Vika was waving a printout of bank transactions in front of her husband’s face.
Andrey sat at the kitchen table, staring into his phone. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt with the logo of some long-forgotten rock band, and he clearly hadn’t slept well — shadows lay under his eyes, and his stubble grew uneven patches.
“You made a luxurious renovation for your mother, and now you demand 300,000 from me?”
“Vik, why are you starting this? That was our joint money,” he muttered without looking up.
“Joint?” Vika exhaled loudly and sat down opposite him. “Andryush, darling, remind me, when was the last time you contributed your share to the joint budget? Three months ago? Four?”
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was tied in a careless ponytail with strands escaping to frame her tired face. She wore a house robe with a small floral pattern — a gift from her mother-in-law last March 8.
“I told you, I’m quiet on orders right now,” Andrey finally looked up. “You know how freelancers are.”
“I know,” Vika nodded. “That’s why I haven’t touched our safety cushion. And what did you do? You took it all and spent it on your mother’s apartment renovation!”
“Not all of it,” Andrey objected. “Besides, she’s my mother, I have to help her.”
“You have to,” Vika repeated. “But I’m not ‘have to,’ right? Not to me? Not to our future child?”
Andrey flinched and stared at his wife with wide eyes.
“What child?”
Vika silently took a pregnancy test with two lines out of her robe pocket and placed it on the table between them.
“This one.”
Silence hung in the kitchen. Somewhere outside a car hummed, a dog barked in the yard. Andrey looked at the test as if it were a bomb with a ticking timer.
“Why… why didn’t you tell me right away?” he finally squeezed out.
“Because I found out last night. I wanted to surprise you today, I even bought tiny booties…” Vika’s voice trembled. “And in the morning, I saw that three hundred thousand had been withdrawn from the card. Everything we saved for the down payment on the apartment.”
Andrey rubbed his temples with his palms.
“Mom called, said the pipe burst, flooded the neighbors downstairs… I couldn’t refuse.”
“Couldn’t refuse,” Vika echoed. “But couldn’t you ask me?”
“You wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“Of course I wouldn’t have! We saved that money for two years! Two years I skimped on everything, bought clothes at second-hand stores, gave up vacations…”
“Mom will pay it back,” Andrey said quietly.
“When? How? She’s retired!”
“She’ll sell the dacha.”
Vika laughed sharply, not happily.
“The dacha? The very dacha she’s been trying to sell for three years? Andryush, wake up! Your mother will never return that money, and you know it perfectly well.”
“Don’t you dare speak like that about my mother!”
“And don’t you dare spend our money without telling me!”
They stood facing each other like boxers in a ring. Vika was breathing heavily, her hands trembling slightly. Andrey clenched his fists, his jaw tensed.
“You know what,” Vika suddenly said, her voice turning icy steel. “If you think you have the right to handle our joint money on your own, then I will make a unilateral decision as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m moving to my parents. I’ll think about whether I want to raise a child with a man who puts his mother above his own family.”
“Vika, don’t say that…”
But she was already leaving the kitchen. Andrey heard the bedroom door slam and the rustle of bags — his wife was packing.
He stayed sitting at the table, staring at the pregnancy test. Two pink lines blurred before his eyes.
Vika’s parents’ apartment was on the other side of the city, in an old residential district. A five-story Khrushchyovka building, third floor, windows facing a noisy street. Vika stood at the doorstep with two bags in her hands, and her mother looked at her with worry.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” Galina Petrovna was a short, plump woman with a kind face and perpetually anxious eyes.
“Mom, can I stay with you for a while?”
“Of course, come in! Dad!” she called into the depths of the apartment. “Vika is here!”
Her father came out — a big man with a gray beard, wearing a stretched-out sweater and house slippers.
“Vikul? Where’s Andrey?” he frowned, noticing the bags in his daughter’s hands.
“We had a fight, Dad.”
The parents exchanged glances. The mother took the bags from Vika, the father hugged her shoulders and led her to the kitchen.
“Tell us,” he commanded as he sat her down at the table. “Mom, boil the kettle.”
Vika told them everything: about the money, the mother-in-law’s renovation, the test. The parents listened silently, the mother occasionally gasping and shaking her head.
