“When are you going to start handing over your salary to me?” her husband asked.
Arina sat by the window of her small apartment, watching Timofey play in the yard with the neighbors’ children. Five years was enough time to understand the scale of her mistake. Five years ago, she had been blinded by feelings and failed to see Faddey’s true nature. What had once seemed like sensible thriftiness had turned into a pathology.
Before the wedding, his habit of studying price tags had seemed sweet — a caring man thinking about the family budget. After their marriage was registered, that trait took on grotesque forms. Faddey could spend half a day in a store with a magnifying glass, hunting for discounts and ignoring expiration dates. His universe had shrunk to the numbers on labels.
The birth of Timofey turned life into a nightmare. Her husband firmly believed that an infant needed nothing more than breast milk and a few swaddling cloths.
“Why does he need new clothes?” he would ask, staring at Arina with theatrical surprise. “Is he going to some high-society receptions? He just lies in his crib all day! He’s grown out of them? Nonsense! You just love new things, Arina. Reasonable wives look online for things kind people give away for free, or buy secondhand for pennies. They help their husbands save money instead of throwing it around left and right.”
For three years, Arina existed under a regime of draconian economy. Her parents saved her — every month they brought groceries, clothes for the baby, and sometimes left money: “Take it, sweetheart, buy yourself something tasty. Don’t think only about the child.”
When Timofey turned three, Arina enrolled him in kindergarten and returned to work. Around that same time, like a breath of air after long suffocation, came the decision to divorce.
Faddey was delighted by the news of the family budget increasing.
“Excellent! Now we’ll finally live like proper people!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “You’ll hand your salary over to me, and I’ll manage it properly. I have a systematic, well-thought-out approach! Not a single ruble wasted!”
After hearing that, Arina silently went to file for divorce.
Faddey moved out amid scandals, demanding a division of property, but there was nothing to divide. In five years of marriage, he had not invested a single kopeck into her apartment, considering it “an irrational expense.” Arina firmly stopped his attempts to take the television and computer.
“Those things were bought with my money, Faddey, long before we met. Don’t humiliate yourself. Take your calculators and leave.”
After the divorce, they became sworn enemies. Faddey begged and tried to appeal to her pity, hoping to avoid child support.
“Sooner or later I’ll have a new family,” he whined over the phone. “How am I supposed to divide my salary among everyone? You work, your money is enough! The child is small, how much can he possibly need?”
Arina answered calmly and firmly.
“Our son is our shared child, Faddey. You are obliged to support him financially. Choose: either I file for child support through the court, or we sign a settlement agreement. There are no other options.”
Faddey chose to ignore her. Soon, a writ of execution arrived at his workplace. The court ordered him to pay fifteen thousand rubles every month.
The amount seemed like robbery to him. He immediately called Arina.
“Have you completely lost your mind? Fifteen thousand for one child! Don’t you think that’s excessive? A whole fortune! I’m sure you spend most of it on yourself!”
“Faddey,” Arina’s voice was unshakable, “the child goes to kindergarten, clothes and shoes wear out instantly. Not to mention food and utility bills. Parents should provide development, not just survival. He constantly needs stationery and paid activities. Timosha is growing; he needs proper nutrition, fruit, vitamins. I try to make him happy with gifts. That is called parental love.”
“That kind of money for pencils?!” Faddey snorted with icy sarcasm. “You could at least lie more convincingly! I regret ever getting involved with you! A real financial disaster!”
Timofey grew into a healthy boy. Faddey showed no desire to communicate with his son, limiting himself to forced payments. He married a woman with two children, whom he considered his own, completely forgetting about his biological son. The “new” children mastered flattery, calling Faddey “Dad,” which pleased his vanity and justified his generosity toward them.
Arina did not complain. If she had wanted to, she would have cut all ties with her ex-husband forever. Thoughts of depriving him of parental rights crossed her mind, but there were no serious grounds — he had no child support debts, payments arrived regularly, he did not ruin the child’s life, he simply ignored his existence.
One day, returning from work later than usual, Arina found her mother gently stroking her quiet grandson’s head. The boy sat on his grandmother’s lap, wrapped in a blanket.
“He has a fever, Arish,” her mother said softly. “A strong, barking cough. Have you called a doctor?”
“Not yet, I just got home. Timka, my sunshine, my little bunny, how are you feeling?” Arina knelt beside him, pressing her cheek to her son’s burning forehead.
At four years old, Timosha fell seriously ill. The cough grew worse, turning into attacks, and the fever would not go down. In a panic, Arina took him to doctors. The pediatrician listened to the child’s lungs and frowned.
