what? What have I done for you?”

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.

“Her name was also Alyona. She was a year younger than you when she died. Blonde, gray-eyed, stubborn. Just like you.”

Alyona felt a squeeze inside.

“And?”

“When I saw you, for a second it seemed — it was her. Grown up, matured, but the same.”

“Boris Viktorovich…”

“Wait. I know it’s silly. That you’re not her. But I needed to know that at least one child from the orphanage got a normal life. That I helped someone.”

“You’re not helping me. You’re helping yourself.”

He nodded.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t make the help any less real.”

“It does. Because you see not me. You see your dead sister.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. That’s why I can’t accept the apartment.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be anyone’s substitute. Even a generous one.”

Sokolov was silent for a long time.

“What if I offered the apartment to someone else — not you?”

“Then I’d believe you really want to help.”

“So it’s about motives?”

“It’s about me not being someone’s memory.”

He stood up.

“Understood. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t be angry. I’m grateful for the job, for your belief…”

“For what? For using you?”

“For trying.”

He left, leaving money on the table.

The next day Alyona submitted her resignation. Gave it to the secretary.

“Please pass it on.”

“Boris Viktorovich valued you very much.”

“I just decided to change direction.”

That evening Sokolov called.

“Alyona, don’t make hasty decisions. Not because of our conversation.”

“I’m not because of that. I just realized I want to be a cook.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

He was silent.

“Then good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Igor welcomed her gladly.

“Alyonka! We thought you forgot us.”

“I wouldn’t forget if there was something to lose,” she laughed.

Semen took her desire to study seriously.

“You have the right hands. The main thing is not to rush.”

Alyona enrolled in culinary college courses. Worked as a waitress, studied in the evening, practiced at home at night.

Valentina tried her dishes.

“Tasty. But why?”

“I don’t want to depend on anyone’s mercy.”

“Who did you depend on?”

Alyona told the whole story.

 

“You’re such a fool,” her friend shook her head. “They were giving you an apartment, and you refused.”

“They weren’t giving it. They wanted to pay for the role of a dead sister.”

“So what? An apartment is an apartment.”

“It matters to me.”

Six months later Alyona was already working as a cook’s assistant. The salary was less than before, but she felt she was in the right place.

One day, Sokolov came to the restaurant. Sat at his usual table. Alyona went to serve.

“Good evening. What will you have?”

“Soup of the day, Greek salad, grilled fish.”

“Okay.”

She brought the order; he thanked her. They ate in silence.

Before leaving, he stopped her.

“Alyona, can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“I wanted to apologize. For everything that happened.”

“No need.”

“You were right. I was looking for my sister in you.”

“And now?”

“Now my wife and I do charity. We help orphanages. But we don’t try to replace anyone anymore.”

Alyona nodded.

“Meeting you changed my life. Made me rethink everything.”

“Mine too.”

“How?”

“I believed in myself. Realized I can choose my own path.”

Sokolov smiled.

“Then we’re even.”

“Looks like it.”

He put money on the table and headed for the exit. At the door, he looked back:

“Good luck, Alyona. Real luck.”

“You too.”

When he left, Alyona cleared the table. He left exactly the right amount of tip. No more, no less.

And that was just right.

I had always believed that life is not a straight road, but rather a winding path full of unexpected turns. Sometimes it leads you to a sunny clearing, and sometimes into a dense, impenetrable forest. My path led me to a small, cozy café called Melody, where I worked, keeping everything clean and in order.

My name is Sofia. And this job, though far from prestigious, was a real salvation for me. It allowed me to stay close to the dearest person in my life — my grandmother, Anna Petrovna. She was already past eighty, the years and all the hardships she had endured were taking their toll; it was difficult for her to move around, and leaving her alone for long was simply impossible. Every time I left the house, I would silently repeat to myself that everything would be fine, that I would be back soon.

