Raisa was sitting at her desk, reviewing the quarterly reports, when her phone gave a soft vibration. Without thinking, she glanced at the screen and saw a bank alert.
At first she didn’t pay it much attention—most notifications were either her salary being deposited or some useless promotional offer. But then her eyes snagged on the wording, and she went rigid.
“Withdrawal: 50,000 rubles. Card ****4287.”
She reread it several times, refusing to believe what she was seeing.
The card ending in 4287 was the one she guarded like a secret treasure—the emergency card kept at home in the dresser, in the far drawer, beneath a stack of laundry. That was where her rainy-day money lived: 230,000 rubles, to be exact. Savings she had built up over three long years. Without that cushion, Raisa felt vulnerable, as if life could shove her off balance at any moment.
Everyone in the family knew the card existed. Raisa never hid the fact that she had a financial safety net. But there was one unbreakable rule: nobody touched that card without her permission. That money was for true emergencies—illness, being laid off, an urgent repair. Not shopping trips. Not entertainment. Not spur-of-the-moment spending.
She grabbed her phone and called her husband. The ringing felt endless before Mikhail finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Misha, fifty thousand was taken from my card!” Raisa tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled anyway. “Do you know anything about it?”
A pause. Too long.
“Raya, I’m busy right now. I’ve got an important meeting in five minutes. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”
“No, not okay!” Raisa raised her voice, ignoring the surprised looks from her coworkers. “Misha, did you take the card?”
“Raya, I really can’t. I’ll explain tonight.”
He hung up.
Raisa stared at the screen, rage swelling inside her. So he had taken it. Otherwise he would’ve sounded shocked, would’ve started asking questions. Instead, he brushed her off and fled into his meeting.
She checked the time—three in the afternoon. Two more hours until the end of her shift, but she knew there was no way she’d be able to focus. Fifty thousand rubles. Someone had taken fifty thousand without asking.
She went to her manager, blamed sudden nausea, and left for home.
On the way, she ran every possibility through her head. Had the card been stolen? But how? It was in the apartment, in the bedroom dresser. A break-in didn’t make sense—the building had cameras, the door wasn’t damaged. That meant it was someone from inside.
But who? She and Mikhail lived alone.
Unless…
Raisa squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach knotted. Her mother-in-law.
Galina Yegorovna sometimes came by when Raisa wasn’t home. Mikhail had given his mother a spare key. She would drop in “to help”—clean a little, cook something, “put things in order.” Raisa hadn’t minded. If she wanted to be useful, fine.
But to take the card? To take money?
Raisa walked into the apartment without even taking off her shoes. Mikhail was on the couch, scrolling on his phone.
“You’re home already?” he asked, startled. “Early today.”
“Where’s the card?” Raisa stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed.
“What card?”
“The card fifty thousand was taken from. My card. Where is it?”
Mikhail set his phone aside and stood up.
“Raya, let’s talk calmly—”
“I am calm,” Raisa cut him off, though her hands were shaking. “Just answer me. Did you take the card?”
He paced, rubbing his face.
“Listen, it’s… there was a situation…”
“Yes or no?” she snapped.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I took it.”
Raisa closed her eyes and drew a slow breath.
“Why?”
“Mom needed it,” Mikhail shrugged. “She was at the pharmacy, buying medicine. It was really expensive. She called me and asked for help.”
Raisa lifted her gaze slowly.
“Your mom needed it… so you took my card?”
“Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t mind. She’s my mom. It was urgent,” he said as if it were completely normal.
“Where is the card now?” Raisa went to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. Empty. The card really was gone.
“Raya, don’t get mad—”
“Where is it?” she turned sharply.
Mikhail hesitated and looked away.
“Mom has it.”
Raisa went still. For a few seconds she just stared at him, trying to process the words. Then it landed.
“You gave her my card? With my money on it? With my savings?”
“Well… yes. She said she’d bring it back tonight.”
“Tonight,” Raisa repeated in a voice that sounded чужой, чужой even to herself. “So you handed my emergency card—with over two hundred thousand rubles—to someone else, and she promised to return it later?”
“Raya, my mom isn’t ‘someone else’! She’s my mother!”
“To me, she is!” Raisa shouted. “Those are my savings! Mine! I saved for three years! You had no right to touch that card—let alone hand it to anyone!”
“But Mom needed medicine…”
“Medicine for fifty thousand?!” Raisa shoved her phone toward him with the notification. “What kind of medicine costs fifty thousand?!”
Mikhail turned away.
“Well… not only medicine. Mom bought a few other things. Things she needed.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know. Groceries, probably. Maybe some clothes.”
Raisa laughed—sharp, brittle, almost hysterical.
“Groceries and clothes. With my money. Without asking me. Wonderful. Just wonderful.”
She spun and headed for the door, grabbing her bag without even checking what was inside.
“Where are you going?” Mikhail jumped up.
“To your mother’s. Before she spends the rest.”
“Raya, wait! Maybe don’t go in so hard—Mom will be offended…”
Raisa turned back and looked at him—long and heavy.
“I don’t care about her being offended. Let her think about how offended I am when she takes someone else’s money.”
