All Amazing Babies

Lena stood at the window, staring at the rain-slick asphalt below. The downpour blurred the border between the sidewalk and the street until everything melted into one dull, gray smear. Her phone buzzed in her pocket — Igor. She rejected the call and muted the ringer.

Three days earlier, she had closed the savings deposit.

Seven hundred and eighty thousand rubles they’d been putting away for four years. Half of it was hers — bonuses and vacation pay she’d never touched while Igor kept buying his mother a new TV, paying for her health-resort voucher, replacing the plumbing in her apartment. The other half was “joint” on paper too, though Lena had long stopped understanding where their family money ended and Nina Petrovna’s needs began.

“Len, open up!” Igor was pounding on the bedroom door. “I know you’re home!”

She opened it. He stood in the doorway with a bank statement in his hand, his face flushed, his tie shoved to one side.

“Did you really close the deposit? I promised that money to my mom!” He waved the paper inches from her face. “We had an agreement!”

“An agreement?” Lena leaned against the doorframe. “Igor, we agreed to save for our apartment. Then a car. Then a vacation together. And what did we actually do? Your mom got a new kitchen, new windows, a trip to a sanatorium…”

“She’s alone! Her pension is tiny!”

“My mom’s pension is even smaller. And she’s alone too. And I don’t remember you ever offering to buy her anything — not once.”

Igor’s jaw tightened. Lena knew that look — now he would explain how life “really” worked and how she didn’t understand the most basic things.

“Your mother lives in her own house. She’s got a garden. She’s not destitute. My mom’s in the city, in an old apartment. She needs help.”

“In a house with no proper heating,” Lena said calmly. “Where she stuffs the cracks with jute every fall. But that doesn’t count, does it? Because she has a garden.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times!”

“Yes. We have. And a hundred times I heard the same lines: ‘Lena, be patient,’ ‘Lena, Mom truly needs it,’ ‘Lena, you understand.’”

Igor stepped into the room and tossed the printout onto the table.

“You had no right to close it without my permission.”

“The account was in my name. I had every right.”

“Half the money is mine!”

“Your half has been living with your mother for years — as appliances, renovations, and whatever else she wanted. I counted it. In four years you poured a huge amount into her. Now I took my share.”

He stared at her as if he’d never really seen her before. Confusion flickered — then anger flooded in.

“Where did you put the money?”

“I spent it on something I need.”

“On what?!”

“On tickets. I’m taking my mom to Anapa. The day after tomorrow.”

The silence turned so solid Lena could hear the wall clock ticking in the entryway. Nina Petrovna had bought that clock — cheap, loud, and relentless, grating on Lena every evening.

“You’re joking,” Igor said slowly.

“No. We’re going for three weeks. I’m renting a small cottage by the sea for Mom and me. She’s wanted to go south in the fall, to warm water, for years — and she never had the money. Now she does.”

“Lena, Mom’s expecting a dacha. I promised her we’d buy a dacha! She already picked out a plot, she’s been there, she’s seen it all!”

You promised her. Not ‘we.’ You.”

 

“We’re family!”

“Family?” Lena smiled wearily. “Igor, when was the last time we took a vacation just the two of us? When was the last time you asked what I want? Not your mom. Not your relatives. Me.”

He didn’t answer.

Lena walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a bag, and started packing.

“Len, wait. Let’s talk normally.”

“We’ve talked normally so many times. It always ends the same way: you run to your mother, complain about me, and then she calls me to explain what an ungrateful woman I am — as if I should be grateful that my money goes not to us, but to her.”

“She raised me alone!”

“I know. You’ve told me two hundred times. And you know what? My mother raised me alone too. After my father left, she worked two jobs and went hungry so I could eat. But for some reason, that doesn’t give me the right to spend all our money on her.”

Igor sat on the edge of the bed, head lowered. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“So what am I supposed to tell my mom now?”

Lena stopped, a folded sweater hanging from her hands.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Not that I’m leaving. Not that I’m miserable. But what you’ll say to your mom?”

“She was counting on that money!”

“And I was counting on a husband!” Lena snapped. “On a man who would think about me sometimes. On us having a life of our own — not this endless service to someone else’s demands!”

“Someone else’s? That’s my mother!”

“Your mother who calls you five times a day. Who suddenly ‘gets sick’ every time we plan to go anywhere. Who ‘drops by’ and stays for a week. And you don’t even see how it looks.”

“Are you jealous of my mother? That’s ridiculous.”

“No, Igor. It’s sad.”

She zipped the bag. In the hallway Igor’s phone rang again. Lena had no doubt — Nina Petrovna.

“Answer it,” Lena said. “Tell her what a monster I am. Tell her I stole the money you promised her.”

Igor snatched the phone, glanced at the screen, and tossed it onto the couch.

“Don’t.”

“Why not? You always answer. At the cinema, in restaurants, even in the middle of the night. Remember our anniversary in that hotel — she called at one a.m. because her remote didn’t work, and you spent half an hour explaining how to change the batteries.”

“Lena, enough.”

“No, it’s not enough! I’m tired of being second. Tired of hearing I’m cruel, that I don’t understand, that I have no heart. I’ve endured it for six years. Six years of smiling while your mother comes in and teaches me how to cook, how to clean, how to behave with you. Six years of hearing how wonderful your ex was — the one who never objected to all those calls and visits.”

“Leave Olya alone.”

“With pleasure. Except you’re the one who keeps using her as a measuring stick: ‘Olya baked pies,’ ‘Olya never complained,’ ‘Olya understood how important Mom is to me.’ Want to know why Olya left? She left for the same reason I’m leaving.”

Igor lifted his head. There was something in his eyes that looked like fear.

“You’re not leaving. You’re going on vacation.”

“I don’t know,” Lena said honestly. “I truly don’t know. Maybe three weeks away from you and your mother will help me understand what I should do next.”

“Len, I love you.”

“And I love you,” she said quietly. “But it’s not enough. Because you love your mother too — and whenever you have to choose between us, you always choose her.”

She picked up the bag and walked into the hallway. Igor followed.

“Wait. Let’s sit down, talk. We’ll find a solution.”

“Igor, I’m exhausted from finding solutions. I suggested couples therapy — you refused. I asked you to limit your mother’s visits — you got offended. I wanted us to go to the sea together at least once — you said you couldn’t leave your mother alone for that long. Every time, I gave in. This time, you give in.”

“By giving away our money?”

Lena turned back and met his eyes.

“It hasn’t been ‘our’ money in a long time, Igor. It was your mother’s money that just happened to still be sitting in an account. I simply took what I was owed.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. Wet leaves shone under the streetlights. Lena called a taxi and went to her friend Svetka’s place.

“You left?” Svetka opened the door in pajamas, holding a glass of water.

“I left.”

“Come in. Want wine?”

“I do.”

They sat in the kitchen, and Lena talked — not for the first time, but tonight everything finally formed one clear picture. How Igor consulted his mother about every decision. How Nina Petrovna had keys to their apartment and could show up whenever she pleased. How money flowed to her in an endless stream.

“Do you know what’s the scariest part?” Lena finished her second glass. “I started to hate her. Truly hate her. And that feels wrong. She’s just an old woman used to her son fixing everything. But I hate her because, because of her, I barely have a family at all.”

“Igor’s a good person,” Svetka said thoughtfully. “I’ve known him since university. Kind, decent, loyal.”

“Yeah,” Lena said bitterly. “Loyal to his mother.”

“Do you think it’s over?”

Lena looked out the window. Somewhere nearby Igor was probably explaining everything to his mother. Nina Petrovna would shake her head, cry, say she’d always known Lena wasn’t right for her son. Tomorrow she’d bring him pies, comfort him, repeat that good women are rare these days and he shouldn’t be upset.

“I don’t know,” Lena admitted. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

In the morning Igor texted: “I’m sorry. Let’s meet and talk.” Lena didn’t reply. Their train to Anapa left at six in the evening.

They met Lena’s mother at the station — small, thin, sun-browned, in a faded sweater washed too many times.

“My girl,” her mother hugged her tight. “You’ve gotten so thin.”

“It’s the nerves, Mom.”

They boarded the train. When it started moving, Lena burst into tears. Her mother sat beside her in silence and stroked her hair the way she used to when Lena was little.

“Tell me,” her mother said simply.

And Lena told her everything — with nothing hidden. How tired she was, how guilty she felt even though she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. How she was afraid to be alone, but even more afraid to go back.

“Do you remember why I never remarried after your father?” her mother asked.

“You used to say you didn’t meet anyone.”

“Not exactly. I did. I met good men. But they all wanted me to be convenient — to adjust, to keep quiet, to endure. And I was tired of enduring. After your father — after the drinking and the violence — I understood: better alone than living like that.”

“Igor doesn’t drink. And he doesn’t hit me.”

“I know,” her mother said softly. “But he does what your father did: he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t hear you.”

“Mom… maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I really should’ve helped with the dacha.”

“You can help,” her mother replied. “If someone asks you, if you talk it through, if you decide together. But when something is taken from you without even asking — that isn’t help.”

When they arrived, they found a small house by the sea — two rooms, a kitchen, and a terrace with a view of the water. The owner, an elderly Armenian woman, tried to charge a high price, but when she learned Lena had come with her mother, she softened and gave them a discount.

“A mother brings joy into a home,” she said. “Rest, girls.”

For the first time in years, Lena felt her breathing become easy. They walked along the shore, collected shells, cooked dinner together. Her mother told childhood stories Lena had forgotten. They laughed, drank wine on the terrace, watched the sunsets.

Igor called every day. First he begged. Then he sulked. Then he grew almost aggressive: “You can’t just leave and disappear,” “I have to solve your problems back here,” “Mom is very worried.” Lena listened, but she refused to discuss coming back.

On the tenth day he sent a voice message. He talked for a long time, stumbling over words. He said he’d gone to a therapist — alone, for the first time in his life. That he was starting to understand some things. That he’d talked to his mother, and it had been a brutal conversation. That he loved Lena and was ready to change.

“What will you answer?” her mother asked.

“Nothing yet,” Lena said. “Let him be patient — the way I was patient.”

But two days later Igor came in person. He had quietly gotten their address from Lena’s mother. He knocked on the cottage door in the evening while Lena and her mother were finishing tea on the terrace.

“Lena… can we talk?”

He looked unshaven and rumpled, wearing a wrinkled jacket. Lena stepped outside.

“Why did you come?”

“For you,” he said. “Forgive me. I should’ve done this sooner. I should’ve heard you sooner.”

“Igor—”

“Wait. Let me say it. I did go to a therapist. Three times already. And she explained… no — she helped me see what I’m doing. How I keep putting my mother’s needs above yours. How I use you without meaning to. How I turned our family into some twisted setup where Mom is the main person and you’re a secondary character.”

“And now you understand?”

“I do,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m ashamed. So ashamed, Len. I talked to Mom. I told her we’re not buying a dacha. That I’m married, and my wife is the most important woman in my life. If she wants a dacha, she can save for it or sell something of her own. But our money is ours.”

Lena stayed silent. The words were right. But she’d heard “right words” from him before — after every fight — and then everything slid back to normal.

“How did she take it?” Lena asked.

“She cried. Accused me of being cold. Then she didn’t answer my calls for two days. Yesterday she called and apologized. Said she never wanted to destroy our family — that she’d just gotten used to leaning on me and didn’t notice she’d crossed the line.”

“And you believe her?”

“I want to,” he admitted. “But more than anything, I want you to come back. If you want, we’ll move to another city. Or I’ll tell Mom she can only visit when invited. Or whatever you need. Just tell me — what would it take for you to come back?”

Lena looked at the sea. The moon laid a wide, silver path across the water. She wanted to believe him. She wanted hope. But six years had taught her caution.

“I need time,” she said quietly. “To understand whether this is just temporary clarity. To see if anything truly changes.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. A month. Three. I don’t know, Igor.”

He nodded. In his eyes there was something new — not resentment, not confusion. Fear. Fear of losing the woman he loved.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

He left. Lena returned to the terrace where her mother pretended she hadn’t been listening.

 

“He came,” Lena said.

“I see. And?”

“I don’t know, Mom. He’s saying the right things. But I’m tired of right things.”

“Then wait for actions,” her mother said firmly. “Words are cheap. Actions tell you everything.”

Two months passed. Lena went back to the city — but she rented a small apartment on her own. Igor called, they met, they talked. He really did keep going to therapy. He really did set boundaries with his mother — no more uninvited visits, no more five calls a day. Once Nina Petrovna tried to throw a tantrum, and Igor calmly told her he wouldn’t discuss it.

One day Nina Petrovna called Lena herself and asked to meet. They sat in a café with tea, and for the first time in all those years Lena saw her not as an enemy, but as an aging woman terrified of loneliness.

“I didn’t want to steal your husband,” Nina Petrovna said. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it looked like. I thought… if he needs me, then I’m not alone. Then my life isn’t over.”

“He wouldn’t have abandoned you anyway,” Lena replied. “But there had to be room for me too.”

“I know that now,” Nina Petrovna whispered. “I’m sorry. If you can forgive me.”

Lena didn’t answer. But something inside her shifted — not forgiveness yet, but the possibility of it someday.

In March, Lena and Igor went to the sea. Just the two of them. For a week. He turned off his phone, and they simply existed together — for the first time in years. They walked, talked, laughed, spent time as if they were discovering each other again.

“I missed you,” Igor said on the last evening. “The real you — the one who laughs and isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.”

“I missed you too,” Lena said. “This version of you — the one who actually hears me.”

She came home again. To their shared apartment, where she took down the loud Chinese clock and hung a painting she’d been looking for a place for for ages. Igor didn’t object.

“This is our home,” he said simply. “You have the right to decide what belongs where.”

And for the first time in years, Lena believed — maybe they could make it. Maybe a family isn’t about one person being more important. Maybe it’s about hearing each other… even if it took running to the edge of the country and closing that deposit to finally learn how.

The key wouldn’t work.

Inna stood on the fifth-floor landing with her suitcase at her feet, trying to understand what was wrong. The key slipped into the lock, but after that the metal hit something new—something foreign. She tried again. And again. No use.

She pressed the doorbell.

Footsteps sounded inside. The door opened a crack, held by a chain. In the narrow gap appeared Margarita Pavlovna’s face. Her mother-in-law looked at her the way people look at someone asking for spare change.

“You don’t live here anymore,” Margarita Pavlovna said. “My son dumped you.”

Inna stared at her in silence, then asked:

“What did you say?”

“Kirill decided everything. He changed the lock, and I came to support him. You’re always away—he’s tired. Pack your things and get out.”

The door slammed.

The click of the lock was loud—final.

Inna stood there staring at the door of her apartment. The one she paid for. The one whose documents were in her bag. Without looking away from the door, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

“Pyotr Nikolaevich? I need help. Immediately.”

Forty minutes later the lawyer arrived with the local police officer. Inna showed her paperwork—the purchase contract in her name, the registry extract. The officer nodded and wrote something down.

They went upstairs. Inna rang again. Margarita Pavlovna didn’t open right away—something rustled behind the door for about three minutes, then the chain scraped.

“What else do you need? I already told you—”

The officer held up his ID.

“Open the door. You are unlawfully inside someone else’s apartment.”

“Someone else’s? My son is registered here!”

“Registration doesn’t grant ownership,” Pyotr Nikolaevich said. “Open it voluntarily, or we’ll have it forced.”

Margarita Pavlovna tried to argue, but the officer cut in sharply:

“Open it now, or I’m calling a unit. Decide.”

With a grating sound, the chain slid off. The door swung wide.

The entryway smelled wrong—an overly sweet air freshener Inna had never bought. Her mother-in-law’s jacket hung on the rack; her slippers sat on the shelf. Inna walked into the room.