“Oh, Andryusha, Andryusha,” the father sighed when Vika finished. “I told you, remember? Mama’s boy. Such a man should only be in kindergarten, not start a family.”
“Dad, don’t start,” Vika asked wearily.
“What not start?” her father went on. “How many times did I tell you: look closer at him! Always running errands for mom. Bring her groceries, change the bulb, and now the renovation with your money…”
“Seryozha, enough,” his wife interrupted. “Don’t you see the poor girl is already struggling?”
“I see! That’s why I say it!” he slammed his fist on the table. “Three hundred thousand! I worked half my life to earn that!”
Vika covered her face with her hands. She wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come. Inside was only emptiness and exhaustion.
“Sweetheart,” her mother sat down next to her, hugging her shoulders. “Have you thought about it… about the baby?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know anything. I’m thirty-two, it might be my last chance. But raising a child alone…”
“Who said you’d be alone?” her father objected. “We’ll help! Won’t we, dear?”
“Of course, we’ll help,” Galina Petrovna nodded. “With money, with upbringing. You’re not alone, sweetheart.”
Vika looked at her parents — so dear, already so old. Father was sixty-eight, mother sixty-five. What help? They barely made ends meet on their pensions.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll think about it.”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Andrey. Vika declined the call.
“Let him call,” said her father. “No pride needed. You have to talk, clear things up.”
“I’ll talk tomorrow. Not today.”
The phone vibrated again. A text: “Vika, let’s talk. I’ll explain everything. Please.”
She turned off the phone and put it on the table.
“Mom, can I lie down? My head is spinning.”
“Of course, of course! Let’s go, I’ll make your bed.”
Her room was almost the same as in her school years. The same wallpaper with tiny roses, the same desk by the window, the same bed with iron rails. Only instead of posters of favorite singers, the walls now held her mother’s embroidery.
Vika lay on top of the bedspread, curled up. Her belly was empty and heavy at the same time. She put her hand on her stomach — inside, a new life was beginning. A life she so wanted. But not like this. Not in quarrels, not in resentment, not in uncertainty.
Outside, cars roared. Somewhere music played, teenagers laughed. Life went on, indifferent to her worries.
Andrey sat in the empty apartment staring at the ceiling. A beer bottle was in his hand — the third of the evening. On the table lay his phone with a dozen missed calls from Vika.
The door opened — his mother entered. A tall, thin woman with a short haircut and a determined face. She carried bags of groceries.
“Andryusha, why are you sitting in the dark?” she clicked the light switch. “What’s this mess? Where’s Vika?”
“She left,” Andrey answered dully.
“Left? Where?”
“To her parents. We had a fight.”
His mother put the bags on the table and sat beside him.
“About what?”
“About money for your renovation.”
Elena Sergeyevna pursed her lips.
“I told you I would pay it back. As soon as I sell the dacha…”
“Mom, Vika is pregnant.”
There was a pause. She looked at her son as if seeing him for the first time.
“Pregnant? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I just found out today. She wanted to surprise me, and then…”
“And then you took and spent your joint savings without telling her,” the mother finished. “Andrey, how could you?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“You asked me to help!”
“Yes, I did. But not at the expense of your family! I thought you had free money. If I’d known it was your savings for the apartment…”
“What good is that now?” Andrey finished his beer and reached for another bottle.
“Enough,” his mother took the bottle away. “Getting drunk isn’t the answer. You have to go to Vika and apologize.”
“She’s not answering the phone.”
“Then go to her parents. Today, now!”
“Mom, it’s already ten at night…”
“So what? Your wife is pregnant and left you, and you’re going to choose the time? Get up, wash your face, and go. Immediately!”
Andrey knew this tone. When his mother spoke like that, arguing was useless. He got up, staggering.
“And buy flowers,” she called after him. “Good flowers! And don’t you dare show up drunk!”
There was a doorbell when Vika was already falling asleep. She heard her father go open the door, the clatter of a chain lock.
“Andrey? What are you doing at this hour?”
“Sergey Mikhailovich, sorry. May I talk to Vika?”
“She’s already asleep.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Vika came out, buttoning her mother’s robe. “What are you doing here?”
Andrey stood in the doorway with a huge bouquet of roses. He looked pitiful — wrinkled, red-eyed, unshaven.