Seven years ago, our life had been filled with completely different sounds. Not the squeak of a mop and the hum of the dishwasher, but the velvety, shimmering tones of the piano. I was studying music; my whole life revolved around the black-and-white keys. I remember my first solo concert. I was eighteen, the hall was packed, and after the final chord there was a moment of silence — then a thunder of applause. My parents looked at me with shining eyes; their pride was my greatest reward. We made plans, dreamed of the conservatory, of a big stage, of a future that seemed bright and cloudless.

But fate decided otherwise. That evening, on our way home after the concert, our car found itself in the path of a huge truck. My parents were gone in an instant. I survived, but spent a long three months in the hospital. My leg healed incorrectly, and from then on my gait was uneven, reminding me of that night every single minute. And my grandmother, Anna Petrovna, when she heard what had happened, suffered a stroke, after which her legs almost stopped obeying her. In a single moment, she and I were left alone, and our world turned upside down.

Our savings melted away before our eyes. First we had to part with my grandmother’s jewelry, the keepsakes of her youth. Then it was the turn of the most precious thing of all — my grand piano. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was a member of the family, an antique mahogany piano with a deep, velvety sound. My parents had saved for years to buy it. When they took it away, I sat in the empty room and listened to the ringing silence in my ears. It felt as if part of my soul was leaving with it. But we had to go on living, I had to take care of my grandmother, buy medicine, simply buy food.

With my education cut short halfway and my uneven gait, finding a job was next to impossible. I needed flexible hours so I could look after Anna Petrovna. And then, six months ago, I learned that a new café, Melody, was looking for someone to keep the place clean. I mustered all my courage and went there.

The owner, Artem Viktorovich, a stern-looking man, listened to me attentively.
— Do you have trouble with discipline?
— No, — I answered quietly.
— Things don’t disappear from customers’ tables?
— Never.
— Are you ready to work conscientiously?

— Yes, of course.
— Then start tomorrow.

The pay was modest, but it came on time. The staff was mostly nice; the girls — Svetlana, Marina, and Alla — treated me with understanding. Only one person, the assistant manager named Vladislav, seemed to take special pleasure in pointing out my smallest mistakes.
— Sofia, there’s a streak from the water here!
— Sofia, you missed that corner!
I would silently nod and redo everything. This job was far too important to waste energy on such things.

In the center of the café hall stood a magnificent black grand piano. It was there to create a special atmosphere. Every time I wiped its polished surface, I felt goosebumps run down my spine. My hands itched to touch the keys, but I held myself back. This was not my place. My place was with a rag and a bucket.

Once, about a month ago, a well-known local businessman, Mr. Orlov, booked the hall for his birthday party. A solid, influential man. We prepared for the event with particular care. Artem Viktorovich personally inspected every corner, and the waitresses rearranged the cutlery with jeweler’s precision.

And then, an hour before the start, the manager, a young man named Dmitry, burst into the storage room, his face white as chalk.
— Disaster! The musician we hired got sick! What are we going to do now?

Vladislav, standing next to him, only smirked maliciously.
— That’s not part of my responsibilities. I’m in charge of the service staff, not the creative types.

Dmitry was on the verge of despair.
— Orlov specifically asked about live music! He saw our piano! If there’s no performer, Artem Viktorovich will fire me!

I listened to this conversation, standing in the doorway with a wet rag in my hands. And suddenly, from somewhere deep inside, a crazy thought surfaced. My knees were shaking with fear. It had been seven years since I’d touched an instrument. But my fingers were clenching of their own accord, remembering the old movements.
— Dmitry, — I whispered so quietly that at first I wasn’t even sure I’d said it out loud. — Maybe I could try?

He turned sharply, his eyes full of bewilderment.
— You? Play the piano?
— A long time ago I studied.

Vladislav burst out laughing.
— Well, would you look at that! Our modest little backstage worker! A real Cinderella transformation!

But Dmitry, seeing how serious I was, clutched at this last straw.
— How confident are you? You do realize that if you mess up…
— It can’t be worse than no music at all, — I replied honestly.

I asked them to turn off the lights in the hall while I went to the piano. I was embarrassed by my uneven gait and my simple work clothes. But when the lights came back on and my fingers touched the cold keys, something clicked inside me.