A sofa pillow was wrinkled—pink, covered in tiny flowers. Dirty dishes and scraps cluttered the table. Margarita Pavlovna had moved in. Settled. Made herself comfortable.

“Where’s Kirill?” Inna asked.

“At work,” her mother-in-law said, arms crossed. “He’ll come back and tell you himself.”

“Call him. Tell him to come.”

“I’m not bothering him!”

“Call him,” the officer repeated, “or we’ll contact him ourselves.”

Margarita Pavlovna pressed her lips together, pulled out her phone, and spoke in short, nervous bursts. She ended the call.

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

 

Inna sat on the edge of the sofa. Margarita Pavlovna paced the room, muttering to herself, but saying nothing aloud. The silence pressed down. The officer stood near the door. Pyotr Nikolaevich flipped through papers.

Fifteen minutes later, a key turned in the lock.

Kirill came in pale, sweat on his forehead. His gaze darted between Inna, his mother, and the officer. He opened his mouth—then said nothing.

“Explain what’s going on,” Inna said quietly.

He swallowed and looked at his mother. Margarita Pavlovna stepped forward:

“Kirill is exhausted by your constant trips, you understand? You earn money while he sits here alone. It’s hard for a man when his wife makes more. You humiliate him with your business trips and your bakery. He works as a driver—modestly—while you keep proving who’s the boss!”

Inna didn’t take her eyes off Kirill.

“Is that true? Is that what you think?”

Silence. He licked his lips and rubbed his face with his palm.

“Mom… don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t’?” Margarita Pavlovna spun toward him. “Am I lying? You complained to me yourself—you said she doesn’t appreciate you!”

“Mom, please stop.”

“I won’t stop! Say it yourself—are you a man or not?”

Inna stood and stepped right up to Kirill. He backed away until his shoulders hit the wall.

“Kirill,” she said slowly, looking him in the eyes, “did you change the lock on my apartment?”

He stared at the floor.

“And you brought your mother here so she could speak for you?”

Silence.

“Kirill, you’re thirty-seven. Say one word.”

Nothing. Just heavy breathing and restless eyes.

“Leave him alone!” Margarita Pavlovna shoved herself between them. “Kirill, don’t listen to her! We’ll go now—you’ll live with me, and she can sit here alone with her money!”

“Ma’am,” the officer raised a hand, “don’t interfere. Let him answer.”

At last Kirill lifted his head. He tried to smile—weak, crooked.

“Inna, look… can we just talk calmly? I didn’t want it like this…”

“Did you change the lock or not?”

“Well… yes. But Mom advised it—said it would be better while we figure things out…”

“Figure out what?” Inna felt the cold spread inside her. “Figure out that this apartment is mine? That I dragged you along for five years while you went whining to your mother about how hard your life is?”

He went even paler.

“I didn’t whine…”

“Yes, you did!” Margarita Pavlovna snapped. “Don’t lie now!”

Inna turned slowly to her mother-in-law.

“You will pack your things and leave my apartment. Right now.”

“How can you say that? And Kirill?”

“Kirill too.”

“What?!” Margarita Pavlovna lunged forward, but the officer stepped between them.

“Inna, wait,” Kirill mumbled. “We can talk this through…”

“There’s nothing to talk through,” Inna said, and felt a strange calm settle over her. “You made your choice when you changed the lock. When you hid behind your mother’s skirt. You chose. Pack up.”

Margarita Pavlovna screamed for ten minutes—about injustice, about Inna destroying the family, about how she was “the mother” and had rights. Pyotr Nikolaevich patiently explained the law and the rights of the legal owner. The officer added that if she didn’t leave voluntarily, she would be removed.

Her mother-in-law threw her things into a bag with loud thuds, slammed closet doors. Kirill stood in the corner silent, twisting his phone in his hands. Inna sat on the sofa and stared out the window. Nothing tugged at her, nothing ached—only emptiness and relief.

Margarita Pavlovna appeared in the hallway with an overstuffed bag and turned back at the threshold.

“You’ll regret this! He’s a good man, and you never valued him!”

Inna looked up at her.

“A good man doesn’t hide behind someone else,” she said softly. “And he doesn’t change locks in someone else’s home. Leave.”

Her mother-in-law wanted to answer, but the officer nodded toward the door. She stomped out loudly.

Kirill packed a backpack—jacket, documents, charger. He came up to Inna and stopped a couple of steps away.

“Can I call you later?”

Inna studied him for a long moment. She saw what she hadn’t noticed before—weakness, childishness, the habit of dumping responsibility on anyone else as long as it wasn’t him.

“Call me when you grow up,” she said. “If that ever happens.”

He nodded, lowered his head, and left. From the landing, Margarita Pavlovna’s voice was already audible—explaining, justifying, making excuses. Inna closed the door and turned the key.

A new lock—one the locksmith installed while her mother-in-law packed.

She went into the room and threw the window wide open. Cold air rushed in, pushing out the cloying, artificial smell of that чужой air freshener. She gathered the dirty dishes from the table. She shoved the pink flowered pillow into a trash bag. She erased the traces of someone else’s presence methodically, calmly.

Pyotr Nikolaevich explained how to file for divorce and left her his contacts. When he left, Inna sat on the sofa and looked at the empty room.

Quiet. Clean. Hers.

She didn’t cry. She just sat there and understood that she’d spent five years with a man who never grew up—who waited for her to stop being strong instead of becoming support himself.

The next day she filed for divorce.

Kirill didn’t call. Margarita Pavlovna sent a message: “You’ll regret it. You’ll end up alone.” Inna deleted it without replying.

 

A week later she boxed up his things—the ones he hadn’t taken—and drove them to Margarita Pavlovna’s building. She left the boxes by the door, rang the bell, and walked away without waiting.

A month after that, Inna ran into Margarita Pavlovna’s former neighbor in a store. The woman told her eagerly: Kirill was living with his mother, sleeping on a folding cot in her tiny one-room apartment. They fought every day. Margarita Pavlovna complained to anyone who would listen that her son had turned into a freeloader, that she couldn’t get a moment’s peace, that he sat on his phone all day and did nothing around the house.

Inna listened and felt something light unfurl inside her—almost joyful. Not gloating. Just fairness. Margarita Pavlovna had dreamed of controlling someone else’s life, and instead she ended up stuck with a grown child on her neck—the very child she had raised that way.

Inna thanked the neighbor and walked on—to her car, to her apartment, to her life. A life where no one changed locks, no one resented her success, and no one hid behind someone else’s back.

She simply closed the door.

And it turned out to be easier than she ever thought.

Marina first understood that something was off about three months after the wedding.

She and Denis had stopped by his mother’s for Sunday lunch, and Galina Petrovna barely waited for Marina to step into the kitchen for the salad bowl before lowering her voice and starting a conversation with her sister—one that was clearly about Marina.

“…she can’t cook at all, can you imagine?” Marina heard through the half-open door. “Denis told me it’s dumplings and pasta every single day. And I raised him on real home food…”

Marina froze, the bowl in her hands. Her cheeks burned. First, it wasn’t true—she cooked every evening and tried to keep their meals varied. Second, even if it had been true, what right did her mother-in-law have to dissect her in front of relatives?

When they got home, Marina asked Denis to speak to his mother.

“It really hurts that she talks about me behind my back,” Marina said, trying to stay calm. “And she makes things up. I do cook every day.”

Denis sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Ignore it. That’s just Mom—she likes to talk. She doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“But it still feels awful,” Marina replied. “Please talk to her.”

Denis promised. Marina let herself believe that would be the end of it.

Two weeks later, they were at Galina Petrovna’s again. This time Denis’s cousin Sveta came by with her boyfriend. The table was lively and loud; Marina relaxed and laughed along with Sveta’s jokes. Then Marina had to step away—her mother called with something urgent. She went into the hallway so she could speak quietly.

The call took five minutes. When Marina returned, she sensed the change immediately. Sveta was looking at her with a strange curiosity, her boyfriend seemed embarrassed, and Galina Petrovna sat wearing an innocent expression while slicing pie into neat pieces.

That evening on the drive home, Denis stayed silent for a long time. Then he said:

“Mom told Sveta you’re very demanding. That you keep forcing me to do renovations, buy new furniture, even though the old stuff is still fine.”

Something clenched inside Marina—hurt and anger tightening into one knot.

“That’s not true!” she burst out. “We decided together to redo the bedroom because the wallpaper was literally peeling off from the Soviet days! And we picked furniture together—you were the one who wanted a new sofa!”

“I know,” Denis said, tired. “I told her that. She got offended that I’m ‘taking your side’ and ‘going against her.’”

“But you talked to her after the first time, right? You promised!”

“I did. She said it’s nonsense—that you can tell relatives anything, because they’re ‘our own people.’”

Marina leaned back in the seat, watching streetlights slide past the window.

“Then tell her again,” she said. “More clearly. It genuinely upsets me. I don’t want to be turned into a topic for gossip.”

Denis promised again. But deep down Marina was already realizing that conversations wouldn’t fix this. Something else would have to.

And Galina Petrovna seemed to enjoy it. After each “serious talk” with her son, she came back even more energized, as if she were doing it on purpose. At a family dinner at Denis’s aunt’s home—where the newlyweds had been invited—his mother managed to complain about Marina to several people at once: Marinochka never visits, Marinochka won’t learn the family’s special recipes, Marinochka made Denis refuse a trip to the parents’ dacha.

The last one was completely absurd. They didn’t go because Marina had an important work presentation on Monday and needed the weekend to prepare. Denis had suggested staying home himself—he’d called his mother himself and explained.

After that dinner, Marina came home in tears. All evening she felt relatives’ odd looks, heard the meaningful silences when she entered a room. One aunt even pulled her aside and said:

“Marinka, sweetheart, don’t be afraid of Galina. She’s kind. She’s just trying to help—in her own way. Young couples always have a hard time adjusting.”

Help? Marina thought bitterly as she wiped her tears. How is it help when someone is painted as selfish and a terrible wife?

That night was heavy. She and Denis lay awake for a long time talking—really, Marina talked while Denis listened, his face caught between love for his wife and a lifelong instinct not to clash with his mother.

“I understand she’s your mother,” Marina said once she’d calmed down. “But I’m your wife. I deserve basic respect. I can’t live in a situation where every choice I make becomes material for judgment and whispers among your relatives.”

“I’ll talk to her again,” Denis said, exhausted. “I promise—this time it will be serious.”

Marina looked at him—the person she loved, the man she wanted to grow old with—and understood: serious talks wouldn’t help here. Galina Petrovna clearly got something out of it. Maybe she loved being the center of attention by handing out “inside information” about her son’s life. Or maybe, somewhere deep inside, she still hadn’t accepted Marina, and this was how she punished her for being the choice Denis made.

“Denis,” Marina said slowly, “tell your mother this from me: if she does it even one more time, I will shame her in front of the entire family. I’m not joking.”

Denis flinched.

“Marinka… that’s a threat.”

“It’s a warning,” Marina said firmly. “I gave her chances. I asked politely through you. She doesn’t listen. Worse—she acts like she’s mocking me by doing it more and more. Let her understand I have a limit.”

“But what can you—”

“Repeat my words. Exactly.”

Denis did. Or he tried to. He called his mother the next day, and Marina heard only his side of the conversation.

“Mom, Marina is very serious about this… No, she’s not asking—she’s saying… if you don’t stop discussing her with relatives… Mom, please don’t interrupt. She said she’ll humiliate you if it continues. No, I don’t know exactly how, but she’s not joking…”

Galina Petrovna’s outraged voice spilled out of the phone. Denis listened with a deep frown.

“Mom, I’m on Marina’s side here. You are actually wrong… Mom! It’s not normal to discuss your daughter-in-law behind her back—and lie about her while you’re at it!”

After that call Denis stayed gloomy all evening.

“She’s offended,” he said. “She says I’ve become a bad son and you’re turning me against my own mother.”

Marina didn’t answer. She was boiling inside, but she understood Denis wasn’t having an easy time either. He was caught between two fires.

For three weeks there was peace. Galina Petrovna didn’t call, didn’t invite them over. Marina hoped the warning had worked—that her mother-in-law had finally grasped the seriousness of it.

Then came Denis’s grandfather’s birthday—Galina Petrovna’s father. Ninety years old. A big family celebration at a café. They couldn’t refuse, and Marina didn’t want to; the old man was kind and had always treated her warmly.

They arrived among the first. The table was already set, relatives were gathering. Marina greeted Grandpa and handed him her gift—an album of family photos she had compiled and decorated herself. The old man pressed it to his chest, genuinely touched.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “That’s a gift from the heart.”

Marina smiled and stepped aside. Denis was talking to an uncle. An aunt arrived with her husband, then Sveta came with her parents. The room gradually filled with people.

Then Galina Petrovna appeared, accompanied by her sister Valentina. They greeted the birthday man and moved to the table. Galina Petrovna scanned the room, spotted Marina—and something flickered across her face. Marina understood instantly: nothing had changed.

The celebration started. Toasts were made, stories were shared. It felt warm, homelike, genuinely family. Marina began to relax, thinking perhaps she’d been worrying for nothing.

Then she had to step out—her mother called and asked Marina to pass along her congratulations and best wishes. The conversation took about ten minutes.

When Marina returned, the atmosphere was strange again. Sveta, sitting beside her, looked away guiltily. Denis’s cousin stared at Marina with open curiosity. And Galina Petrovna, at the far end of the table, was chatting animatedly with Valentina.

Marina sat down. Denis leaned close and whispered:

“Mom again… She was talking about you.”

Something snapped into place inside Marina. Cold fury spread through her veins. She looked at Denis, then at his mother. Galina Petrovna turned at that moment and met Marina’s eyes—and in that look was everything: triumph, challenge, complete certainty she would never be held accountable.

Marina stood. Denis caught her hand.

“Marinka, don’t…”

But she pulled free and walked firmly to the other end of the table where Galina Petrovna sat. Conversations quieted—everyone sensed something unusual unfolding.

“Galina Petrovna,” Marina said loudly and clearly, “I’d like to say something. In front of everyone. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Her mother-in-law went pale.

“Marina, I don’t understand—”

“You will,” Marina said evenly. Then she turned to the gathered relatives. Her heart was pounding, but her voice stayed calm and solid. “I want all of you to know how Galina Petrovna truly treats her relatives. Because what she says to your faces is very different from what she says behind your backs.”

“Marina!” Galina Petrovna sprang up. “How dare you?!”

“The same way you do,” Marina answered, unruffled. “You discuss me with relatives. I’m simply going to share what I’ve heard you say about them.”

The silence in the room became absolute.

“For example—Valentina,” Marina turned to her mother-in-law’s sister. “Galina Petrovna once told me you’re a slob and your home is always a mess. That you raised your children badly because Sveta couldn’t get married until she was almost thirty.”

Valentina gasped, staring at her sister. Sveta went white.

“And Boris Mikhailovich,” Marina continued, looking at Denis’s uncle. “Galina Petrovna complained that you’re stingy—that you always try to avoid pitching in for celebrations, even though you earn the most in the family.”

“Stop!” Galina Petrovna shouted, but Marina couldn’t—and wouldn’t—stop now.

“And about Tatyana Sergeyevna,” she nodded toward another aunt by marriage, “you said she’s an upstart who puts on airs because she works at a cosmetology clinic. That she isn’t good enough for our family.”

Tatyana Sergeyevna stiffened, and her husband’s face darkened.

“And about you, Grandpa,” Marina said softly, turning with sadness to the birthday man. “Galina Petrovna once said she’s tired of your constant calls and requests. That you’ve become too demanding in your old age.”

The old man turned pale, as if struck.