The door slammed. Raisa flew down the stairs without waiting for the elevator. Inside, everything was boiling—anger, humiliation, hurt.
How could Mikhail do this? Take the card and hand it to his mother without even asking. As if Raisa’s savings were some shared family pot anyone could dip into whenever they pleased. Three years. Three years of denying herself little things, putting away every spare ruble for peace of mind.
And he just gave it away. For groceries and clothes.
Her mother-in-law lived in a neighboring district, about a fifteen-minute walk. Raisa moved quickly, barely noticing the cold spring wind. She reached the familiar building, climbed to the third floor, and rang the bell, counting the seconds as she waited.
The door opened. Galina Yegorovna stood there—around sixty, broad-shouldered, with a permanently dissatisfied look.
“Raisa? What’s going on?”
“Give the card back,” Raisa said shortly, stepping into the apartment without being invited.
“What card?” the older woman asked, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.
“Mine. The one Mikhail gave you.”
Galina Yegorovna crossed her arms.
“Oh, that one. I told you—I’ll give it back tonight.”
“I want it now.”
“But I haven’t finished my shopping yet!” her mother-in-law snapped. “I still need to go to the store and buy groceries!”
Raisa stepped closer until they were nearly face to face.
“I don’t care about your shopping. Hand me the card. Now.”
“How dare you talk to me like that?!” Galina Yegorovna flared. “I’m your husband’s mother. You should show some respect!”
“Respect?!” Raisa’s voice cracked into a shout. “You took my money without asking, spent fifty thousand, and you’re demanding respect?”
“I didn’t take it—Mikhail gave it to me!” her mother-in-law shot back. “A son helps his mother. That’s normal!”
“He gave you someone else’s card. Someone else’s money!”
“If you’re his wife, then the money is shared!” Galina Yegorovna jabbed a finger at Raisa. “What, you’re stingy? Can’t a son help his own mother?”
Raisa exhaled slowly, forcing herself not to explode.
“Galina Yegorovna, give the card back. It’s my emergency fund. I saved that money for three years. You had no right to touch it.”
“I’m not giving you anything!” the older woman turned toward the wardrobe as if she might grab the card—then changed her mind. “Mikhail gave it to me, which means I have every right to use it!”
“You don’t have the right!”
“I do! I’m his mother! It’s simple—if a son wants to help his mom, he gives her money. And you don’t get to forbid him!”
“It’s not his money—it’s mine!”
“So what?!” Galina Yegorovna waved her hand. “You earn more than he does. It won’t kill you to share!”
Raisa froze. So that was it. Mikhail had told his mother how much Raisa made—how she earned good money, more than he did. And now Galina Yegorovna believed that gave her permission to rummage through someone else’s pocket.
“Give me the card,” Raisa said quietly, but with steel in her tone. “This is the last time I’m asking nicely.”
“And if I don’t?” the older woman lifted her chin. “What will you do? Run to Misha? He’ll take my side!”
“You’re not giving it back?” Raisa pulled out her phone. “Fine.”
She opened the bank app. A few quick taps. Galina Yegorovna watched, confused.
“What are you doing there?”
“Blocking the card,” Raisa said evenly, and pressed the final button.
A confirmation flashed: “Card ****4287 has been blocked.”
Galina Yegorovna went silent. For two seconds she only stared, and then comprehension crashed into her face.
“What did you do?!”
“I blocked my card,” Raisa slipped the phone into her pocket. “Now it’s just a piece of plastic. Hang it in a frame if you like.”
“Unblock it right now!” Galina Yegorovna screamed. “I have to go to the store! I need to buy food!”
“Use your own money.”
“But there’s still a hundred and eighty thousand left on it!” the older woman grabbed Raisa’s arm. “That’s money!”
“My money,” Raisa pulled her arm free. “And I decide what happens with it. Mikhail had no right to hand my card to anyone, so I have every right to lock it.”
Galina Yegorovna started pacing, flinging her arms around the room.
“Unblock it this instant! I’m your mother-in-law! I’m your husband’s mother! You have to listen to me!”
“I don’t have to listen to anyone,” Raisa said, heading for the door. “Especially not people who steal from me.”
“It’s not stealing—Mikhail gave it to me!”
“Without my permission,” Raisa turned back. “Galina Yegorovna, keep the fifty thousand you already spent. Consider it severance pay.”
“Severance pay? For what?”
“For you. For Mikhail. For this marriage,” Raisa opened the door. “Forget my name. Forget where I live. We’re not family anymore.”
“What?! Have you lost your mind?! Mikhail won’t let you get away with this!”
“Then Mikhail can move in with you—since he loves helping you with my money,” Raisa threw over her shoulder as she walked out and slammed the door.
Behind her, Galina Yegorovna kept yelling, but Raisa didn’t listen. She walked down the stairs with a strange, unexpected lightness. Yes, fifty thousand was gone. Yes, it hurt. But everything finally made sense.
Mikhail had betrayed her. He took her card, gave it away, never asked, and put his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security. That wasn’t family. That was exploitation.