A Chopin waltz poured out all by itself. I closed my eyes and was carried away to another time, another place. There was no pain, no loss, no hard work. There was only music. Pure, bright, soaring like the first morning of spring. It filled the entire space, touched every heart in the hall.

When the last notes faded into silence, I opened my eyes. The hall exploded in applause. People were rising from their seats, their faces lit up with smiles; someone was wiping the corners of their eyes. I hadn’t seen such genuine admiration even at my most successful performance.

Mr. Orlov approached me, his gaze serious and intent.
— May I ask your name?
— Sofia… Sofia Leonidovna.
— Anatoly Orlov. Tell me, have you had professional training?

I briefly, skipping over the most painful details, told him about my studies in the past. He listened without interrupting, nodding from time to time.
— What a pity, — he said thoughtfully. — A great pity. A gift like yours should not gather dust in oblivion.

After all the guests had left, Dmitry came up to me, his face radiant.
— Sofia, listen. Starting tomorrow you’re our staff musician. The salary is double, you’ll play from six to eleven in the evening. Will that work for you?

I felt warm drops running down my cheeks, but this time they were not tears of despair — they were tears of relief and quiet joy. Evenings at the instrument and days at home with my grandmother — it was exactly what I had barely dared to dream of.

Vladislav’s lips twisted into something resembling a smile.
— Well then, congratulations. You’re our star now.

There was barely concealed irritation in his voice — after all, my position at the café had just become much higher than his.

A week of my evening performances went by. The hall was almost full, guests chatted quietly over dinner, and I played something light and unobtrusive. And then I saw Mr. Orlov walk in, accompanied by another man. He came up to the piano and motioned for me to pause.
— Sofia Leonidovna, may I have a minute of your time?

We stepped aside. He handed me a business card.
— This is my old friend, Sergei Fedorovich. A very talented doctor. I told him your story, and he has offered to help. It’s possible that something can still be done for your leg.

My heart began to beat so fast that there was a ringing in my ears.
— But I… I can’t afford such treatment…
— Who said anything about payment? — he gently interrupted. — Talent is a treasure. It must be protected, not left to gather dust.

A month later I had the operation. The limp in my gait almost disappeared — only a barely noticeable peculiarity remained, which I soon stopped noticing at all.

And another month after that something happened that I still could hardly believe. Dmitry came up to me during a break, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
— Sof, someone’s here for you. They’re waiting in the hall.

I walked out and froze in place. In the middle of the hall stood two movers, and next to them… my piano. The very same one, mahogany, with the small scratch on the left leg that I had made as a child.
— How? — was the only word I could manage.

The older mover handed me an envelope.
— Mr. Orlov sent a new instrument to your establishment. And he told us to return this one to its rightful owner. He said that every thing must return to its own home.

I stood there, unable to contain the wave of emotion inside me. Later, my grandmother Anna Petrovna would say that for several days I walked around like a sleepwalker, constantly going up to the piano and touching it, as if checking whether it was real or just a mirage.

Dmitry, too, was deeply moved. Over the months we had grown very close. He had gone through a terrible loss — his wife had died after a long illness, and he was left alone. We understood each other almost without words; it was comfortable for us to share the silence.

Another six months passed, and one evening, after my performance, Dmitry said simply and sincerely:
— Sofia, let’s live together. I’m lonely in an empty apartment, and you need help with Anna Petrovna.

I agreed. Not out of calculation or gratitude. I realized that I had grown truly attached with all my heart to this kind, reliable, and understanding man. And he treated my grandmother with such tenderness and care, as if she were his own.

We celebrated our wedding in that very same café, Melody. Artem Viktorovich gave us the hall, and the girls from the staff helped us organize a modest but very heartfelt celebration. Even Vladislav came with a gift, though he looked a bit embarrassed about it.

Mr. Orlov came as well, to congratulate us in person.
— You see how life sometimes works out? — he said with a smile. — Nothing happens for nothing. A true gift will always find a way to the sunlight, even from the deepest shadow.