“I heard all of this personally,” Marina finished. “Over these few months of my marriage to Denis. Galina Petrovna talked about each of you when you weren’t there. She said these things to me—probably thinking I’d join her, become her partner in gossip. I didn’t. And when I asked her to stop discussing me behind my back, she refused. So I decided you deserve to know what she truly thinks of all of you.”

She turned back to her mother-in-law. Galina Petrovna sat white as paper, her lips trembling.

“I warned you,” Marina said quietly. “I asked. I pleaded through Denis. But you didn’t stop. You believed you were allowed to do anything.”

“You… you…” Galina Petrovna couldn’t form the words. Tears streamed down her face. “How dare you…”

“I dared to do what you’ve been doing all along,” Marina replied. “Only I told the truth. I didn’t invent stories to smear someone.”

She returned to her seat. The room erupted—everyone speaking at once. Valentina hissed furiously at her sister, Boris Mikhailovich gestured red-faced, Tatyana Sergeyevna wiped away tears. Grandpa sat in silence, staring at his daughter with an expression that was pure disappointment and bitterness.

Denis took Marina’s hand. She expected to see condemnation in his eyes, but she saw only sadness—and understanding.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing for us to do here anymore.”

They stood and walked toward the exit. At the door Marina glanced back. Galina Petrovna stared at her through tears, hatred so thick it made Marina’s skin crawl. But beneath it was something else too: shock—the shock of someone suddenly realizing that actions have consequences.

In the car they sat in silence. Denis started the engine but didn’t drive off.

“You knew all this time?” he asked at last. “That she talked about everyone like that?”

“Yes,” Marina said, staring out the window. “She started almost right after the wedding. I think she wanted to bond with me—find common ground by discussing other people. I tried not to support it, but she kept going. Then she started talking about me too. And I realized it’s simply her way—speaking about people behind their backs.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because she’s your mother. I hoped I could solve it without dragging you into the details. I thought she’d stop if someone asked her to.” Marina turned toward him. “I’m sorry. I ruined Grandpa’s birthday.”

Denis shook his head.

“No. Mom did that. A long time ago. Today it just came out into the open.”

He put the car in gear and drove. They rode in silence. Marina felt hollow. Part of her hated that it had come to this. Another part knew there was no other way. Galina Petrovna didn’t respond to normal requests, didn’t hear warnings. She thought she could do anything without consequences.

At home Denis wrapped his arms around his wife.

“I’m on your side,” he said. “I always was. I just didn’t know how to stop Mom without making a scene. And you—you weren’t afraid.”

“I didn’t want a scene,” Marina admitted. “Honestly. I hoped until the last minute she’d stop.”

“I know.”

Denis’s phone rang. He looked at the screen—Mom. He didn’t answer. The phone kept ringing all evening. Then Marina’s phone started ringing too. She didn’t pick up either.

The next day Grandpa called. He talked to Denis for a long time. Marina couldn’t hear what he said, but when Denis hung up, relief was written all over his face.

“Grandpa said he understands you,” Denis told Marina. “And he’ll talk to Mom. He said he suspected she had that habit, but he didn’t realize it was this serious. And he said he’s ashamed of his daughter.”

Marina nodded. It shouldn’t be only Grandpa who felt ashamed, she thought. Galina Petrovna should feel ashamed too—before all the people she smiled at to their faces and tore down behind their backs.

For a week there was no word from Galina Petrovna. Then Valentina called.

“Marina,” her voice sounded tired, “I want to talk to you. Without Galina. Can we meet?”

They met at a café near Marina’s home. Valentina looked worn out.

“We all spoke to Galina,” she began. “After that birthday. She admitted a lot. She said yes, she discussed people—but she didn’t think it hurt this much. She just… got used to it.”

“Used to hurting people?” Marina gave a bitter half-smile.

“Used to being the center of attention that way,” Valentina sighed. “She’s always been like that—even as a child. She liked knowing things about others and sharing them. It made her feel important. Before, it was harmless chatter. But now… she crossed a line and didn’t even notice when it happened.”

Marina stayed quiet.

“She wants to apologize to you,” Valentina continued. “But she’s afraid. After what happened, she doesn’t know if you could forgive her.”

“Did she apologize to everyone else?” Marina asked. “To you, to Uncle, to all of them?”

“Yes,” Valentina nodded. “We gathered at Grandpa’s last week and she asked each person for forgiveness. It was hard—for everyone. But it was necessary.”

Marina thought for a moment. Part of her was still furious. But another part understood that life goes on, and holding anger forever would only hurt her and Denis.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be around her right now,” Marina said slowly. “I need time. But I… I understand she’s your sister and Denis’s mother. I don’t want to destroy the relationship completely. I just need time—and clear boundaries.”

“There will show boundaries,” Valentina promised. “All of us understood. Galina too. She swore she’d never again discuss you—or anyone in the family—behind their backs.”

Marina went home and told Denis about the conversation. He hugged her.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not cutting her off completely. For giving it a chance.”

“I didn’t do it for her,” Marina admitted honestly. “I did it for you. And for us.”

A month later they met Galina Petrovna for the first time since the party. It was brief, tense, full of pauses and careful words. Her mother-in-law apologized—awkwardly, searching for phrases as if they physically hurt. Marina accepted the apology, even though she wasn’t ready to forgive completely.

But it was a beginning. Slow and difficult—but a beginning. Galina Petrovna truly changed. She became more careful with her words, stopped allowing herself “freedom” in conversations about others. Old habits still surfaced sometimes, but she would catch herself, stop, and apologize.

Their relationship didn’t improve overnight. It took months, honest conversations, and firm boundaries. But gradually the tension eased, and they learned how to exist within the same family system while respecting each other’s personal space.

And Marina carried the lesson for the rest of her life: sometimes the only way to stop someone is to hold up a mirror. Even if the reflection is unpleasant—not only for them, but for you as well.

 

Yana stood by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the city below. This apartment was her pride—the reward for five years of relentless work and saving. A bright two-bedroom in a new building, with a view of the park. Every square meter had been paid for with her own money—no loans, no debts. She worked as a manager at a trading company, picked up extra shifts, and denied herself entertainment. But she’d done it.

Three years earlier, Dmitry moved into that apartment. They’d met by chance at a party hosted by mutual friends. Tall, smiling, kind-eyed. Yana liked the way Dima joked and how carefully he listened. They started dating, and half a year later he proposed.

Dmitry had been renting a small one-bedroom across town. When they began discussing living together, it simply made sense that he would move in with Yana. Her place was bigger—there was room for both of them. Yana didn’t mind. She loved him and wanted him close.

The first year was good. They built a routine, bought furniture, cooked together in the evenings. Dmitry worked as a programmer and spent long hours at his computer. He earned decent money, helped with groceries, and occasionally bought something for the home. But the major expenses—utilities, repairs, everything else—fell on Yana. After all, the apartment was hers.

Dmitry’s mother, Valentina Petrovna, lived in the suburbs in her own house. A widow. Lonely. Her son was everything to her. At first she visited rarely—once a month at most. She’d bring pies, ask about their life, drink tea. Yana didn’t mind. A normal mother-in-law, she thought.

But gradually the visits became more frequent. Every two weeks. Then weekly. Then twice a week. Valentina Petrovna began showing up without warning, dropping by “just to check how things were going.”

“Dimochka, I made borscht and brought it for you,” she’d say, setting a huge pot on the table.

“Thanks, Mom,” Dmitry would grin.

Yana smiled too, though tension tightened inside her. She hated when someone invaded her space without permission.

Soon Valentina Petrovna started giving advice—first gently, as if casually.

“Yanochka, you should wash the windows. See the streaks?”
“Yanochka, there’s dust on top of the cabinet. Do you wipe it at all?”
“Yanochka, you’re frying the cutlets wrong. Let me show you.”

Yana clenched her teeth and nodded. She didn’t want conflict. This was her husband’s mother—an older person. You were supposed to endure.

One day, Yana came home from work earlier than usual. She opened the door—and Valentina Petrovna was in the apartment, rearranging dishes in the kitchen.

“Valentina Petrovna?” Yana asked, startled. “How did you get in?”

“Dimochka gave me keys,” her mother-in-law replied calmly. “So I can come when needed. I decided to tidy up. It’s a mess here, Yanochka.”

Yana froze. Keys? Dmitry had given his mother keys to Yana’s apartment—without asking?

That evening she confronted him.

“Dima, did you really give your mom keys?”

“Yeah,” Dmitry shrugged. “So?”

“You could’ve asked me first!”

“Yana, she’s my mother. She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just helping us.”

“But it’s my apartment!”

Dmitry’s face darkened.

“What do you mean, yours? We’re a family. Everything is shared.”

“Shared, sure—but the apartment is in my name. And I want to know who comes in here.”

“Yana, don’t start a scandal over nonsense. Mom knows better how to run a household. She has experience.”

Yana said nothing, but something inside her tightened.

From that day on, Valentina Petrovna came whenever she pleased. Yana returned from work—her mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen. She walked into the living room—Valentina Petrovna was dusting. She went into the bathroom—Valentina Petrovna was folding clean laundry.

“Valentina Petrovna, could you please warn me when you’re coming?” Yana would say cautiously.

“Why, Yanochka? I’m not a stranger. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”

Then her mother-in-law began to take charge. She criticized Yana’s cooking—too much salt, not enough spices. She nitpicked the cleaning—poorly wiped surfaces, floors needed washing more often. She moved things around as she liked.

“Yanochka, that vase is in the wrong place. Put it here.”
“Yanochka, why did you hang those curtains? They’re ugly.”
“Yanochka, those flowers should be thrown away—they’re already wilted.”

Yana tried to resist politely.

“Valentina Petrovna, I like my curtains.”

“What do you know? You’re still young.”

Every time, Yana spoke to her husband.

“Dima, talk to your mother. She’s here all the time, ordering me around. I’m uncomfortable.”

“Yana, she’s trying for us. Don’t be so heartless.”

“But it’s my apartment!”

 

“There you go again. We’re a family, Yana. Or does family mean nothing to you?”

Yana understood: her husband was not on her side—and never would be. For Dmitry, his mother mattered more than his wife.

Two years passed. Yana felt like a stranger in her own home. Every day she came back from work afraid she’d find her mother-in-law there. Valentina Petrovna showed up three or four times a week, cooking, cleaning, handing out instructions.

Yana kept working, paying the utilities, buying food—while Valentina Petrovna acted as if the place belonged to her.

Yana stayed quiet. Endured it. She was afraid of destroying the marriage. She hoped Dmitry would eventually understand. But he didn’t. To him, everything was normal.

Yana’s birthday was approaching—she was turning twenty-eight. She decided to celebrate at home with a small group. She invited a few coworkers and two close friends. She bought a cake—soft and delicate, with strawberries and white chocolate, the one she’d always loved.

She set the table, arranged the dishes, lit candles. For one day, she wanted to feel like the owner of her own home again.

Dmitry invited his mother. Yana didn’t object out loud, but inside she tensed. Valentina Petrovna at a celebration meant a guaranteed ruined mood.

Her mother-in-law arrived before everyone else. She came in and inspected the table with a critical gaze.

“Yanochka, are you serious? You set it like this?”

“What’s wrong?” Yana asked, feeling her fists tighten.

“Everything’s wrong. Plates should be arranged differently. Forks on the left, knives on the right. Don’t you know basic rules?”

Valentina Petrovna started rearranging the cutlery. Yana stood beside her, jaw clenched. No scenes. Not today.

“And napkins should be folded like this,” her mother-in-law commented, refolding them.

“Valentina Petrovna, please leave it,” Yana said quietly.

“Leave what? I’m trying to help. Do you want guests to think you’re a terrible hostess?”

Yana bit her lip and stayed silent.

The guests arrived—coworkers and friends. Everyone sat down. Valentina Petrovna deliberately took the seat at the head of the table—the very place Yana usually sat.

“Valentina Petrovna, that’s my seat,” Yana said softly.

“Oh, Yanochka. I’m older. That means I should sit here.”

Yana looked at her husband. Dmitry looked away. Silent.

Her mother-in-law behaved like the host of the evening—serving food, commenting on dishes, telling stories. Yana sat off to the side, feeling like a guest at her own birthday.

Her friends exchanged glances but said nothing. Her coworkers pretended everything was fine.

When Yana brought out the cake, Valentina Petrovna grimaced.

“Ugh, what is that?”

“A cake,” Yana answered, placing it on the table.

“I don’t eat cakes like that. It’s tasteless. In our family, we buy honey cake—not this nonsense.”

Yana froze, holding the cake knife. Something inside her clicked into place.

“This is my cake. On my birthday. In my apartment.”

“So what? I’m older. I know what’s good and what’s bad.”

Yana slowly set the knife down and looked at her mother-in-law.

“Valentina Petrovna, if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave. This is my apartment.”

Valentina Petrovna’s eyes went wide.

“How dare you?!”

“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. This is my home. I bought it with my own money. And here, I decide what happens.”

Valentina Petrovna jumped up from the table.

“Dimochka! Do you hear the way your wife is talking to me?!”

Dmitry turned pale. He stood.

“Yana, apologize to my mother.”

“What?”

“I said apologize. Now.”

Yana laughed—coldly, without joy.

“Are you serious?”

Valentina Petrovna began to whine.

“Daughters-in-law need to know their place! Stay quiet when elders speak! Show respect! And she… she…”

Yana shot to her feet.

“And she what?! The woman who owns this apartment? The woman who’s paid for every inch of it?!”

“Yana, calm down,” Dmitry stepped forward.

“No! I’ve been quiet for three years! I’ve tolerated three years of your mother running my apartment—humiliating me, criticizing me, ordering me around!”

“She’s trying for us!”

“For you—for you and her! And who am I here? A maid?!”

Dmitry slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. The guests flinched.

“You’re nobody here while Mom is sitting at this table!” he shouted.

Silence fell. Yana stared at Dmitry, unable to believe what she’d heard. Nobody. She was nobody—in her own home.

Something inside her finally broke. Every illusion, every piece of love, every hope—collapsed in an instant.

Yana rose slowly. Walked to Valentina Petrovna. Picked up her handbag from the chair.

“Leave.”

“What?!”

“I said leave. Now.”

“Dimochka!”

“Mom, wait,” Dmitry said, looking at Yana in confusion.

Yana opened the door and pushed Valentina Petrovna toward the hallway.

“Out. Of my home. Immediately.”

Her mother-in-law backed away, startled by the rage in Yana’s eyes, and stepped into the corridor, sobbing.

Yana slammed the door shut. Then she turned to her husband.

“Pack your things.”

“Yana, what are you doing?!”

“Pack. Your. Things. Everything that’s yours—and go to your mother. Right now.”

“You can’t throw me out!”

“I can. This is my apartment. Legally mine. Your name isn’t on the documents.”

Dmitry tried to step closer, to take her hands.

“Yana, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

Yana yanked her hands back.

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow. And you’re leaving today.”

“Yana!”

“Today, Dmitry. Or I’ll call the police.”

 

He looked into her eyes and saw such steel, such icy certainty, that he understood—there was no point arguing. It was over.

Dmitry went into the bedroom, pulled out a bag, and started stuffing his clothes inside. Yana stood in the doorway watching.

“Yana, think about it. Three years together. Are you really ready to destroy everything over one conflict?”

“Not one conflict. Three years of humiliation. Three years of you never taking my side. Three years of you not even seeing me as the owner of my own home.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“It is. You said I’m nobody here while your mother is at the table. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Dmitry finished packing, grabbed the bag, and stopped at the door.

“You’ll regret this, Yana.”

“Maybe. But not as much as I’ll regret it if I stay.”

He left. Yana locked the door behind him, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes.