Raisa went home. Mikhail was smoking nervously on the balcony. When he saw her, he rushed forward.
“Well? Did you get the card back?”
“I blocked it,” Raisa said, and walked straight into the bedroom.
“What? Why?!”
“Because your mother refused to give it back voluntarily.”
Raisa opened the closet, pulled out a large travel bag, and started packing Mikhail’s things—shirts, pants, socks, underwear—methodically, one item at a time.
“What are you doing?” Mikhail stood in the doorway, stunned.
“Packing your things.”
“Packing them where?”
“Out of here. To your mom’s. Or wherever you want—I don’t care,” Raisa said without looking at him.
“Raya, are you serious? Over some money?”
Raisa stopped. Straightened up. Looked him directly in the eyes.
“Not over money. Over betrayal. You took my card without permission. You handed it to someone else. You let my savings be spent. That isn’t a marriage, Misha. That’s using me.”
“Mom isn’t ‘someone else’!”
“To me, she is!” Raisa’s voice rose again. “I saved that money for three years. I denied myself everything. And you blew through it in a day—when you knew perfectly well nobody was allowed to touch that card!”
“I didn’t think…”
“You did exactly what your mommy wanted, and you didn’t consider me—my boundaries, my feelings, my security,” Raisa cut him off.
Mikhail dropped his gaze.
“I’m sorry. We’ll return the money. I’ll talk to Mom—”
“No,” Raisa zipped the bag shut. “Don’t return anything. Let Galina Yegorovna keep the fifty thousand. It’s my farewell gift to her.”
“Farewell?”
“I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow.”
Mikhail went pale.
“Raya, you can’t just—”
“I can,” she said, carrying the bag into the hallway. “Take your things and leave.”
“But this is my apartment too!”
“The apartment is in my name,” Raisa reminded him. “I bought it before we got married, with my money. You’re just registered here. So pack up.”
“Raya, let’s talk normally—”
“Normally?” Raisa opened the door. “Normally is not stealing someone else’s money. Normally is asking permission. Normally is choosing your wife, not your mother. You chose differently. Now live with it.”
Mikhail stood in the hallway, pale and helpless. Raisa waited. Five minutes passed in silence. Then he picked up the bag and stepped outside.
“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly.
“No,” Raisa shook her head. “I won’t. The only thing I regret is not seeing who you really were sooner.”
The door closed. Raisa was alone.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking, but inside she felt a calm she didn’t expect. The decision was heavy—but right.
That evening, she ordered a new card through the app and permanently shut down the old one. Fifty thousand was gone, but the remaining 180,000 was safe. She transferred the full amount to a new account, added extra security, and made sure no one would ever get access again.
The next day she took time off work and went to a lawyer. The attorney listened, then shook her head.
“A classic case. The husband and mother-in-law think the wife’s money is ‘shared,’ while their own is ‘personal.’ It’s good your apartment was purchased before the marriage. That simplifies things.”
“How quickly can we do the divorce?”
“If both sides agree—about a month. If he fights it, it can drag out to three months.”
“He’ll fight it,” Raisa sighed.
“Then prepare for court hearings. But your situation is clean: the property is yours, there are no joint debts, no children. The court will be on your side.”
Raisa signed the agreement, paid the legal fee, and walked out with a firm decision to see it through. No pleading, no “let’s try again.” Mikhail had shown his true face—and there was no going back.
A week later, Mikhail started calling nonstop. First he apologized and promised he’d never take money without asking again. Then he switched to threats—saying he’d tell everyone how greedy and heartless she was. Then he slipped back into begging.
Raisa didn’t budge. In her world, Mikhail no longer existed.
Galina Yegorovna tried too. She sent long messages about how Raisa had “destroyed the family,” “offended a suffering mother,” and “broken every moral law.” Raisa read them with a smirk and blocked her as well.
A month later, the court issued the decision: the marriage dissolved, the property remained with Raisa, and neither party had claims against the other. Mikhail got his divorce certificate and removed his registration from the apartment. Raisa got the freedom she’d been waiting for.
The first month after the divorce, she came home to an empty apartment, cooked for one, watched movies alone. It felt strange, and sometimes a little sad. But slowly, she began to appreciate it.
No one invaded her space. No one demanded money. No one handed out her bank cards like party favors. She could live at her pace, spend as she chose, and plan her future without bending to anyone else’s opinion.
Raisa returned to saving. She kept setting money aside each month. Six months later, her balance was back where it had been.
Sometimes she thought about the day everything collapsed—Mikhail’s call, the missing fifty thousand, the confrontation with Galina Yegorovna. And every time she reached the same conclusion: she’d done the right thing.
Yes, she could have forgiven him. She could have tried to keep the marriage, hoping he would change.
But why?
Why live with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries? Who believes it’s acceptable to use another person’s money without asking? Who puts his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security?
Raisa didn’t want that life. She didn’t want to spend her days checking whether someone had taken her card again. She didn’t want to fear another demand from Galina Yegorovna. She didn’t want to be a cash cow for someone else’s family.
She chose herself—her money, her freedom, her peace of mind.
And she never regretted it.