“Vika, forgive me. I was wrong. Completely wrong. I should have asked you, consulted…”
“You should have,” Vika agreed. “But you didn’t.”
“Let him in,” her mother intervened. “No need to argue in the stairwell. The neighbors are asleep.”
Andrey stepped inside, awkwardly shuffling in the hallway. He handed Vika the flowers.
“Here.”
She took the bouquet mechanically, not knowing where to put it. Her mother came to the rescue — took the roses and carried them to the kitchen.
“Let’s go to the room,” her father commanded. “Mom’s making noise in the kitchen.”
They sat in the living room — Vika with her parents on the couch, Andrey opposite in an armchair. The atmosphere felt like a court hearing.
“I talked with Mom,” Andrey began. “She didn’t know it was our savings. She thought I had free money. She’s ready to sell the dacha and pay it all back.”
“When?” asked the father.
“This summer. She already put up an ad.”
“This summer,” Vika repeated. “And the baby will be born in eight months. Where will we live? In your one-bedroom with four people — you, me, the baby, and your mom?”
“Mom won’t live with us!”
“No? Then who’ll make you breakfast? Iron your shirts? Remind you to get a haircut?”
“Vika, that’s not fair…”
“Not fair?” She stood up, crossing her arms. “You know what’s not fair? That for two years I saved every penny, denied myself everything, dreaming of our own home. And you spent it all in one go! And didn’t even ask me!”
“I told you — I’ll pay it back! Mom will sell the dacha…”
“It’s not about money!” Vika shouted. “It’s about trust! Respect! That you made a decision for both of us without consulting me!”
“But she’s my mother…”
“And who am I? A random neighbor?”
They looked at each other across the room. Tears shone in Vika’s eyes, Andrey clenched and unclenched his fists.
“Maybe some tea?” Galina Petrovna offered uncertainly as she entered.
“No tea, Mom,” Vika waved her off. “Andrey, I’m tired. Go home. I need time to think.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A week, two… I need to decide if I want to be the wife of a man who always puts his mother above me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Really? Then say this: if your mother needed that money for an operation, a vital operation, I’d understand. But renovation? She could have taken a loan, waited to sell the dacha, found another solution. But you didn’t even think about alternatives. Mom asked — son gave. And the fact that the son has a pregnant wife and plans for an apartment — doesn’t matter.”
Andrey was silent. He had nothing to argue.
“Go,” Vika repeated. “I’ll call when I’m ready to talk.”
He stood, stepped toward her, but stopped when he met her father’s eyes. Sergey Mikhailovich looked disapprovingly, as if saying, “Don’t you dare touch her now.”
“I’ll wait,” Andrey said and left.
When the door closed behind him, Vika collapsed onto the couch and burst into tears. Her mother hugged her, stroked her head, whispered soothing words. Her father paced the room, clenching his fists.
“Don’t cry,” he finally said. “He’s not worth your tears. Stay with us, we’ll feed you and the baby.”
“Dad, I love him,” Vika sobbed.
“Love is one thing, but how do you live? Today he did a renovation for his mom, tomorrow he’ll buy a car, the day after he’ll go on vacation. And where will you and the baby be?”
“Seryozha, don’t exaggerate,” his wife scolded. “The boy’s young, he made a mistake. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”
“He’ll come to his senses,” the father grumbled. “Mama’s boy. Such men belong in the sandbox.”
A week passed. Vika lived with her parents, went to work, pretended everything was fine. Colleagues noticed her paleness and dark circles but tactfully didn’t ask. Only Lenka, her best friend and HR colleague, couldn’t hold back.
“Vik, did you split with Andrey?” she asked over lunch at a cafe.
“Sort of,” Vika replied evasively, picking at her salad with a fork.
“Why?”
Vika told her story. Lenka listened, shaking her head.
“Wow,” she whistled. “Three hundred thousand! For that money, you could have bought half an apartment on a mortgage.”
“You could have,” Vika agreed. “Now you can’t.”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“I don’t know. My parents offer to keep me, raise the baby together. But they’re almost seventy, what help are they?”
“And what about Andrey?”
“He calls every day. Writes. Promises to fix things, swears it won’t happen again.”
“Do you believe him?”
Vika shrugged.
“I want to believe. But how? He doesn’t even understand what the problem is. He thinks it’s about money. He’ll pay it back and everything will be fine.”