The guests had already gone. Only her two friends—Lena and Katya—remained. They sat in the kitchen, unsure what to say.

“Yanochka… are you okay?” Lena asked softly.

Yana nodded.

“Now I am.”

The next morning, Yana called a locksmith and changed every lock—starting with the front door. She threw the old keys away. Hid the new ones. That same day, she filed for divorce.

Dmitry tried to call. Yana didn’t answer. Then came long messages full of excuses and promises. Yana deleted them without reading.

A week later, Valentina Petrovna showed up. She rang the bell. Yana looked through the peephole and didn’t open.

“Yanochka, open up! We need to talk!”

Yana stayed silent.

“Yanochka, come on! Dimochka is suffering! He loves you!”

Silence.

“Open the door—I know you’re home!”

Yana turned away and walked deeper into the apartment. Put on headphones. Turned the music up. Valentina Petrovna stood outside for half an hour, then left.

She never came back.

The divorce went quickly. Dmitry showed up—gloomy, thinner than before. He tried to argue, talking about their life together, the shared household. But legally it was clear. Yana had bought the apartment before the marriage, and there were no joint savings involved.

The judge announced the decision: the marriage was dissolved.

Yana stepped out of the courthouse and breathed in deeply. Free. Finally free.

Three months passed. Yana returned to her ordinary life. She went to work, met friends, spent evenings at home with a book and tea. Quiet. No one barged in without warning. No one criticized, ordered her around, or lectured her.

Her apartment became her sanctuary again—warm, calm, safe.

She rearranged the furniture the way she liked. Hung new curtains—bright, patterned. Bought potted flowers and placed them on the windowsills. Everything her way, with no one else’s instructions.

One evening a message from Dmitry appeared. Yana saw his name on the screen and hesitated. Then she opened it.

“Yana, I’m sorry. I understand now that I was wrong. Mom really did go too far. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. Can we try again?”

Yana read it.

She typed back: “No. You made your choice at that table. Live with it.”

She sent the message and blocked his number.

Half a year later, Yana met someone else. They ran into each other in a bookstore—reaching for the same book at the same time. They laughed, started talking, and exchanged numbers.

His name was Maksim. He was an architect. He lived in a rented place and was saving for his own home. His mother lived in another city; they didn’t see each other often, but their relationship was warm.

Yana didn’t rush. They dated, talked, learned each other slowly. Maksim didn’t pressure her. He respected her space.

Two years later, Maksim proposed. Yana said yes—but with one condition: they would live in her apartment, and no relatives would ever get a key without her consent. Maksim nodded, understanding.

“Your apartment, your rules. That’s fair.”

Yana smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt she’d chosen right.

They married quietly, without a lavish wedding. They signed the papers and celebrated with a small circle of friends. Maksim moved in with Yana, bringing only his personal things.

Their life was peaceful. They respected each other’s boundaries. They handled everyday issues together. Maksim cooked, cleaned, helped around the house. He didn’t command, didn’t teach, didn’t criticize.

Maksim’s mother visited twice a year and stayed for a week. Yana welcomed her without anxiety—the woman was tactful and never interfered.

At last, Yana truly felt at home. In her apartment, with her person. No pressure, no humiliation, no чужие правила—no one else’s rules.

Sometimes Yana remembered those three years with Dmitry—how she endured, how she was afraid to destroy the family, how she hoped for the best. How much time she lost.

But now everything was different. Now Yana knew she would never let anyone cross her boundaries again. This was her home, her space, her life—and only she got to decide who belonged in it, and who didn’t.

Yana sat on the couch with a book. In the kitchen, Maksim was making breakfast, humming to himself.

A new life. The right life. The life Yana had earned.

For the first few months of living together, Oleg and I were blissfully blind in love. Everything felt effortless: I cooked dinner, he did the dishes; I ran the laundry, he hung it up; we cleaned the apartment on weekends while his ’90s playlist played in the background. Our money sat in one shared account, and neither of us kept track of who put in how much or what it was spent on.

But by the beginning of the second year, something quietly shifted. Maybe the romance of routine gave way to plain routine. Or maybe it happened when we finally started talking about an apartment.

“Len, we need to save,” Oleg said one evening as we sat in our rented kitchen staring at a wall in the neighboring building. “Seriously save. If we put away thirty thousand a month, in three years we’ll have enough for a down payment.”

I nodded, already imagining our future place—bright, big windows, maybe even a balcony. Thirty thousand sounded realistic. We both worked. We both earned decent money. What could possibly be difficult?

It turned out… everything.

The first point of friction was my yogurt. Or rather, not the yogurt itself, but where I bought it.

“Four hundred rubles?” Oleg pulled a little glass jar from the fridge and stared at it like it was caviar. “Two hundred and fifty for yogurt?”

“It’s not just yogurt,” I said, continuing to slice tomatoes for a salad, forcing myself to stay calm. “It’s from a farm. No additives, real starter culture. You know regular yogurt makes my stomach hurt.”

“Lena, yogurt at Pyaterochka is seventy rubles.”

“And at Pyaterochka it’s full of thickeners and E-numbers. I can’t eat that.”

Oleg opened the jar, sniffed it, tasted a spoonful.

“Normal yogurt,” he shrugged. “But for that price…”

I didn’t argue further. The tomatoes were from the same farm—six hundred a kilo instead of the usual two hundred. But they were amazing: sweet, dense, with a real tomato taste, not that crunchy winter supermarket imitation.

“Oh, and by the way,” Oleg said, reaching into the freezer, “I grabbed pizzas. Three on sale—worked out cheap.”

Three frozen boxes landed on the shelf, pushing aside my frozen berries (also farm berries, frozen by hand in summer—but that was another story).

“And I bought beer,” he added, clearly proud of himself. “Good stuff—German. A whole case with a discount.”

 

A case meant twenty-four bottles. I did the math in my head: even discounted, it was at least three thousand. But I stayed quiet. Everyone has their weaknesses, right?

The next few weeks turned into a strange, silent standoff. I kept buying my farm products—cottage cheese, eggs, vegetables, meat from a supplier I trusted. It cost more, but I felt the difference. It wasn’t a whim; it mattered for my health, for our health.

Oleg kept buying convenience foods. Alongside the pizzas came stuffed crepes, ready-made cutlets you only had to heat up, nuggets. The cupboard filled with chips, crackers, and nuts for beer.

“It’s convenient,” he explained. “You come home tired, heat something up in ten minutes, and you’re done. No need to stand at the stove for an hour.”

I didn’t object. Honestly, I didn’t. He could eat what he wanted. But irritation kept building when I saw him in the evenings with a bottle of beer and a bag of chips in front of the TV, while I spent half an hour in the kitchen making a proper dinner.

One Saturday, he went out with friends.

“I’ll be back by ten,” he promised.

He came home at one in the morning—buzzed, smelling like beer, talkative.

“Such a great night,” he announced while I helped him out of his jacket. “We started at Zhiguli, then went to this new place near Mayakovskaya—those burgers are insane—then we even did karaoke…”

I stayed quiet. By morning he wouldn’t remember half of what he said.

But the next week it happened again. Then again. Friday or Saturday became sacred—Oleg’s time to meet the guys. I wasn’t against friendship, truly. But when the month ended and we sat down to go over our budget, we found only eight thousand in savings instead of thirty.

“Where did the money go?” Oleg squinted at his phone, scrolling through his bank statement.

“I don’t know,” I said, staring at mine. Mine looked almost the same.

We went quiet, both drowning in numbers. Supermarket. Delivery. Café. Supermarket again. Gas station. Pharmacy. Delivery again…

“Len,” Oleg looked up, and there was something new in his eyes—something wary. “How much do you spend on your farm stuff?”

I felt my back tighten.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it separately.”

“Let’s count it,” he said, and an unpleasant note slipped into his voice. “Yogurt—two fifty. Cottage cheese—how much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Eggs?”

“Two fifty.”

“Tomatoes?”

“Six hundred.”

He kept tallying, and I felt anger flare inside me. Yes, I spent more on groceries—but I cooked. Every day. Real, healthy food.

“So that’s about fifteen thousand a month just for your farm products,” he concluded. “That’s half of what we’re supposed to be saving.”

“And how much do you spend on your nights out?” I blurted.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything. You go to bars every week. Every week. What, do they pour drinks for free?”

“I work. I’m allowed to relax,” Oleg’s face darkened.

“And I work too!” My voice cracked into a shout even though I didn’t want it to. “And I’m allowed to eat food that doesn’t make me sick instead of that supermarket chemical mess!”

“It’s not chemicals—it’s normal food that millions of people eat!”

“And then millions of people get sick!”

We stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other. We’d never had a fight like that—little spats, yes, annoyance, sure, but not a direct clash with accusations thrown point-blank.

Oleg looked away first.

“Fine,” he said, flat and heavy. “Let’s think about what to do.”

For the next week, we barely talked. We spoke about household things—pass the salt, I’ll be late, we need toilet paper—but not about the real issue. And the real issue hung between us like an invisible wall.

I tried to understand what was happening. We loved each other—I was sure of it. But somehow money, that cursed money, was turning into a source of tension. And it wasn’t really about the money itself. It was something deeper. The right to live your own way? The right to be yourself?

Oleg must have been thinking the same, because on Friday evening—while I was making dinner (baked chicken with vegetables, all farm-fresh, all delicious)—he came into the kitchen with a strange expression.

“Len, I’ve figured it out,” he said.

“Figured what out?”

“How we can save.”

I set down the knife I’d been using to peel carrots.

“Let’s do it fairly: you pay for your yogurts, and I’ll pay for my food,” my husband announced.

I stood there, trying to process it.

“What do you mean?” I finally asked.

“Simple. Separate food budgets. You buy what you want with your money. I buy what I want with mine. Utilities, internet, everything else—fifty-fifty. That way we’ll see who actually spends what.”

“Oleg, that’s ridiculous…”

“Why is it ridiculous? It’s fair!” He spoke fast, confident—like he’d prepared for this. “I don’t stop you from eating your farm stuff. You don’t stop me from eating what I like. Everyone is responsible for themselves. And one more thing: I’ll save fifteen thousand a month, and you save fifteen—into our joint apartment fund. Deal?”

“And what about shared dinners?” I asked. “When I cook for both of us?”

He hesitated for a second.

“Well… if you cook something shared with regular ingredients, we split it. But if you want to cook with your farm products—that’s your expense.”

A sharp, bitter hurt hit me. So my care for our health—my standing at the stove every evening—was now considered “my personal spending”? And yet… there was something oddly tempting about his idea. Maybe we really should try it. Prove to him, with numbers, that I wasn’t spending as outrageously as he imagined.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s try it. One month.”

“Great!” Oleg’s face brightened. “You’ll see, it’ll be more convenient this way.”

Starting Monday, we began our “new system.” I kept a separate notebook where I wrote down every food expense. Oleg installed a spending tracker app.

The first days felt weird. I’d buy groceries and immediately wonder: is this mine or shared? Chicken was shared, but the vegetables for it were mine—farm produce. Pasta was shared, but the sauce made from farm tomatoes was mine. My head turned into a messy accounting puzzle.

Oleg seemed confused too. He bought his convenience foods, heated them up on his own plate, and looked at me with a guilty expression when I made myself a salad.

“Want some?” I’d ask, holding out the bowl.

“That’s your food,” he’d say uncertainly.

“Oh my God, Oleg—just take the salad,” I’d snap.

He would, but the air stayed tense. Something felt wrong about living separately at the same kitchen table.

A week passed. On Friday, as usual, Oleg went out with friends.

“Bye, I’ll be back late,” he said, kissing my cheek.

“Have fun,” I replied, with a tone so neutral he either didn’t catch the sarcasm—or chose not to.

I was alone. I sat down with my laptop and opened my notebook of expenses. In one week I’d spent three and a half thousand. Multiply by four—fourteen thousand a month. It fit. I could still put away my savings amount, with some left over.

And Oleg?

I truly wasn’t planning to check. But his phone was on the table—he’d taken his work phone—and without thinking I picked it up, unlocked it (I knew the passcode), and opened his expense app.

I froze.

In one week Oleg had spent twelve thousand rubles. On food. Just one week.

I scrolled through the categories. Pizza delivery—1,200. Burger delivery—900. Another delivery—sushi, 1,500. Zhiguli bar—2,300. Another bar—1,800. Store run: beer and snacks—2,000. Another delivery. And another.

Twelve thousand in a week.

I put the phone back and sat staring at nothing. That meant fifty thousand a month. Fifty. And he’d been lecturing me about a yogurt jar worth four hundred rubles…

The anger that rose in me was cold—and strangely clarifying. I didn’t make a scene when he stumbled in after midnight, loud and cheerful. I went to bed and turned my back to the wall.

“Len, are you asleep?” he whispered, sliding under the blanket.

“I’m asleep,” I said without turning.

Week two passed. I kept buying my farm products and cooking my meals. Oleg kept ordering delivery—almost every day. Pizza, rolls, something else. And he kept going to bars.

“How’s your budget going?” I asked one evening, keeping my tone light.

 

“Fine,” he said, eyes still on his phone.

“You’re saving fifteen thousand?”

“Of course.”

He was lying. I could tell. But I stayed quiet. Let him see the truth at the end of the month.

Week three brought a new twist. It was a coworker’s birthday, and they “just had a little get-together” after work—at a restaurant. Oleg came home around eleven.

“How much did you spend?” I couldn’t help asking.

“What?” He was slightly drunk and didn’t understand at first.

“Money. How much?”

“Not much—we split it… four thousand, maybe.”

Four thousand for one evening—while I weighed tomatoes at the store, choosing the cheaper ones.

“Great,” I said. “Very economical.”

“Len, it was a birthday…”

“Sure. Of course.”

Week four was the hardest. We barely spoke. I cooked for myself, he ordered for himself. We ate at different times, from different plates, like roommates instead of a couple.

I missed us. I missed shared dinners and kitchen conversations, the way he used to lick the spoon when I asked him to taste a new dish. I missed closeness.

But I didn’t want to be the first to give in. Let him see the results of his “fair” system.

And then the first of the month arrived. That evening we sat on the couch, each with our phone.

“So… totals?” Oleg asked, and his voice sounded strained.

“Sure.” I opened my notebook. “I spent thirteen thousand eight hundred rubles on food this month. And I saved fifteen thousand, like we agreed.”

I looked up. Oleg was silent, staring at his phone screen.

“And you?” I asked, even though I already knew.

He stayed quiet for another thirty seconds. Then, very softly, he said:

“Fifty-two thousand.”

“What’s fifty-two?”

“I spent fifty-two thousand rubles on food.”

Silence dropped between us. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt, There. Now you see. But he looked so lost, so miserable, that my anger drained away.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped. “I really thought I spent less. I mean, I eat simple food, convenience stuff, cheap things…”

“But you order delivery every day,” I said quietly. “Delivery is extra cost. And you go to bars every week.”

“I know.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I went through everything. It’s… it’s awful. I spent over twenty thousand on bars. Almost twenty on delivery. And I didn’t even notice it happening.”

“And did you save anything?”

He shook his head.

“No. There was nothing left.”

I felt strange. I had been right, and he had finally seen it—yet it didn’t feel like a win. Only exhaustion, and an odd emptiness.

“Len,” Oleg turned to me, and in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen in a long time—vulnerability, maybe. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I blamed you for us not being able to save, while I… I never even thought about how much I waste on crap. Pizza, bars, delivery… it’s meaningless spending.”

“And my yogurts are meaningful?” I couldn’t resist the jab.

“Your yogurts are health,” he said seriously. “And you cook. Every day you cook real food. And I… I was just a lazy selfish guy who tried to dump everything on you.”