Now, every evening, I sit down at my piano — the very same one that returned to me like a message from a past, happy life. But I don’t look back with sadness. I look forward, because I see the shining eyes of my grandmother, Anna Petrovna, who seems to have grown younger from happiness. I feel the firm, steady hand of my husband, Dmitry, on my shoulder. I hear the soft, approving applause of the café guests who come not only to eat, but also to listen to the music that is born here and now.

 

Sometimes I think that the straight, bright road I once imagined for myself may not have been the only true one. My winding path, with all its bumps and turns, has led me exactly where I needed to be — to what truly matters. To love, to family, to a home where I am awaited. And my music has only grown deeper, wiser, and more piercing because of it. It has ceased to be just a set of notes and has become the true melody of my destiny — a melody that holds a touch of gentle sadness, endless gratitude, and a quiet, radiant joy that grows louder and louder with each new day

 

“For three years I’ve been divorced from your son, so let his new wife help you now. I won’t lift a finger,” I told my ex-mother-in-law the day before and hung up.

My hands were shaking with anger. Nadezhda Petrovna had already called me three times that week, each time with the same request—to help her with shopping, take her to the clinic, bring her medicines. As if nothing had changed, as if I were still her daughter-in-law, as if that painful divorce from her precious son three years ago had never happened.

In the morning I took my daughter to kindergarten, then poured myself some coffee and sat by the window. A fine October rain was falling outside, and the droplets slid down the glass like the tears I no longer allowed myself to cry. Three years… It felt like an eternity since the day I found out about Igor’s affair.

The phone rang again. I glanced at the screen—an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Katya, it’s Elena, your Nadezhda Petrovna’s neighbor. Listen, please don’t hang up.”

I recognized the voice. Elena Sergeyevna had lived in the apartment next to my former mother-in-law’s for about twenty years; we sometimes ran into each other at the store.

“What happened?”

“Nadezhda Petrovna is in the hospital. A heart attack. They took her by ambulance last night.”

The world seemed to stop. I automatically set my mug down on the windowsill, and coffee splashed onto the white surface.

“How… how is she?”

“The doctors say it’s serious. She’s still unconscious. Katya, I know you and Igor are divorced, but… she keeps asking for you. Even in her delirium she says your name.”

“And Igor? He should be the one…”

“Igor and his new wife are on vacation. In Turkey. He’s not answering his phone. I found your number in her address book.”

I closed my eyes. I never thought I’d one day be grateful that Nadezhda Petrovna hadn’t crossed my number out of her contacts.

“Which hospital is she in?”

“The Fifth City Hospital, cardiology ward.”

An hour later I was already standing at the hospital entrance. The last time I’d been in the next building over was four years ago, when I gave birth to Dasha. Back then everything was different. Back then Igor stood beside me, holding my hand, and Nadezhda Petrovna brought a huge bouquet of roses and cried with happiness as she looked at her granddaughter through the maternity ward window.

Darya… my four-year-old little girl, who was now peacefully playing in kindergarten. She sometimes asked about Grandma Nadya, even though they hadn’t seen each other for over a year. After the divorce, Nadezhda Petrovna tried to maintain contact—she would come over and bring Dasha gifts. But then Viktoria appeared, Igor’s new wife—young, beautiful, childless. And the visits stopped.

In the cardiology ward I was met by a stern nurse.

“Are you a relative?”

“I…” I hesitated. “I’m her former daughter-in-law.”

“We’re not letting relatives in right now. Only tomorrow morning.”

“Please,” I took out my phone and showed her a photo of Dasha. “This is her granddaughter. We’re the only ones who can come.”

The nurse looked closely at me, then at the photo.

“Ten minutes. No more.”

Nadezhda Petrovna was lying alone in the room, connected to a bunch of wires and tubes. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, and I was struck by how much she had changed. Her gray hair had turned completely white, her face was gaunt, and her hands on the blanket looked almost transparent.

I sat down on the chair by the bed and took her hand in mine. It was cold and so fragile.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, it’s me, Katya.”