“The obstruction is serious. He urgently needs antibiotics and inhalations.”
“Doctor, he’s allergic to injections. Could we use syrup?”
“All right. But inhalations are necessary — five times a day. Do you have a nebulizer?”
“We don’t have one at home.”
The doctor avoided looking her directly in the eye.
“Try searching online. Sometimes people rent them out.”
Arina decided to buy a nebulizer. The medicines had already emptied her wallet, but the device was needed immediately. She wrote to her ex-husband:
“Fad, hi. Timka is seriously ill, obstructive bronchitis. The doctor prescribed urgent inhalations. Please transfer money for a nebulizer, about 2,500, or buy it yourself. This is about your son’s health.”
A few minutes later, her phone vibrated with a call. Faddey was raging.
“What am I, a money-printing machine? I’m sick of you, worse than a bitter radish! Wait for the child support — buy everything from that! I don’t have money right now! Nothing catastrophic will happen!”
“Faddey, we can’t wait three days! He’s having trouble breathing! This is about your son’s health!”
“No money! I have two other children to raise! I’m sick of you! Solve your problems yourself!”
He hung up.
That heartlessness became the last straw. Arina was furious, but her anger was cold and calculated.
“Excellent,” she thought with iron determination. “Now every week I’ll methodically squeeze extra money out of him. If he sends it — fine. If not — at least he’ll be nervous.”
The nebulizer was bought by her grandparents.
“Take it, daughter, buy everything necessary, as long as our grandson gets better.”
Faddey paced the room.
“This is absolutely unacceptable! I’ve been paying for six years! Fifteen thousand every month! That’s millions! You could buy a decent car with that money! Where does she put it all?”
His current wife, Marina, supported him.
“Fadik, talk to a lawyer. Let them explain how to force your ex to report every kopeck. You’re the father; you have the right to demand receipts!”
“You may be right. Where can I get a free consultation? No need for extra expenses.”
Evelina Yuryevna was gathering her documents, preparing to leave, when there was a knock at the door.
“May I? I wanted to consult you.”
“Come in. What is the matter?”
An untidily dressed man in a hat entered. It was a warm May day outside.
“And how much does a consultation cost? Money is tight.”
“If the question is simple, the consultation is free.”
“It’s about child support. Six years ago, I got divorced, and my ex immediately filed for child support. She constantly demands extra money! Shoes for my son, then he gets sick, then school fees! I have a new family, a wife with two children! I suspect she spends the child support on herself! Can I control her somehow?”
Evelina Yuryevna looked at him in bewilderment.
“No, there are no such provisions in the law. Your ex-wife is not obliged to report how child support is spent.”
“Can I transfer half directly to the child?”
“Theoretically, you can. How much is the child support?”
“A whole fifteen thousand!”
Evelina Yuryevna barely held back a mocking laugh.
“Transferring money to a separate account makes sense when child support starts at fifty thousand. Tell me honestly, aren’t you ashamed? Such tiny payments, and you still want a full report? Fifteen thousand is pocket money, not full support!”
Faddey turned red.
“I should have gone to a male lawyer! He would have understood! I regret coming to you!”
He stormed out of the office.
In Arina’s cozy apartment, she and her friend Olga sat at the table drinking tea.
“Can you imagine, Olya, another call: ‘Timosha has a school collection! Five thousand urgently!’ Last week he needed sneakers. Fifteen thousand is absurd! That’s the cost of one pair of jeans for a teenager.”
Olga shook her head.
“Your ex is clearly detached from reality. Fifteen thousand for a teenager in the city is survival, not life. And his demands for reports… Where are his reports on time, love, and care?”
“He thinks I buy myself fur coats with that money.”
“You know what, Arish? You’re amazing. How do you endure all this?” Olga took out a calculator. “The subsistence minimum for a child is now around fifty thousand. He pays thirty percent of what is necessary and still makes claims!”
The years flowed like a river, washing away the sharp edges of the past. Arina methodically built a new life, brick by brick. Every working day became a step up the career ladder, every new skill an investment in the future. When she was finally handed the nameplate that read “Senior Manager,” she did not feel euphoria. Only deep satisfaction from work done honestly.
Her salary now allowed her not to count every kopeck. The fifteen thousand that arrived from Faddey every month turned from a suffocating burden into an annoying but entirely manageable line of expenses. She continued sending him notifications about Timofey’s additional costs — school needs, clothes, stationery. In response, there was either silence or a stream of poisonous messages. Arina archived the screenshots in a folder with his name, shrugging. Let him torment himself.