I didn’t answer. Inside me, something softened—the bitterness and anger of the last month beginning to melt.

“And another thing,” he continued. “I missed it. Us. Eating together, you cooking while I tell you about work. Just… being together. This was horrible, Len.”

“I missed it too,” I admitted.

We went quiet. Then Oleg pulled me into his arms, and I leaned into him, feeling the tension of the month finally loosen.

“Can we start over?” he whispered. “One shared budget—but I’ll actually track my spending. Bars—max twice a month, and no more than three thousand each time. No delivery. I’ll eat what you cook. And you… keep buying your farm products. They’re worth it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I tried your cottage cheese last week. It really is better.”

I laughed—for the first time in a month, a real laugh.

“Alright,” I said. “We’ll try. But with one condition: if you genuinely want to go out for a drink with friends, don’t deprive yourself. Just plan it ahead, and we both know how much is going toward that. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The next day I made a big pot of borscht. Oleg stood beside me, chopping potatoes—crookedly, but with effort—while telling me about a new project at work. The soup bubbled on the stove, the kitchen smelled of dill and garlic, and outside the window snow was falling.

“You know,” Oleg said, dropping another potato chunk into the pot, “maybe we really can save up for an apartment after all.”

“We can,” I agreed. “If we do it together, not each on our own.”

He kissed the side of my neck, and I thought those words weren’t only about money. They were about life. Together. Not perfectly, not without arguments and mistakes—but together.

And I kept buying my farm yogurts. Because some habits aren’t just habits. They’re self-care.

And Oleg finally understood that.

The first warning signs appeared in mid-March, when Oleg came home earlier than usual with a cardboard box in his hands. Marina could tell from his face at once—what they’d both secretly dreaded for the past six months had finally happened.

“They cut me,” he said flatly, setting the box of personal items down in the entryway. “The entire department. ‘Cost optimization,’ apparently.”

Marina stepped toward him, wanting to hug him, but Oleg pulled away, went straight to the kitchen, and took a beer from the fridge. It was three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Oleg, we’ll survive this,” she said carefully. “My paycheck is stable—we’ll manage. The main thing is not to give up. You’ll start looking for a new position…”

“Don’t pity me,” he snapped. “I know what I’m doing.”

Except, from the way things went, he wasn’t going to do anything at all. During the first week Marina blamed it on shock—on needing time to come back to himself. Oleg slept late and spent most of the day at the computer. Maybe he was sending out résumés, maybe he was playing games; Marina didn’t check. She worked as a manager at a construction company, left at eight in the morning, came home at seven in the evening, and every day she hoped to see at least some sign of movement.

But the changes she noticed weren’t the ones she’d been hoping for.

By the end of the second week the apartment looked nothing like itself. Oleg cooked and never cleaned up—pans with dried egg stuck to them sat on the stove until night, crumbs blanketed the table, and empty beer bottles lined up neatly on the windowsill. Marina came home exhausted and immediately started putting everything back in order.

“Oleg, could you at least wash the dishes?” she tried one evening, keeping the reproach out of her voice.

“Was busy,” he muttered without lifting his eyes from the screen. “I’ll do it later.”

Later never came.

A month after he was laid off, Marina realized the shift wasn’t only about mess. Oleg had become sharp and irritable, snapping at any remark, turning rude over nothing. When she timidly asked how the job hunt was going, he blew up.

“What, you’re going to keep tabs on me now? Am I some little kid? I’ll find work when I find it!”

 

“I’m just asking,” Marina tried to explain. “I’m worried…”

“Worried?” he mocked. “Then don’t stick your nose in it. I’ve got enough problems.”

Marina fell silent. She wanted to say the problems were theirs now, that she was tired too, that it would be nice to feel like a team. But she swallowed it—because she was afraid of making him even angrier.

And then the real thing happened.

In early May, Marina came home from work yet again and found piles of dirty dishes. Oleg wasn’t alone in the kitchen. His younger brother, Sergey, was sitting at the table beside him, surrounded by beer bottles and bags of chips.

“Marinka, hey!” Sergey shouted. “I’m going to crash here for a bit—hope you don’t mind?”

Marina looked at her husband. Oleg stared off to the side.

“Meaning…?” she asked carefully.

“Olga and I—my wife—we had a little argument,” Sergey said casually. “Figured I’d give her time to cool down. Oleg offered me your place. Just a couple days, no more.”

A couple days turned into two weeks.

Sergey took over the couch in the living room and turned it into his personal territory. His things were everywhere. He watched TV late into the night and didn’t care about the volume. The brothers sat together drinking beer, laughing at their own jokes, and Marina felt like a stranger in her own home.

A home she’d bought with her own money, by the way—before marriage. Oleg moved in only after the wedding, but somehow everyone had decided that detail no longer mattered.

“Oleg, we need to talk,” Marina said on another day off, when Sergey went out to the store.

“About what?” Oleg didn’t even lift his head from his phone.

“About your brother. He’s been here two weeks. When is he leaving?”

“Soon. Why are you freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out. I just want to understand what’s happening. This is my apartment, Oleg, and I didn’t agree to anyone else living here.”

That made him look up. Something ugly flickered in his eyes.

“Your apartment?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes. Mine. I bought it—you know that.”

Marina knew she’d stepped onto dangerous ground, but she couldn’t stop. Everything she’d been holding in finally spilled out.

“Oleg, I’m exhausted. I work all day, I come home, and instead of resting I clean up after the two of you. There’s dirt everywhere, dishes piled up, cigarette butts on the floor…”

“Cigarette butts?” Sergey snorted—he’d just walked in with a bag of beer. “Marinka, come on. The ashtray just overflowed.”

“I’m not talking to you, Sergey,” she cut him off.

“Well excuse me, madam,” he rolled his eyes and headed to the living room.

Oleg stood up. Marina saw his jaw tighten.

“Listen, Marina,” he began in a low voice, anger barely contained. “I get it—you’re tired. But my brother and I aren’t sitting here for fun. I’m going through a hard time, in case you missed it. I need support, not your complaints.”

“Support—like me paying for you for two months?” Marina blurted.

Silence dropped between them. From the living room came the sound of the TV turning louder—Sergey’s idea of being “polite.”

“Paying for me?” Oleg smirked, but there was nothing amused in it. “You’re really bringing that up?”

“Is it not true?” Marina felt her voice trembling, but she kept going. “I pay for everything—utilities, groceries, all of it. And you can’t even wash your own dishes.”

“I’m looking for work!” he shouted.

“You’re drinking beer and playing tank games!” she snapped. “I see you, Oleg. I’m not blind.”

He stepped toward her, and for a second Marina thought she didn’t know him at all. A stranger stood in front of her—angry, bitter.

“You know what, Marina?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry I’m not living up to your expectations. But I’m sick of your nagging. You act like I owe you something.”

“You owe me at least basic respect,” she said softly. “You’re living in my apartment, I’m feeding you…”

“In your apartment,” he cut in. “Ah. So you’re going to hold that over my head forever now?”

“I’m not holding it over your head. I’m stating a fact. And I don’t like what’s happening here. I want your brother out, and I want you to start doing at least something at home if you’re not working yet.”

Oleg turned away, paced the kitchen, then whirled around.

“What does it matter whose apartment it is?” he blurted. “I’m the man, which means I’m the master of everything. And I’ll do what I think is right in here. If I need my brother’s support, he’ll live here. If I want to rest, I’ll rest. And you…”

He didn’t finish, but Marina didn’t need him to.

“You know what, Oleg?” Her voice turned unexpectedly calm. “You’re right. You’re a man. And as a man, you can be the master of a house. Just not of this one.”

“What?” He blinked, not understanding.

“Pack your things,” Marina said clearly. “You and your brother. Pack up and get out. Today.”

“Are you insane?” Sergey sprang into the doorway.

“Shut up,” Marina said without looking at him. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Marina, you can’t kick me out,” Oleg tried to smirk, but it came out weak. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I can. And I am,” she said. “You said it yourself—what does it matter whose apartment it is, you’re the man and the master of everything. Perfect. Go be the master somewhere else. Move in with Sergey—let Olga clean up after both of you, since you’re such ‘lords of life.’”

“You’ve completely lost it,” Sergey muttered.

“Sergey, if you’re not out of here in an hour, I’m calling the police,” Marina said quietly, in a tone that made arguing feel pointless. “You can test whether Olga will let you in. Or go to your mom’s. I don’t care.”

“Marina, we can talk this through,” Oleg said, clearly not expecting her to go this far. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“There’s nothing to talk through,” she said, yanking open the closet, grabbing a bag, and tossing it at him. “I’m tired of being a cleaner in my own home. Tired of your rudeness. Tired of watching you turn into someone I don’t recognize. Leave. Think about how you’ve been acting.”

“You don’t have the right,” Oleg started, but she cut him off.

“I do. This is my apartment—my home. And I decide who lives here. You wanted to be the master? Go be one somewhere else.”

The brothers exchanged a glance. Marina could see they didn’t believe she meant it. They were waiting for her to cry, to back down, to take it all back.

But she wasn’t taking anything back.

“One hour,” she repeated. “And I don’t want to see either of you here.”

They left within forty minutes, shoving their things into bags, muttering about hysterical women and “bitter witches.” Marina stood at the window and watched them load Sergey’s car. Her hands trembled, her throat tightened, but she refused to cry.

When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment felt painfully silent.

Marina sat at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, and only then allowed herself to cry—not out of self-pity, not out of hurt, but out of relief. It felt like she’d set down a weight she’d been carrying too long.

The first three days were strange. She came home from work and instinctively expected chaos, but everything stayed clean—exactly as she’d left it that morning. The quiet felt unfamiliar, almost ringing in her ears. No late-night TV, no drunken talk, no empty bottles.

She wandered from room to room as if meeting her own home again. It was pleasant—and oddly sad at the same time.

Oleg called on the second day. Marina didn’t answer. He texted: “You realize you went too far, right? I’m at Sergey’s. Olga’s not happy at all. Maybe stop messing around?”

She didn’t reply.

On the third day he called five times. Marina kept ignoring him.

On the fourth day, he showed up. He rang the bell, and Marina, sighing, opened the door. Pretending she wasn’t home felt stupid.

“Marina, come on,” Oleg looked rumpled and unshaven. “Enough already. Olga kicked us out. Said she won’t carry two freeloaders on her back. Now I’m literally on the street.”

“And Sergey?” Marina asked.

“Sergey’s at Mom’s. But there’s only one spare spot, and he already took it.”

“So there’s a spot for you too.”

“Mom lives in a two-bedroom! Where am I supposed to go?”

“On the couch. On the floor. Not my problem, Oleg.”

He stared at her like he didn’t recognize her.

“Marinochka, please,” he pleaded. “I get it. I was wrong. Let me come back, and we’ll talk calmly.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, folding her arms. “You haven’t changed. You’ve just run out of options.”

“I have changed!” he rushed out. “I realized I was wrong, I swear. I get it now.”

“You realized Olga didn’t tolerate your rudeness either?” Marina asked quietly. “That being ‘master of everything’ only works where people allow it?”

His jaw clenched.

“So what—now I’m supposed to live on the street?”

“Live with your mother. Find a job. And when you do—then we’ll talk.”

“Marina, this is absurd!”

“No, Oleg. What was absurd was tolerating what you allowed yourself to become. Go. And don’t call me until you have a job. I mean it.”

She shut the door. He stood there a moment longer, then she heard slow, heavy footsteps fade down the hallway.

Marina went back to the kitchen, sat down—and realized she was smiling. For the first time in weeks, she felt genuinely light.

The next weeks were peaceful. Marina worked, came home, tidied up—only after herself now, and it was almost enjoyable. She cooked dinner, watched shows, read the books she’d been meaning to start for ages.

Sometimes she felt lonely. Sometimes she caught herself listening for the sound of keys in the lock. But then she remembered the last months—the mess, the rudeness, that line: “What does it matter whose apartment it is?”—and being alone didn’t seem so frightening.

Oleg called once a week. She didn’t pick up.

And then, a month and a half later, he texted: “I got a job—sales manager for security systems. Three-month probation, but they promise good pay. Can I come by?”

Marina stared at the message for a full fifteen minutes.

Then she typed: “Come Saturday at two. We’ll talk.”

On Saturday, Oleg arrived exactly at two. He wore a clean shirt, was freshly shaved, and held a bouquet.

“Come in,” Marina stepped aside.

They sat in the kitchen. Oleg set the flowers on the table, folded his hands, and looked her in the eyes.

“Marina, I want to apologize,” he said quietly. “For everything. I acted like a complete idiot.”

She stayed silent, waiting.

“When I got fired, I just… broke,” he continued, choosing his words slowly. “I felt useless. Like a loser. And instead of pulling myself together, I dumped my anger on you—the one person who was supporting me.”

“You weren’t dumping anger,” Marina corrected gently. “You were trying to feel powerful at my expense. To be ‘the boss’ somewhere.”

He nodded.

“Maybe you’re right. It was easier to play ‘the master’ than to admit I was scared—that I couldn’t handle it, that I felt like dirt.”

“Oleg, I would’ve supported you,” Marina said. “If you’d just talked to me. If you didn’t treat me badly, didn’t turn the apartment into a dump, didn’t drag your brother in here.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his face. “God, I know. When Olga threw both of us out—me and Sergey—I suddenly saw myself from the outside. Two grown men with no jobs, behaving like pigs. And I thought… is that really me?”

“And what did you answer?” Marina asked.

“That it was me,” he admitted. “And I hated it.”

He told her he’d lived with his mother for three weeks, how she scolded him daily—called him an idiot, said he’d thrown away a good wife, said he was acting like an infant. He admitted he’d wanted to snap back, then realized she was right.

Marina listened and felt something inside her slowly thaw.

“I started looking for work for real,” Oleg went on. “Sending ten résumés a day. Going to interviews. And I found something. The pay’s lower than before, but it’s a start. And I’ll work hard.”

“Why didn’t you do that earlier?” she asked. “When you lived here?”

He hesitated, then answered honestly.

“Because I didn’t have to. Because you fed me anyway. You stayed anyway. Why strain myself if I could just sit and play tanks?” He gave a bitter half-smile. “I was living off you, Marina. I understand that now. And I’m ashamed.”

“Good,” she said softly, lifting the bouquet and breathing in the scent. “Chrysanthemums. My favorite. You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

They were quiet for a moment. Outside, a couple walked past with a dog; somewhere nearby kids laughed loudly.

“So… what now?” Oleg asked. “I want to come back. I want to start over. But I understand if you don’t. If I burned every bridge.”

Marina looked at him. Her husband sat across from her—tired, humbled, unsure. Nothing like the cocky man who’d shouted about being “the master of everything.”

“Rules,” Marina said. “If you come back, there will be rules.”

He nodded, bracing himself.

“First: chores are fifty-fifty. Cleaning, cooking, all of it—shared.”

“Agreed.”

“Second: your brother is never staying here longer than an evening. If he’s fighting with his wife, he can solve it himself.”

 

“Agreed.”

“Third: no disrespect. Not to this home, and not to me. If you’re struggling, we talk about it. But you don’t get to take it out on me—or turn my apartment into a landfill.”

“Marina, I agree. I agree to everything,” he said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. “I’ll be different. I swear.”

She looked at their hands, then at his face.

“And if you ever go back to that behavior,” she said slowly, “there won’t be a second chance. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Then… alright,” she said, giving a small smile. “You can come back.”

Oleg stood, walked around the table, and hugged her. Marina closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his shoulder. She knew this wasn’t the end of their problems. There would be hard days. Trust didn’t rebuild overnight.

But it was a beginning. The start of something new.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for not leaving me for good.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she corrected. “I left the person you became. And this one,” she pulled back slightly and met his eyes, “this one… I think I still remember.”

He smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in months.

And Marina thought that sometimes people really do have to hit bottom to understand how far they’ve fallen. Sometimes you have to lose everything to value what you had.

And sometimes you simply have to find the strength to say, “Enough,” and not be afraid of being alone—if the alternative is living in constant humiliation.

That evening they cooked dinner together. Oleg chopped salad; Marina fried chicken. They talked—carefully, avoiding the sharpest corners, but they talked. The sun set outside, the kitchen smelled of garlic and spices, and for the first time in a long while Marina felt that things might be okay.

Not immediately. Not magically.

But in time—okay.

A sharp ring at the door sliced through the mourning silence of my apartment. Forty days hadn’t even passed since Kostya’s funeral—I still hadn’t learned how to breathe without him—yet my mother-in-law, Larisa Grigoryevna, was already standing on the threshold. And she wasn’t alone. Beside her was a hunched man with a briefcase. She didn’t even look at my tear-streaked face. Instead of condolences, she spoke in an icy, proprietorial tone:

“Galya, this is a notary. We’ve come to process the apartment. Kostya always said it would go to me. So pack your things.”

Forty days. Galina stared at Kostya’s photo and couldn’t believe it. Forty days without his laughter, without his warm hands, without his quiet “I’m home.” The apartment they had built together like a little nest had turned into an echoing crypt filled with silence and memories. Every cup in the kitchen, every book on the shelf screamed of him.

A tragic, absurd accident. In an instant, her world collapsed. And in that collapsed world, the only person who didn’t comfort her—who seemed, if anything, to be waiting for something—was her mother-in-law, Larisa Grigoryevna.

Right after the funeral she started her attacks. First came the silky phone calls.

“Galya, how are you holding up? All alone, aren’t you? Kostyenka worried about me so much… He always said, ‘Mom, you’re the only one I have, I’ll take care of you.’ He was a golden son, not like some people…”

Galina stayed silent, gripping the receiver until her knuckles hurt. She knew where this was going. Larisa Grigoryevna had been dancing on bones for ten years—ever since the day of her and Kostya’s wedding. She never accepted that her son, her only boy, now belonged to another woman. She always considered Galina a freeloader, a cunning provincial girl who had “snared” her Moscow prince and his apartment.

The apartment had been Kostya’s. He’d inherited it from his grandmother before they even met. But the renovation, the coziness, the soul of it—all of that they poured into it together. Galina remembered how they argued themselves hoarse over the color of the bedroom wallpaper, and how afterward, laughing, they smeared each other with paint. This was their home.

 

The phone rang again. The screen flashed: “Mother-in-law.” Galina took a deep breath and answered.

“Galya, I hope you’re slowly packing your things,” Larisa Grigoryevna began without preamble, her voice cold. “You’ll need to move somewhere. You can’t live in someone else’s apartment forever.”

Galina’s breath caught.

“What?.. W-what things? Larisa Grigoryevna, what are you talking about? Kostya’s been gone only a month…”

“So what? Life doesn’t stop!” her mother-in-law snapped. “Kostya always said that if anything happened, this apartment would go to me. That was his will. He was a decent son. So let’s do this without a scandal. Tomorrow I’m coming with a notary so we can formalize everything properly. Be at home.”

The line went dead with short beeps. Galina sank to the floor. A notary? Formalize? She was stomping into her grief, into her pain, and demanding she vacate the place. No—this was no longer a dance on bones. This was a declaration of war. And in that second, Galina understood she would no longer be the quiet, obedient daughter-in-law. She would fight. For her home. For Kostya’s memory.

The next day, exactly at noon, a sharp, demanding ring sounded at the door. Galina knew who it was. She opened up. Larisa Grigoryevna stood on the threshold dressed all in black, but with the expression of someone who hadn’t come to mourn—she’d come to take possession of an estate. Beside her stood a hunched man in a worn suit, a briefcase in his hands.

“Good afternoon,” her mother-in-law drawled with an icy smirk as she brushed past Galina into the apartment. “This is Andrey Viktorovich, a notary. We’re here to settle the formalities.”

“What formalities?” Galina asked quietly but firmly, closing the door. “Official inheritance happens after six months.”

“So clever,” Larisa Grigoryevna snorted, running her hand over the dresser like a homeowner. “A bit dusty here, Galya. You’ve really let the place go.” She clicked her tongue. “For some people it’s six months, and for others everything is obvious. I have all the documents. Kostya left the apartment to me.”

With theatrical flair she unzipped her bag and pulled out a thick folder.

“Here! Everything’s here! Kostya’s old will from ten years ago, and the deed of gift we discussed…”

“We won’t be discussing anything until the will is officially read,” Galina cut her off. Her voice trembled, but she held steady. “And I don’t understand why you brought this man.”

The notary, who had been silent until then, coughed awkwardly.

“Larisa Grigoryevna, I explained… A private consultation is one thing, but official actions are only possible in the established order.”

“Be quiet, Andrey Viktorovich!” the mother-in-law barked. “You’re here to process things, not to give advice! Galina, I don’t want a scandal. Just understand: you are nobody here. A wife is one today and another tomorrow. But a mother is sacred. Kostya understood that. He wanted me to live here in my old age.”

She spoke as if Galina were empty space—as if their ten years of happy marriage had never existed.

“He loved me!” Galina cried, unable to hold it in any longer. Tears poured from her eyes. “We were happy! And you… you spent your whole life trying to break us up! You hated me!”

“Hated you?” Larisa Grigoryevna flung up her hands theatrically. “Sweetheart, I simply didn’t notice you. You were an annoying misunderstanding in my son’s life. And now that misunderstanding will be corrected. The apartment is mine. Andrey Viktorovich, draw up the transfer act!”

“I’m not drawing up anything!” the notary protested. “That’s illegal!”

“Then get out of here!” Galina shouted, pointing at the door. “Both of you! Out of my house!”

“Yours?!” her mother-in-law shrieked, her face twisting with rage. “You wretch! How dare you tell me what to do?! Why, I’ll—”

She raised her hand, but Galina didn’t flinch. She stared straight into the eyes of the woman who had poisoned her life for years, and felt grief melt into cold, hard resolve.

“I’m giving you a week,” Larisa Grigoryevna hissed, lowering her arm. Her face was purple with fury. “A week to pack your junk and get out of here. Otherwise I’ll call the police and throw you into the street like a stray dog!”

“On what grounds?” Galina’s voice was surprisingly calm. All fear had vanished. “This is my home. I’m Konstantin’s wife.”

“Ex-wife!” her mother-in-law smirked maliciously. “Now you’re a widow. A penniless widow. And this is my son’s apartment, and he left it to me! He promised me personally! On your wedding day he said, ‘Mom, no matter what happens, you won’t be out on the street.’”

Galina gave a bitter smile. She remembered that day. Larisa Grigoryevna had thrown a horrific scene, called her a predator, then sobbed on Kostya’s shoulder, complaining that he was abandoning her. That was probably when he said something to soothe her—something this manipulator twisted to her advantage.

“Promises can’t be sewn onto a case file, Larisa Grigoryevna. There’s the law. And there’s the will, which we’ll learn about in due time.”

“Ah, you mean the will!” the mother-in-law dug into her folder again. “Here it is! Kostya wrote it when he was twenty-five. All property—to his mother, Larisa Grigoryevna. Look!”

She shoved a piece of paper under Galina’s nose. Galina glanced quickly. It really was a will.

 

“That was before me,” Galina said evenly. “Marriage and a later will отменяют the previous one. You don’t seriously think that in ten years Kostya didn’t take care of his family?”

Larisa Grigoryevna’s face twitched. For a second uncertainty flashed in her eyes, but she instantly drowned it in a new wave of anger.

“He didn’t take care of it! Because he knew you’d trick him! Rob him! He complained to me—said you only think about money!”

It was a lie. A brazen, filthy lie. Kostya would never have said that. They lived in perfect harmony. Yes, there were arguments, like any couple—but they always ended in reconciliation. He loved her, and she knew it. Her mother-in-law’s lie was the last straw.

“Enough,” Galina said sharply. “I don’t want to listen to your lies anymore. I told you: leave. We’ll resolve everything with the notary when the time comes. And if you show up on my doorstep again with threats, I’ll call the police.”

“You… you’re threatening me?!” her mother-in-law gasped.

“I’m warning you,” Galina answered firmly. “Your performance is over. You won’t get this apartment. Because Kostya loved me. He lived with me—and he ran from you, because your ‘love’ suffocated him his whole life. Now go.”

Larisa Grigoryevna froze with her mouth open. She hadn’t expected that kind of resistance from her quiet, accommodating daughter-in-law. She glared at Galina with hatred, then spun around and, grabbing the stunned notary by the arm, stormed out, slamming the door.

Galina was left alone. She slid down the wall onto the floor and burst into tears. But these weren’t tears of grief—they were tears of rage and release.

Six months passed. Six long, painful months of waiting. Larisa Grigoryevna didn’t show up again, but Galina felt her invisible presence. She called mutual acquaintances and complained about the “black widow” who had thrown her out of her son’s apartment. She spread filthy rumors. Galina tried not to pay attention, but it was hard.

And then the day of the will reading came. Galina arrived at the notary office half an hour early. She sat in the waiting room, clutching her purse in cold fingers. Her heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might leap out of her chest.

The door opened, and Larisa Grigoryevna walked in. She wore an elegant pantsuit, and on her face was a confident, contemptuous smile. She threw Galina a triumphant look and sat opposite her, ostentatiously crossing one leg over the other.

“Well, Galya? Ready to be evicted?” she hissed. “I hope your suitcases are already packed.”

Galina said nothing, only gripped her purse tighter.

They were invited into the office. The notary, an older, solid man, asked them to sit and began the official procedure. He spoke in a dry, monotone voice, reading out standard wording. Larisa Grigoryevna tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk. Galina sat motionless, like a statue.

“…And now we proceed to the reading of the will made by citizen Orlov Konstantin Igorevich,” the notary said, and opened a thick envelope.

He put on his glasses and began to read.

“‘I, Orlov Konstantin Igorevich, being of sound mind and clear memory, by this will make the following disposition… All my property which at the day of my death shall belong to me, whatever it may consist of and wherever it may be located, including but not limited to the apartment located at the address…’”

The notary named the address of the apartment Kostya and Galina had shared. Galina’s heart stopped. Larisa Grigoryevna leaned forward, her eyes shining with greed.

“…‘I bequeath to my beloved and only wife, Orlova Galina Petrovna.’”

The silence in the office became deafening. Galina looked up at the notary, not believing her ears. Larisa Grigoryevna froze with her mouth half-open. Her face slowly began to flood red.

“What?” she rasped. “This… this is some kind of mistake! I have another will! He couldn’t!”

“Please do not interrupt,” the notary said sternly and continued. “‘In a separate clause I wish to dispose in regard to my mother, Orlova Larisa Grigoryevna…’”

Her mother-in-law jumped to her feet.

“There! There! Now he’ll explain everything—how it was just a joke!”

The notary gave her a heavy look and slowly, with deliberate emphasis, read the next lines.

“‘…in regard to my mother, Orlova Larisa Grigoryevna,’” the notary repeated, looking over his glasses at the woman who had gone pale. “‘I, Orlov Konstantin Igorevich, fully and unconditionally deprive her of the right to inherit any of my property by law.’”

The blow was so strong that Larisa Grigoryevna swayed and collapsed back into her chair.

“How… deprive?..”

“That’s not all,” the notary said, returning to the document. “Konstantin Igorevich left an explanatory letter which he asked to have read as a mandatory part of the procedure.”

He cleared his throat and began reading text written by hand. Galina recognized Kostya’s handwriting at once.

“Mom. If you’re hearing this now, it means I’m gone. And it means you came to divide up my property, certain that it rightfully belongs to you. I’m writing this not out of anger, but out of deep bitterness. I always loved you, but your love was suffocating. You never saw me as a separate person—only as your property.

When I met Galya, for the first time in my life I became truly happy. I found my home, my family. And you did everything you could to destroy it. Your endless manipulations, lies, intrigues, your attempts to turn me against her… You poisoned ten years of our life. You told me she didn’t love me, that she only wanted money and the apartment. But the only person who ever talked about my apartment was you, Mom.

Galya is my life. She was with me in joy and in sorrow; she supported me when I wanted to give up; she created warmth in our home, which you always called ‘mine.’ She never asked me for anything.

That is why I leave everything I have to her. This is not just an inheritance. It is my gratitude, my love, and my attempt to protect her from you even after my death. I know you won’t leave her alone. But this home is her fortress. My last request to you, Mom: leave her alone. Let her live. Goodbye.”

When the notary finished, there was dead silence in the room for several seconds. Galina cried openly. These were tears of gratitude, love, and endless longing for her husband, who understood her so deeply.

And then the silence was torn apart by a wild, animal scream.

“LIES! IT’S ALL LIES!” Larisa Grigoryevna shrieked, springing from her chair. Her face was twisted with rage and disbelief. “She set it all up! That witch! She drugged him, bewitched him! He couldn’t have written that! He loved me!”

She lunged toward the notary’s desk, trying to snatch the papers from him.

“You’re in cahoots! How much did she pay you?! I’ll file complaints! I’ll sue! I’ll prove it’s a forgery!”

“Calm down, citizen Orlova!” the notary said sternly, pushing her hand away. “The will is certified according to all regulations. The authenticity of Konstantin Igorevich’s signature has been confirmed. Your actions may be regarded as disorderly conduct.”

“Disorderly conduct?!” Larisa Grigoryevna screeched, turning on Galina. Her eyes shot sparks. “This is all your fault! You stole my son from me—and now you stole his apartment! Curse you! May you never have peace in that house! May every corner remind you of him and tear your heart to pieces!”

Galina stood up. She wiped her tears and looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes.

“It already does. Every corner. And I’m grateful to him for that,” she said quietly but firmly. “As for you… I pity you. You lost your son twice. First when you tried to destroy his happiness. And now—finally. You ended up with nothing not because I stole anything, but because there is nothing in your heart except greed and spite.”

Those words hit Larisa Grigoryevna harder than any scream. She froze, her face turning ash-gray. She stared at Galina with such savage hatred that Galina felt uneasy.

“I’ll destroy you,” she whispered. “I swear…”

She spun around and, staggering, walked toward the exit. The office door slammed with a crash.

Galina sank back into her chair. It was over. The war that had lasted ten years had ended. She had won. But there was no joy—only a ringing emptiness and endless gratitude to a husband who, even from beyond the grave, had managed to protect her.

“Orlova Galina Petrovna,” the notary called gently, pulling her out of her stupor. “My condolences… and congratulations. You’ll need to sign the documents to enter into the inheritance.”

Galina took the pen. Her hand no longer trembled.

Almost a year had passed since that day at the notary’s office. Galina was slowly returning to life. She rearranged the apartment, changed the curtains, bought a new sofa. She needed the home to stop being a mausoleum and become alive again. Kostya’s photo still stood in the most prominent place, but now Galina looked at it with a bright sadness rather than tearing anguish.

Larisa Grigoryevna kept her “promise.” She tried to sue, contesting the will; hired lawyers; wrote complaints to every office she could think of. But it was all futile. The law was on Galina’s side. After several failed attempts, her mother-in-law went quiet. From mutual acquaintances Galina heard that she sold her small apartment on the outskirts and moved to some distant relative in another city. She never appeared in Galina’s life again.

One evening Galina was sorting through Kostya’s old papers. In one of the boxes she found a notebook. It was his diary from the first year they lived together. Galina opened it with a pounding heart.