No reaction. Only the steady beeping of the machines and her quiet breathing.

 

“You know, Dasha asked about you yesterday. She said she misses Grandma Nadya. She wants to show you how she learned to read.”

I wasn’t lying. Darya really did sometimes remember her grandmother, especially when we passed the park where Nadezhda Petrovna loved to push her on the swings.

“You have to get better. Do you hear? Dasha is waiting.”

The next day I came again, this time with Dasha. My daughter was holding a drawing—a bright house with big windows and flowers by the entrance.

“Mama, why is Grandma sleeping?” Dasha whispered, looking at the motionless figure in the bed.

“She’s very tired, sweetheart. But she can hear us.”

Dasha went closer and put the drawing on the bedside table.

“Grandma Nadya, I drew you a little house. It’s pretty, right? And I can read now. Do you want me to read you a story?”

Without waiting for an answer, Darya pulled a book out of my bag and began slowly, syllable by syllable, to read the fairy tale “Kolobok.” Her little voice sounded in the silence of the room, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda Petrovna’s breathing became just a bit more even.

“Mama, why doesn’t Daddy come to see Grandma?” Dasha asked as we were leaving the hospital.

I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to a four-year-old that her father is enjoying a vacation in Turkey while his mother is dying in a hospital?

“Daddy is far away, honey. He can’t come.”

“And will we keep coming?”

“Yes, we will.”

And we did. Every day. I came in the morning before work, and in the evening I picked Dasha up from kindergarten and we went to the hospital together. Darya would tell her grandma about her day, show her new drawings, sing songs she’d learned at kindergarten.

The doctors said her condition was stably serious. No one could say if she would regain consciousness. But I didn’t give up. Every day I bought fresh flowers, changed the water in the vase, and talked about our lives.

“You know, Nadezhda Petrovna, I got a promotion at work. I’m a lead project manager now. Remember how you said I had a talent for organizing? You were right.”

I talked to her as if she were fully awake, told her the news, shared plans. Sometimes the nurses looked at me with pity, but I paid no attention.

On the fifth day a woman of about forty in a white coat came into the room.

“Are you Ekaterina?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the head of the department, Marina Viktorovna. Tell me, are you really the patient’s former daughter-in-law?”

“Yes, but…”

“You see, usually relatives don’t show this kind of… devotion after a divorce. Especially considering that her son didn’t even bother to come.”

I felt myself blush.

“She treated me well. And Dasha loves her.”

“That’s obvious. You know, I’ve been a doctor for twenty years, and I’ve noticed that patients who are regularly visited feel better. Even in an unconscious state, they somehow sense care.”

“So we can keep coming?”

“Of course. Moreover, I wanted to tell you—this morning we saw the first signs of improvement. Her reaction to light has gotten better.”

My heart began to pound harder.

“That means…”

“It means there’s hope. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

That evening I couldn’t resist and called Igor. He didn’t pick up right away; his voice sounded annoyed.

“Katya? What’s wrong? Is something with Dasha?”

“Dasha is fine. Your mother is in intensive care. A heart attack.”

A long pause. In the background I could hear music and laughter.

“How… serious is it?”

“Very serious. She’s been unconscious for a week.”

“Damn… Katya, I can’t come now. We’re in a five-star hotel in Belek, it cost a fortune…”

“Your mother is dying, Igor.”

“Don’t say that! She’s strong, she’ll pull through. And you… thanks for looking after her. I’ll reimburse all your expenses.”

I hung up before he finished. Expenses… He thinks this is about money.

Many evenings passed. And then came the evening when Nadezhda Petrovna opened her eyes.

I was reading an article from a magazine about parenting to her when I noticed she was looking at me. Not just with open eyes—she was actually looking, clearly conscious.

“Nadezhda Petrovna!” I jumped up from the chair. “Can you hear me?”

She tried to say something, but there was a tube from the ventilator in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t try to speak, it’s okay. I’ll call the doctor.”