Meanwhile, Faddey’s life was turning into a caricature of his own principles. The first years with Marina seemed to him like a model of rational household management. He established the same cult of total economy in their shared home: the cheapest products, clothes bought “for growth,” a complete ban on entertainment.
“Why spend on nonsense when we can save for something truly important?” he explained to Marina, who at first nodded, taking it for wise foresight.
But the “important” thing never seemed to arrive. Marina’s apartment, which she had been faithfully paying off even before they met, withered year after year. Furniture fell apart, wallpaper peeled off in strips, household appliances died of old age and were not replaced. Marina’s children, entering adolescence, began to feel ashamed to invite classmates over. Colleagues who happened to stop by kept politely silent, but their glances slid eloquently over the worn surfaces and faded fabrics.
Marina’s parents, visiting their daughter, could barely hide their confusion.
“Marina, dear,” her mother said cautiously, looking around the room where everything screamed of neglect, “you have a good position… Maybe we should update something? At least for the children?”
“Faddey is against unnecessary spending,” Marina answered, and there was no longer conviction in her voice, only justification. “He says we’re saving for the future.”
The turning point was a bonus. Marina received it for a successfully completed project, but instead of congratulations, she heard a demand.
“Wonderful! Transfer it to the common savings fund. I’ll calculate how best to use it. I think we should look for a refrigerator, maybe we can find something decent secondhand.”
“This is my bonus, Faddey,” Marina replied. “I earned it myself, and I will decide what to spend it on. The children have needed winter clothes for a long time, not a refrigerator that will fall apart in six months.”
“What do you mean, yours?!” Faddey was outraged. “We’re a family! Everything should be shared! Are you turning into the same kind of spendthrift as Arina?”
Comparing her to his first wife was a fatal mistake.
“Get out!” Marina pointed to the door, and her voice trembled now not from uncertainty, but from accumulated anger. “Get out of my house immediately! You already destroyed one family with your sick stinginess! I won’t let you cripple me and my children! Take your notebooks full of calculations and disappear! And don’t you dare call yourself their stepfather anymore! You are nobody to us! Just a pathetic miser!”
The conflict was devastating. Faddey, used to Arina’s submission, was not prepared for such resistance. All his attempts to pressure, shame, or appeal to pity shattered against Marina’s unshakable resolve. An hour later, he stood on the stairwell landing with a suitcase of worn-out clothes and notebooks covered in numbers.
There was only one option left — his mother. Hunched over, Faddey appeared on the doorstep of his parents’ old Khrushchev-era apartment.
“Mom, let me stay for a while… Until I find a new place. Marina went crazy, threw me out…”
His mother studied her son carefully.
“Come in. But let’s make the conditions clear right away,” she said without a trace of sentimentality. “My pension is tiny. Utilities, groceries — everything is getting more expensive. If you live here, you’ll pay half of all expenses. Food is separate. No debts and no promises. Every day — money on the table.”
Faddey froze.
“Mom! What are you saying? I’m your son! What are we even talking about?”
“We’re talking about the same thing you talked about when you counted pennies for your own child,” his mother said, looking him straight in the eye. “Life is fair, Faddey. What you sow, you reap. If you want a roof over your head, pay. If you don’t, the door is open. Decide for yourself.”
Now Faddey slept in shabby hostels, cursing the entire female sex: Arina for “robbing” him, Marina for “betraying” him, and his mother for her “heartlessness.” His little world had finally shrunk to the size of a dormitory bed and the endless counting of coins in his pocket. Obsessive thoughts about the “millions” supposedly stolen through child support burned him from within, mixing with bitterness and despair.
Arina’s home smelled of fresh paint — she and Timofey had just finished transforming his room. Her son was busy with a cardboard box from which soft whining could be heard.
“Mom, look at him!” Timofey carefully lifted out a fluffy little bundle. The puppy, clearly of street origin, trustingly poked its wet nose into his palms.
“What a sweetheart!” Arina stroked the baby’s silky fur. “Have you chosen a name yet?”
“I’m thinking… Maybe Chase? Remember that puppy from the ad we saw at the shopping center?”
Arina nodded, watching her son. There was no trace left in his eyes of the pain his father had once caused. They shone with cheerfulness, kindness, and readiness to care for a defenseless creature. They had endured. Hand in hand. And this new reality no longer depended on the spiteful grumbling coming from somewhere far away from their bright present.