On one page she read:

“Mom caused another scandal today. Says Galya is using me. How can she not understand? Before Galya, I wasn’t living at all. I existed. And now I live. I breathe. And if I ever have to choose between Mom’s peace and happiness with Galya, I will choose Galya. Always. I have to protect her. From everyone. And first of all—from my own mother.”

Tears rose again, but they were warm, bright tears. He understood everything. He always had.

Galina closed the diary and went to the window. Outside, the evening city hummed, lights burned, life flowed on. She was alone, but she no longer felt lonely. Love lived in her heart, and behind her was an unbreakable wall her husband had built for her.

She took a deep breath. A new life lay ahead. Her life. And she knew she would manage. For her own sake. And in his memory

And when she entered the restaurant, her mother couldn’t believe her eyes…”

“Have you completely lost it?” she almost shouted, recoiling as if caught red-handed. “Me? In this? Playing your fiancée? Yesterday, I was digging food out of the trash!”

He calmly clicked the lock, closing the door, and, tiredly leaning against the wall, said:

“You have no reason to refuse. I’ll pay more than you could imagine. Just one evening. Be my fiancée. For them. For my parents. It’s just a game. A play. Or have you forgotten how to act?”

She was silent. Her fingers in worn gloves trembled. Her heart was pounding as if trying to burst out. “Could this be the start of a new life? Or at least the end of old pain?”

Thus began a story no one was prepared for.

He was as rich as a whole country. His name was Nathan Berg. Young, strict, with cold eyes and a serene face. His name graced business magazine covers, and his photos were on lists of the world’s most influential bachelors. Upbringing, money, power — everything was by the book. But his parents, living in Europe, kept repeating:

“When will we finally meet your girlfriend? Why are you hiding?”

They decided to come without warning. Tomorrow.

Nathan was not scared — he was confused. Not because he feared their judgment, but because he didn’t consider any woman suitable for the role. He despised actresses. Couldn’t stand fake smiles. He needed someone… real. Or at least very different from those they expected.

That evening, he was driving through the city. Cold, traffic jams, evening lights. And suddenly he noticed her — at the metro entrance, with a guitar and a cardboard sign saying: “I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance.”

Nathan stopped. For the first time, he didn’t drive past.

“What’s your name?”

She raised her eyes. Her voice was hoarse but full of pride:

“Why do you need to know?”

He smiled slightly.

“I need a woman who knows how to survive. For real. Alive. Without makeup. Like you.”

Her name was Marta. 27 years old. Behind her — an orphanage, escapes, years on the street, rehabilitation, cold nights, and a guitar. Her only truth.

The next evening, she stood in front of the huge mirror in the Emerald Hotel room. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the fabric of an expensive velvet dress the color of the deep sea. Her hair, freshly washed and stylishly done, shone. Makeup accentuated her features so much she was almost unrecognizable.

“They’re already at the restaurant,” Nathan said, adjusting his cufflinks. “We’re late for our happiness.”

 

“Think it will work?”

He looked at her for a long time.

“I think you’re the only person who can win over my mother.”

At the restaurant, everything seemed under control. Almost.

His father was reserved but attentive. His mother — a woman with refined manners and a sharp gaze, able to read a person with one eyebrow’s movement. Her eyes fixed on the girl across from her.

“How did you meet my son?” she asked.

Marta felt Nathan’s gaze on her. He nodded slightly.

“At a bookstore,” she answered. “I dropped a volume of Schopenhauer, he picked it up… and we both laughed.”

“Schopenhauer?” the woman was surprised. “You read philosophy?”

“As a child. In our orphanage, the librarian allowed us to take books even with the hardest topics — if we promised to return them.”

Silence hung. Nathan’s mother slowly put her glass down without taking her eyes off Marta. Too intently.

“In an orphanage?” she asked again, and her voice flickered with something elusive — curiosity, or a trace of old pain.

Then something happened that no one expected.

Marta suddenly straightened, gathered all her dignity into a fist, and said firmly:

“Sorry. I’m lying. I’m not your daughter-in-law. Not from a bookstore, but from the street. I’m homeless. Just a woman who got tired of being someone’s possession and today felt like a human being for the first time.”

Instead of judgment or scandal, the woman in a strict suit stood up, came over, and hugged her.

“My daughter… I started from nothing once too. Someone gave me a chance. And I’m glad you took yours.”

Nathan was silent. He just watched. And for the first time understood: the game was over. And real life was just beginning.

She told the truth — and received not contempt, but an embrace. None of them yet knew it was just the first step. Nathan’s mother turned out to be surprisingly sensitive — she saw in Marta not deception, but strength of spirit. His father remained distant.

“This is madness, Nathan,” he said coldly, cutting through the tension. “You brought us to a house of street fantasies?”

“This is my choice,” the son replied calmly. “Not your verdict.”

After dinner, Marta went outside. Took off her shoes, leaned against the wall, and cried. But not from shame — from relief. She told the truth. And no one turned away.

Nathan approached quietly. He held her coat.

“You won’t go back to the street. You’ll live with me. As long as needed.” He paused. “You deserve more.”

“I’m not asking for pity.”

“I’m not offering that. I’m giving you an opportunity.”

…

So began their strange, sharp, but honest life together. He worked late into the night, demanding of himself and others. She studied. Borrowed books, listened to lectures, cleaned the apartment, cooked. Sometimes she picked up the guitar again — not for money, but because something alive was waking inside.

She was changing.

“You’ve become different,” he said once.

“I’m just not afraid for the first time that they’ll throw me out.”

…

A month later his father left. Didn’t say a word. Just left a note: “If you choose your heart — don’t count on my fortune anymore.”

Nathan didn’t even open the envelope. Just threw it into the fireplace and quietly said:

“Money comes and goes. But if you lose yourself — you’re worth nothing.”

…

Three months later Marta saw two lines on a test.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered, sitting on the bathroom floor. “It’s too early… We’re not even a couple…”

When she told him, Nathan was silent for a long time. Then he hugged her.

“I don’t know what this feeling is called. But I know one thing — it’s right.”

…

There were court battles over the land his father wanted to take. There were rumors on the internet about “a billionaire and a homeless woman staging a show of happiness.” There were difficult births, fear of losing the baby, pain, anxiety.

And then there was a new life.

A life in which Marta became the author of her own book. A woman who stepped onto the stage not as a beggar by the roadside, but as a person who passed through poverty, indifference, and betrayal — and survived.

And every time she faced the audience, she said:

“I was a ‘fiancée for an hour.’ Now I’m a wife for life. Because one person saw me as a human being.”

…

The final scene — the very same restaurant. Marta holds the hand of a ten-year-old girl with lush curls.

“See, baby? Right here your dad smiled for the first time for real. Here we became a family, not a play for spectators.”

Nathan stands nearby. Smiling. Holding her hand. No hint of regret in his eyes.

He didn’t marry a princess. He chose a queen. Who once sat on the street with a cardboard sign asking not for help, but for a chance.

“An overdue loan payment? What loan?” Zinaida pressed the phone between her ear and shoulder, trying with her free hand to catch the cash register log as it slid off the desk.

“Credit agreement number seven-three-four-eight, dated November twenty-second of last year,” the woman’s indifferent voice droned in the receiver. “Issued in your name as co-borrower. The primary borrower is Mikhail Andreyevich Petrov. The arrears amount to two months.”

Zinaida froze. The log thudded dully onto the floor. Mikhail. Misha. Her husband. Dead for a year now. Since October. And the loan, apparently, was taken in November. The square of sunlight lying on the faded linoleum of the cashier’s little room suddenly seemed mockingly bright, out of place.

“There must be some mistake. My husband… he died in October. Last year.”

There was a short pause on the line, filled with the rustle of papers.
“Zinaida Pavlovna, my system shows the date the agreement was concluded. And your signature is on the documents. You need to come to the central office in Volgograd as soon as possible to clarify the situation.”

The call cut off. Zinaida slowly lowered the hand holding the phone. She was forty-three. For the last year she had lived like a sleepwalker in a thick fog of grief. Widow. A word that still scraped her throat. Her world had shrunk to the size of a small two-room apartment with a view of old poplars, and the cash desk of the sports complex where she had worked for fifteen years. A world in which tennis remained her only outlet, the only bright spot. Twice a week she went out on court, and only there, hitting back the springy yellow ball, did she feel life returning to her numbed limbs.

Misha… He couldn’t have. He simply couldn’t. He was the embodiment of reliability, her rock wall. Any thought of debts or loans horrified him. How? And, most importantly—with whom?

The first thing she did was call Inna, Mikhail’s sister.
“Inn, hi. I just got a call from the bank…” Zinaida swallowed. “They’re saying Misha has some loan. And I’m… a co-borrower.”

“Loan?” Inna’s voice sounded deliberately surprised, a bit too loud. “Oh, Zinochka, what are you talking about! Maybe some old one resurfaced?”

“No. They say it’s from November.”

“November?” Inna held a pause worthy of a drama-theater actress. “Strange… Although, wait. He did say something to me… about business. Yeah, yeah, he wanted to open some kind of workshop to repair boat motors. Volgograd, the Volga’s nearby, there’d be clients, he said. He probably started gathering documents, and you just forgot. It happens after… such grief.”

 

Zinaida was silent, listening closely to her sister-in-law’s intonations. Something in that overly sympathetic tone grated on her ear.

“But he died in October, Inna. And the agreement is dated November.”

“Oh, those people in banks don’t know anything! They mix things up and then you have to sort it all out. Zina, the main thing is don’t worry. Maybe it’s just an error in the dates. Come over to mine tonight, we’ll sit, talk. I’ve just baked a cabbage pie.”

She hung up, leaving Zinaida alone in the hollow silence of her little room. From behind the door came the muffled thud of balls against the court wall and the squeak of sneakers. Spring in Volgograd was coming into its own, filling the air with the smell of heated asphalt and blooming apricot trees. But Zinaida felt only an icy cold spreading from within. A workshop for motor repairs? Misha, who couldn’t tell a carburetor from a battery? That was as absurd as if she herself suddenly decided to become a ballerina.

That evening at Inna’s it smelled of cabbage pie and anxiety. Inna herself, a short, stout woman with an ever-evaluating gaze, bustled around the table.
“Well, come on, sit down, Zinochka. Tea? Or something stronger? You look, honestly…”

She sat down opposite her, laying her short fingers with their bright manicure on the tablecloth.
“So what’s this loan then? Is it a big amount?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t say,” Zinaida answered quietly, staring into her cup.

“Well, our Misha was a guy with imagination,” Inna sighed. “He always had some project in his head. Maybe he really did want his own business… And you, all worn out, signed the papers without looking. He could be very persuasive.”

“I didn’t sign anything after he died,” Zinaida said firmly.

“Oh, come on, Zina!” Inna waved her hand irritably. “Maybe it was before. The formal date could’ve been processed later. Bureaucracy! The main thing now is to figure out what to do. If the amount isn’t big, maybe it’s just easier to pay it off little by little? So they don’t drag Misha’s name through the mud. For the sake of his memory…”

The word “memory” rang out like a shot. Inna used it like a skeleton key, trying to pick the lock of Zinaida’s soul.

“I’m going to the bank. Tomorrow,” Zinaida said, getting up. “Thank you for the pie, it’s very good. But I have to go.”

“Zin, wait!” Inna jumped up. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother with the banks? Why do you need all that stress? I can find everything out myself through my contacts. Quietly, without fuss.”

“No. I’ll do it myself.”

She stepped outside. Dusk was settling over the city. In the distance, on the other bank of the Volga, the lights of Krasnoslobodsk were coming on. The air was warm, smelling of river and dust. Zinaida walked home, and for the first time in a year her head was filled not with grief but with cold, ringing fury. They were deceiving her. Crude, clumsy deception, taking her for a docile, grief-stricken widow who could be fed any lie.

The next day, during her lunch break, she went to the bank’s central office. A tall building of glass and concrete in the very center of Volgograd. Inside—air-conditioning coolness, the scent of expensive perfume, and the quiet hum of equipment. Zinaida, in her modest blouse and skirt, felt like a stranger here.

A young female manager studied her passport for a long time, then searched for something in the computer.
“Yes, Zinaida Pavlovna. Here’s your agreement. A consumer loan for eight hundred thousand rubles.”

Zinaida felt the floor slip from under her feet. Eight hundred thousand.

“Show me the documents.”

The girl printed out several sheets. There it was, the agreement. Mikhail’s name. Her own. And the signatures. Misha’s signature looked similar but somehow… uncertain. And her own… It was a crude, clumsy forgery. Someone had simply tried to copy her flourish.

“May I have copies of all the documents?” Zinaida asked, her voice trembling.

“Of course.”

She walked out of the bank with a folder in her hands. The sun was beating into her eyes. Eight hundred thousand. For what? For whom? The idea of a motor-repair business now seemed not just absurd, but mocking.

That evening there was tennis. Her partner, Vladimir—a man about her age, calm, laconic, a lawyer—immediately noticed something was wrong. The balls flew past, her shots were weak, she kept losing focus.

“Zin, what’s going on?” he asked after yet another lost point, stepping up to the net. “You’re not yourself.”

And she, unexpectedly even for herself, told him. Everything. About the call, about the conversation with Inna, about the trip to the bank and the forged signature.

Vladimir listened in silence, frowning. His usually impassive face had become hard.
“All right,” he said when she finished. “This is no simple mistake. This is Article 159 of the Criminal Code. Fraud.”

“But who? Inna? Why would she?”

“The motives can vary,” Vladimir rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But one thing is clear: you need to protect yourself. Immediately. The memory of Mikhail is one thing. A criminal offense and a huge debt is quite another. You must file a statement with the police. And with the bank’s security service.”

His words sobered her. He didn’t say “don’t worry” or “it’ll all work out.” He said “fraud,” “statement,” “protect yourself.” He saw not a grief-stricken widow, but a person in trouble who needed concrete help.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly. “It’s Misha’s family. It’ll be a scandal… dirt.”

“Zinaida,” he looked straight into her eyes. “The dirt has already started. The moment someone forged your signature. The question is whether you’ll let them smear you and Misha’s memory with it—or you’ll clean it off.”

 

After practice they sat in the little café at the sports complex. On a napkin, Vladimir sketched out a plan of action. “First—a written complaint to the bank. Second—a statement to the police about fraud. Third—a request for a handwriting examination of the signatures.” Everything was clear and to the point.

“I’ll help you draft the statements,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone.”

And for the first time in a long while, Zinaida felt not loneliness, but support. Solid, manly, reliable support—the kind she had lacked for a whole year.

The next day Inna called her herself. Her voice oozed fake concern.
“Well, Zinochka? Did you go to the bank? What did they say?”

“They said I owe eight hundred thousand. And that my signature was forged.”

Silence hung heavy on the line. So dense it felt you could touch it.

“How… forged?” Inna finally squeezed out. “Zin, are you out of your mind? Why are you slandering Misha? He would never—”

“I’m not slandering Misha,” Zinaida replied in an icy tone. “I’m saying someone used his name and forged my signature. I’m going to the police tomorrow.”

“To the police?!” Inna squealed. “Are you crazy?! You want to shame our family? Drag everything out into the open… Do you even understand what you’re doing?! You want those cops to drag my brother’s, your husband’s name through the mud?!”

“I want the truth, Inna. And I’m not going to pay for fraudsters.”

Zinaida hung up. Her hands were shaking. She had done it. She had crossed the line. She had declared war.

That evening the doorbell rang. Inna stood on the threshold. Her face was red, twisted with rage. She walked into the apartment without being invited.

“Who do you think you are, huh?” she hissed, stepping toward Zinaida. “Decided to play the heroine? ‘She’s going to the police!’”

“Leave, Inna.”