When the nurse rushed in, Nadezhda Petrovna was still looking at me, not taking her eyes off me. Her hand weakly squeezed mine.

They removed the tube only the next day. The first word she said, in a hoarse voice from the long silence, was:

“Katya…”

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Dasha…”

“Dasha is here too, somewhere in the hallway. She came every day and told you stories. Do you want to see her?”

A weak nod.

Darya burst into the room like a whirlwind.

“Grandma Nadya! You woke up! And I thought you were sleeping like Sleeping Beauty!”

Nadezhda Petrovna smiled—the first smile in all those days.

“My… girl…”

Dasha climbed up on the bed and gently hugged her grandmother.

“I have so much to tell you! I learned how to tie my shoelaces! And I learned a poem about autumn! Want to hear it?”

“I do…”

And then Igor appeared in the doorway. Tanned, rested, holding an expensive bouquet of flowers. Behind him stood a young woman, a bit unsure of herself—apparently Viktoria.

“Mom!” Igor walked up to the bed. “How are you feeling? Sorry I didn’t come right away, we were at the seaside when we found out…”

Nadezhda Petrovna looked at her son, then at me. Her expression was strange—not joyful, as I had expected, but somehow assessing.

“Where… were you?” she whispered.

“Well, Mom, I just told you—at the seaside. Vika and I were in Turkey on vacation. As soon as we found out, we flew back.”

“Right away?”

“Almost.” Igor glanced at me awkwardly. “Katya, have you really been coming every day?”

I shrugged.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, we should go,” I said, taking Dasha’s hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Katya…” her weak voice stopped me at the door. “Thank you…”

At home Dasha couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

“Mama, why didn’t Daddy come see Grandma when she was sleeping?”

“He was far away, honey.”

“And we were close?”

“Yes, we were close.”

“And that’s why we came?”

“Yes.”

“Mama, when people are close, they have to help each other, right?”

Out of the mouths of babes… I kissed my daughter on the forehead.

“They have to, Dashenka. They absolutely have to.”

Over the next two weeks, Nadezhda Petrovna steadily got better. We continued to visit her every day. Igor came too, but less and less often. Work, he said, business.

“Katya,” Nadezhda Petrovna said to me once when we were alone, “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

 

“About Igor. About what happened three years ago.”

I tensed up. I didn’t want to remember.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, that’s in the past…”

“No, it’s not in the past. I knew then. About his affair. I knew and kept silent.”

The world froze again. I slowly sat down in the chair.

“You knew?”

“He’s my son, Katya. I gave birth to him, raised him. Do you think a mother can fail to notice when her son has another woman? I saw how he changed, how he started lying, hiding his phone.”

“But you didn’t say anything…”

“I was a fool.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I thought I was protecting the family. I thought if I ignored the problem, it would solve itself. And then you found out on your own, and everything collapsed.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Katya, I wronged you. If I had talked to Igor back then, forced him to choose… maybe things would have turned out differently.”

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Or maybe he still would have chosen her.”

“Perhaps. But I should have tried. For your sake, for Dasha’s. I loved you, but I still betrayed you.”

I took her hand.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, we can’t change the past. But you’re alive now, and we’re here. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Katya… after Igor got married the second time, I stopped coming to see you. I thought it was the right thing to do—not to interfere, not to cause problems with Viktoria. But I missed you. I missed you and Dasha. You can’t imagine how much.”

“And I thought you just… forgot about us.”

“Never. I thought about you every day. And when the doctors say I called your name in my delirium… it’s true. I called the only person who, I knew, wouldn’t abandon me.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“But I didn’t come right away. When you called, I didn’t want to go.”

“And then you did. That matters more.”

We sat in silence, holding hands.

“Katya, I want to ask you for something.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t deprive me of my granddaughter. Please. I know I have no right to ask, but… Dasha is all I have left from that life when we were a family.”

“Nadezhda Petrovna…”

“And one more thing. I want to change my will. I have an apartment, a dacha, some savings. I want to leave everything to Dasha. Igor… he has a new family now, a new wife. And Dasha… she is my granddaughter, and she should know that her grandmother didn’t forget her.”