“I’m not leaving until you come to your senses!” Inna glanced around the modest yet cozy apartment. “You think I don’t know what you’re after? You want to grab everything for yourself! Misha’s flat, the car in the garage! You think we’ll let you?”

“It’s my apartment too,” Zinaida said quietly but firmly. “We bought it together.”

“Yeah, together! With his money! While you sat as a cashier for three kopecks!” Inna flew into a scream. “Yes, Misha needed money! He wanted to buy out a share in the business from his partner! He had big plans! And you… you were always the brake! Always with your fears, your penny-pinching! He had to do it! He wanted what was best for the family, for you!”

Zinaida looked at her and no longer saw her husband’s sister, but a stranger filled with malice. Lies seeped from every word. What business? What partner? Misha told her everything.

“Enough lying, Inna.”

“It’s not lies!” Inna suddenly lowered her voice to an intimate whisper. “Zin, listen. Let’s settle this quietly. We’ll sell his Volga, the dacha… We’ll pay it off bit by bit. No one has to know. We’ll preserve his bright memory. Let’s not involve the police, I beg you…”

She tried to take Zinaida’s hand, but she pulled away.

“Whose memory are we preserving, Inna? The Misha I loved, or the one you’ve just invented to cover your own scam?”

At that moment, Zinaida understood. She understood everything. There had been no partner. No grand plans of Misha’s. The money had been for Inna herself. Her husband had recently lost his job, her college-aged daughter had expensive tastes. She had simply taken advantage of her brother’s death. Dug up some old documents, cozied up to a shady bank clerk, forged the signatures… The calculation was simple: the devastated widow wouldn’t dig too deeply, she’d be afraid and would quietly pay, just to “avoid tarnishing her husband’s memory.”

“It was you who took the loan,” Zinaida said—not as a question, but as a statement.

Inna’s face contorted. The mask slipped.
“And even if it was me?” she spat. “So what? I’m his sister! I had the right! He would’ve helped me! But you—you’re a stranger! An outsider! You always were! You were obliged to help your husband’s family!”

This was the culmination. The moment of truth. The clash of two worlds. Zinaida’s world, where love and memory were sacred, and Inna’s world, where blood ties were nothing but a tool for getting what you wanted.

“No, Inna,” Zinaida replied calmly. Her voice no longer trembled; steel rang in it. “I will not consent to this. And I won’t pay. You will pay. And not just the money.”

She opened the front door.
“Leave. Or I’ll call the police right now.”

Inna looked at her with hatred, hissed a curse through her teeth, and stormed out onto the landing.

Zinaida locked the door with every lock. She leaned her back against it and slowly slid down to the floor. Silence… blessed silence. She felt neither relief nor joy. Only immense, draining fatigue. And a strange, quiet sense of release. As if she had just performed a complicated operation and removed a malignant tumor from her life.

The next morning she woke to bright sunlight streaming through the window. Volgograd shone, washed clean by the night’s rain. For the first time in a year, Zinaida looked at this light not with sorrow, but with hope.

She got ready methodically and calmly. She put copies of the agreement, her passport, and Mikhail’s death certificate into a folder. She called Vladimir to clarify a few details. He said he’d be waiting for her by the police station after lunch.

Her first stop was the bank. The same central office. Today she didn’t feel like a stranger here. She walked in with her head held high, fully aware she was in the right.

The head of security, a gray-haired, stern man with attentive eyes, received her. She silently laid the documents out in front of him.

“I’m a cashier,” she began evenly. “I’ve been working with money and documents for fifteen years. I know what a genuine signature looks like and what a forgery looks like. Here is my signature.” She took a sheet of paper and signed several times. “And here is what appears on this agreement. I’ve also brought my husband’s death certificate—Petrov Mikhail Andreyevich. The agreement was concluded a month after he died. I believe your bank has serious issues with client verification procedures and, possibly, with the integrity of your employees.”

The man was silent for a long time, comparing the documents. He saw before him not a frightened woman, but a confident professional speaking the language of facts.

“Zinaida Pavlovna,” he said at last. “We will immediately begin an internal investigation. Thank you for informing us. We will be in touch.”

It was her first victory. Small, but important. She was not just defending herself; she was restoring order disrupted by lies and greed.

After the bank, she met Vladimir. Together they went to the police station. The smell of bureaucracy, worn-out chairs, indifferent faces. But Vladimir was beside her, and that gave her strength. She wrote her statement—dry, factual, just as he had taught her. The date of the call. The amount of the loan. The forged signature. Her suspicions regarding her sister-in-law, Inna Petrova.

When they came outside, the spring air seemed especially fresh.

“Well, that’s that,” she said, feeling the tension of the last few days begin to ease. “Now we wait.”

“You did everything right,” Vladimir nodded. “You were great. Very strong.”

He said it simply, without flattery, and his words warmed her.

“Tennis court?” he suggested. “Shall we loosen up a bit?”

“Let’s,” she smiled.

On the court she played as she had never played in her life. Every shot was precise, powerful, calculated. She wasn’t just hitting the ball—she was knocking out the remnants of fear, doubt, and bitterness. She moved lightly, freely, as if she had shrugged off an invisible burden from her shoulders. Vladimir could barely keep up, watching her with surprise and admiration.

In the final set, at 5–5, she stepped up to serve. Tossed the ball, arched her back—a powerful, whiplike stroke. Ace. Match point. She laughed—for the first time in a very, very long while. Freely and happily.

The investigation lasted several months. It confirmed everything. Under the weight of the evidence, Inna confessed. It turned out she had talked a friendly manager in the loan department into helping, promising him “a cut.” Both of them faced trial. The loan was annulled. Mikhail’s name was cleared of lies. Zinaida’s name—of debt.

Her relationship with her husband’s family was destroyed forever. But Zinaida realized she had lost nothing. Because anything that could be destroyed by a single scam had never been real in the first place.

One summer evening she sat with Vladimir on a bench on the Central Embankment. The sun was setting over the Volga, painting the sky pink and orange.

“You know,” she said, looking at the water, “I didn’t just get rid of the debt. I feel like I found myself. The me I’d long lost. The one who can not only endure and drift with the current, but also fight.”

“I always knew she was there,” Vladimir smiled. “She was just waiting for her moment. For her serve.”

He gently took her hand. His palm was warm and strong. And Zinaida, without hesitation, squeezed his fingers in return. Ahead lay a new life. Unclear, mysterious, but undeniably her own. And she was ready for it

“This area is for VIP clients; you’re not allowed in here,” Igor hissed at me, his fingers digging into my forearm.

They were cold—like the look he’d been giving me for the last ten years.

I silently stared at the heavy velvet rope blocking the entrance to the fireplace lounge.

There, in the soft light of the floor lamps, sat people whose faces flashed across financial news. Igor had always strained to get into that circle. He thought he’d long since earned the right.

“Anya, don’t embarrass me. Go to our table by the window—I’ll be there in a minute,” his voice oozed that condescending irritation that had become the background noise of my life.

He spoke as if explaining to a fussy child why you can’t touch something hot.

I didn’t move. Five years. Five long years I had been just “Anya” to him. A function.

A woman who maintained a flawless household while he “built an empire.” He had long forgotten who I’d been before him.

Forgotten that my father, a professor of economics, left me not only his library but also a rather sizable account—and taught me how to manage it.

“Did you hear me?” Igor tightened his grip, his face beginning to redden. “What are you doing here, I’m asking?”

I slowly turned my head toward him. In his eyes sloshed vanity mixed with poorly concealed anxiety.

He was so proud of himself—of his suit that cost several thousand euros, of his status.

He had no idea that his “empire” was a house of cards built on risky loans, and that I was the anonymous creditor who had been buying up his debts for the past two years.

Every time I asked him for money “for hairpins,” he would toss a few bills on the table with patronizing flair.

He didn’t know that I immediately transferred that money to a separate account labeled “humiliation.” They became the symbolic part of the capital I was steadily building while he was busy admiring himself.

“I’m waiting for business partners,” I answered quietly. My voice was even, without a trace of the hurt he was so used to hearing.

 

It threw him off. He expected tears, reproaches, submission. Anything but this icy, businesslike calm.

“Partners? Your yoga instructor?” he tried to sneer, but it came out weak. “Anya, this isn’t your level.

Serious matters are decided here. Go, don’t get in the way.”

I watched as, beyond the velvet rope, the owner of a major media holding took his seat.

He met my gaze and gave the slightest nod. Not to Igor—to me. Igor didn’t even notice.

He didn’t know that three days ago I had signed the final document. That this restaurant—his favorite stage for displaying status—was now mine.

That soon all his “VIP acquaintances” would be my guests, courting my favor.

“Igor, let go of my arm. You’re in my way,” I said just as softly, but with a new, hard edge. The tone of someone who gives orders, not requests.

He froze, peering into my face as if trying to find the old Anya there—the one who used to look up at him from below.

But she was gone. In her place stood a woman who had just bought his world. And he was the first person she intended to evict from it.

For an instant Igor’s arrogant mask slipped. Confusion flickered, but he smothered it, taking this for open defiance.

“Who do you think you are? Lost all fear, have you?” he hissed, trying to drag me aside, away from prying eyes.

But I stood rooted to the spot, feeling my resolve harden with every second.

“I told you, I’m expecting guests. It would be awkward if they saw this unpleasant scene.”

“What guests?” he nearly growled, losing control. “Enough. You’re going to the car right now. We’ll talk at home.”

He tried to play the tired old card of the “caring husband” worried about his wife’s condition.

He glanced around, seeking sympathy from a passing waiter. But the waiter simply bowed to me and asked, “Anna Viktorovna, is everything all right?”

At that moment our children approached us—Kirill, tall in a perfectly tailored suit, and Lena, elegant, her gaze steady. They were the living embodiment of my secret investments.

“Mom, we’re here. Sorry, we were delayed at a meeting,” Kirill kissed my cheek, deliberately ignoring his father. Lena hugged me from the other side, forming a living barrier.

Igor was taken aback. He was used to the children being reserved with him, but this was something new. This was a united, unbreakable front.

“And what are you doing here?” he tried to reclaim the role of head of the family. “I didn’t invite you.”

“Mom did,” Lena replied calmly, straightening the shawl around my shoulders. “We’re having a family dinner. And a very important occasion.”

“A family dinner? Here?” Igor swept a hand around the room. “Lena, this place isn’t for your little gatherings. I’m paying for your table in the main room.”

He still didn’t understand. He saw only what he wanted to see: a housewife for a wife and idle children.

He didn’t know that their IT startup, which he dismissed as “toys,” had just received a multimillion acquisition offer from a Silicon Valley giant.

A silver-haired manager came over—the one Igor always called familiarly “Petrovich.” But now there wasn’t a trace of obsequiousness in his bearing.

“Anna Viktorovna,” he addressed me alone, his voice loud and clear. “The fireplace lounge is ready. Your guests are gathering. May I escort you?”

Igor froze. He looked from the manager to me, then to our children, who regarded him without the slightest sympathy.

The word “Viktorovna” cracked like a gunshot.

Petrovich stepped forward and, with a bow, unhooked the velvet rope. He was opening the way for me into the world Igor had so desperately tried to enter—into my world.

“You…” Igor breathed, and in that word was everything: shock, disbelief, the first stirrings of fear. “What does all this mean?”

I looked at him one last time with the gaze he knew so well—the gaze of the obedient wife.

“It means, Igor, that your table is no longer being served,” I said, and without looking back, I stepped beyond the rope.

I entered the fireplace lounge, feeling his scalding stare on my back. Lena and Kirill took their places at my sides like a living shield. Conversations died away. Dozens of eyes watched the unfolding drama.

Igor took a step after me, trying to cross the invisible line. Rage twisted his face. He couldn’t accept being shut out of his own paradise.

“Anya! I’m not finished!” he shouted.

The manager, with perfect tact, blocked his way.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go any farther. This is a private event.”

“I’m her husband!” Igor roared, jabbing a finger at me. “That’s my family!”

Kirill stepped forward. His calm was more frightening than his father’s shout.

“Dad, you’re mistaken. This is Mom’s business. And her guests,” he said evenly. “That IT project Lena and I are working on… Mom is our main investor and, effectively, the controlling owner. She founded it.”

Igor laughed—a wild, broken laugh.

“Investor? Her? She can’t string two words together without my approval! Any money she had—I was the one who gave it to her!”

“Exactly,” Lena cut in, steel ringing in her voice. “All those bills you tossed her ‘for pins’—she invested them in us.

And she invested Grandad’s inheritance, which you didn’t even bother to ask about. While you were building an ‘empire,’ Mom built a real business. From scratch.”

Igor swept the room with a frantic gaze, searching for support. He locked eyes with the banker he’d played golf with yesterday.

The man was studying the pattern on his cigar with great interest. Igor looked to the official to whom he’d provided “services.” The man pretended to be absorbed in his neighbor’s small talk. Igor’s world was collapsing before everyone’s eyes.

 

I approached the central table, where my partners were already waiting. I picked up a glass of champagne.

“Forgive the brief delay, gentlemen,” my voice sounded surprisingly firm. “Sometimes you have to shed ballast to move forward.”

I raised my glass, looking straight at Igor.

“To new beginnings.”

The room burst into applause. Quiet, restrained—yet all the more deafening for Igor.

He stood alone in the middle of the room, humiliated, bewildered. Security was already drifting discreetly in his direction.

He looked at me. There was no anger left in his eyes, no self-pity. Only a scorched-out emptiness and a question. He had lost a war he never even knew was being waged.

The guards didn’t lay a hand on him. They simply stood nearby, silent and imposing. It was enough.

Hunched, Igor turned and walked toward the exit. Each step echoed dully in the sudden hush. The door closed behind him, cutting him off from the world he’d considered his own.

The evening went flawlessly. I discussed merger terms with my partners; Kirill and Lena delivered a brilliant presentation of the new project.

I felt as if I had shrugged off a heavy, ill-fitting cloak I’d worn for many years.

I breathed freely. And yet somewhere deep inside was a quiet sorrow for the boy I had once married.

When we got home, it was already past midnight. The light was on in the living room. Igor sat curled up in an armchair.

Spread before him on the coffee table were bank statements, the deed to the house, car documents. All the things he thought were his.

He looked up at me. There was no anger in his eyes, no resentment. Only a question, and a world burned to ashes.

“Is that all?” he asked quietly.

I sat down opposite. The children stood behind me.

“Not all, Igor. Only what was bought with my money. And, as it turns out, almost everything was,” I spoke calmly, without gloating.

“Your construction business has been bankrupt for a year. I bought up your debts through shell companies so you wouldn’t lose face. So the children wouldn’t lose a father who’d failed.”

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Not “Anya,” not “the wife,” but a person. A strategist who had beaten him on his own field.

“Why?” he whispered.

“Because you’re the father of my children. And because I gave you a chance. Every day I waited for you to see me—not your housemaid,” I paused. “You didn’t. You were too busy staring at your own reflection.”

Kirill placed a folder on the table.

“These are the papers for a new company. Yours. We’ve transferred part of the assets to it. Not much, but enough to start over. If you want.”

Igor looked from me to the children. Slowly, he understood. He hadn’t been thrown out onto the street. He’d been given a lesson.

A harsh, humiliating lesson—but a lesson. He’d been shown that the world doesn’t revolve around him.

He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders trembled. These weren’t tears of rage or self-pity.

It was the soundless collapse of an entire universe built on arrogance.

I stood and came to him. For the first time in many years, I laid a hand on his shoulder—not as a supplicant, but as someone who gives.

“Tomorrow at nine we have a board meeting, Igor. Don’t be late. You’ll be in charge of the new construction division. On probation.”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there, shattered and stunned. But I knew he would come tomorrow.

And he would be a very different man. A man who at last had learned to respect his wife.