“There’s no need…”

“There is. I want to make things right.”

I was too choked up to speak.

“You’ll get better. We still have a lot of time ahead of us.”

“Maybe. But a heart attack is a warning. At my age, there may not be a second chance.”

When they discharged her from the hospital, I brought her home with me. “Just for a little while,” I said, until she was fully back on her feet. But we both understood she could stay as long as she wanted.

“Katya,” Igor called a week later. “What’s going on? Mom says she’s living with you.”

“Is that a problem?”

“That’s not the point… it’s just strange. We’re divorced.”

“You and I are divorced, Igor. Not your mother and me.”

“But Vika doesn’t understand…”

“Would Vika like to take care of a sick mother-in-law?”

A pause.

“Well… she’s not used to that. Her mother is still young.”

“I see. Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

And I did. Nadezhda Petrovna recovered quickly, helped around the house, took walks with Dasha, read her stories. In the evenings we had tea and talked—about life, plans, Dasha’s future.

“You know, Katya,” she said once, “only now do I understand what a real family is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s when people are there for each other not because they have to, but because they can’t do otherwise. You didn’t have to come to the hospital. You could have said, ‘She’s not my relative, not my problem.’ But you came. And you brought Dasha. Because you couldn’t do otherwise.”

“You’re not a stranger to me.”

“On paper, I am. Officially, I’m nobody to you. But you acted like a daughter. No, better than a daughter. I know families where the children don’t show this much care for their elderly parents.”

I thought of Igor and his seaside vacation.

“It just turned out that way.”

“It didn’t just ‘turn out.’ You chose. And I’m grateful to you for that.”

A month later, a notary came to our place. As she’d promised, Nadezhda Petrovna changed her will. All her property was left to Dasha.

“Are you sure?” the notary asked. “What about your son?”

“My son has everything he needs. And my granddaughter will live in my apartment.”

That same evening Igor called. His voice was indignant.

“Katya, what is this? Mom changed her will in favor of Dasha?”

“That’s her right.”

“What do you mean, her right? I’m her only son! I’ll prove to any judge that the ex-daughter-in-law is manipulating an elderly woman!”

“Igor, calm down. No one manipulated anyone. Your mother is of sound mind and made her own decision.”

“She’s under your influence! Katya, I get that you want money, but this is wrong.”

I looked out the window. In the yard, Nadezhda Petrovna was playing with Dasha in the sandbox.

“You know what, Igor? When your mother was in intensive care, I wasn’t thinking about money. When she was learning to walk again after the heart attack, I wasn’t thinking about inheritance. When Dasha read her fairy tales every evening—we weren’t thinking about a will. We just loved her.”

“And what, I don’t love my mother?”

“I don’t know. You tell me—where were you when she was dying?”

A long pause.

“I didn’t know…”

“You did. I called you. And you were having fun in Turkey.”

“Katya…”

“Igor, your mother is alive. She’s healthy. We’re happy. If you want to be part of her life—you’re welcome. If not—don’t interfere with ours.”

I hung up and realized that for the first time in three years, I felt truly free.

In the evening, after Dasha fell asleep, I sat in the kitchen having tea with Nadezhda Petrovna.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

“Regret what?”

“Getting involved with me. With a sick old woman who gets in the way of your personal life.”

I laughed.

“When I was married to your son, I had a mother-in-law. Now I have a mom. Feel the difference?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you, daughter.”

“No, thank you. For teaching me that family isn’t a stamp in a passport. It’s the choice to stay by someone’s side every day.”

Outside, the first snow was falling. Tomorrow Dasha would definitely want to build a snowman. And Nadezhda Petrovna and I would stand at the window, drinking hot tea and watching our child play.

Ours. Because family is the people who are there when it matters. The ones who come to the hospital every day. The ones who read fairy tales and build snowmen. The ones who didn’t lift a finger three years ago—but are ready to reach out a hand today.

Family is a choice. And we’ve made ours