“But it’s not about money?”
“Not only. It’s about priorities. I thought we were a family. But it turns out his family is him and his mother. And I’m just an app.”
Lenka was silent, stirring her coffee.
“You know what I’ll tell you? Men are all like that. Mine goes to his mother every weekend, helps her at the dacha. I used to be mad, but then I realized — it’s useless. I accepted it.”
“And you live?”
“I do. Ten years already. Two kids. Happy? Don’t know. But stable.”
“Stable,” Vika repeated. “And love?”
“Love?” Lenka smirked. “Vik, we’re in our thirties. What love? Chores, kids, mortgage. Romance ended ten years ago.”
Vika looked out the window. Snow fell, passersby wrapped in scarves hurried about. Somewhere there, in their apartment, Andrey was probably sitting at the computer, trying to work. Or lying on the couch, watching series. Alone.
She felt sorry for him. And herself. And their unborn child.
“Alright,” she said. “I’m going to work. Thanks for lunch.”
“Vik,” Lenka called after her. “Think carefully. There might not be a second chance. At our age, finding a decent man is like winning the lottery.”
Vika nodded and left the cafe.
That evening, Elena Sergeyevna came to Vika’s parents’ house. Galina Petrovna opened the door and was taken aback — a stately woman in an expensive coat with perfect hair and manicure stood on the doorstep.
“Good evening. I’m Andrey’s mother. May I speak with Vika?”
“Come in,” Galina Petrovna stepped aside. “Vika! Someone’s here for you!”
Vika came out and froze. She had seen her mother-in-law only a few times — at the wedding, birthdays, New Year. Elena Sergeyevna always kept a polite distance, as if to say, “You’re not quite right for me, but I tolerate you for my son’s sake.”
“Hello, Vika,” the mother-in-law took off her gloves. “We need to talk.”
They sat in the living room. Vika’s parents tactfully went to the kitchen, though her father clearly wanted to stay.
“I came to apologize,” Elena Sergeyevna began. “And to clarify the situation.”
Vika was silent, waiting.
“Andrey didn’t tell me he was taking your joint savings. I thought he had free money. If I had known…”
“What would have changed?” Vika interrupted. “Would you have refused?”
Elena Sergeyevna was silent.
“Probably not,” she admitted honestly. “It was a critical situation. But I would have suggested other options. A loan, for example. Or I would have pawned some gold.”
“Gold?”
“I have jewelry. An inheritance from my mother. I’m saving it for Andrey, for his future family,” she looked at Vika. “For you and your child.”
Vika felt a lump rise in her throat.
“I didn’t know…”
“You don’t know a lot,” Elena Sergeyevna took an envelope from her purse. “Here’s one hundred fifty thousand. Half the sum. The rest I’ll give as soon as I sell the dacha.”
“I can’t…”
“You can and you must. It’s your money. I had no right to take it, even unknowingly.”
Vika took the envelope with trembling hands.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Better say — will you come back to my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s wasted away. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, can’t work. You know, I always thought he was independent, grown-up. But it turns out, he can’t live without you.”
“Without me or without someone to take care of him?”
Elena Sergeyevna smiled — unexpectedly warm, humanly.
“You know, I thought the same at first. That he married so I’d let him go to another woman. But no. He loves you. Really. He just… how to say it? Doesn’t know how to set priorities properly. Maybe it’s my fault. I raised him alone, spoiled him.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want grandchildren. And I want them to have both mom and dad. Together.”
They sat silently. The clock ticked behind the wall, dishes clinked in the kitchen — Vika’s parents clearly listened to the conversation.
“I’ll think about it,” Vika finally said.
“Think. But don’t drag it out. Men are like children. Without supervision, they spoil quickly.”
Elena Sergeyevna got up and put on her gloves.
“And one more thing, Vika. I understand you might not come back. That’s your right. But know — the door is always open. For you and the baby. You are my family, whether you want it or not.”
She left, leaving Vika alone. She sat holding the envelope with money, thinking. About how life is more complicated than it seems. About how there are no perfect people. About how love is not just romance but also the ability to forgive.
Three days later, Vika called Andrey.
“Hi,” she said.
“Vika!” His voice was hoarse, as if from a cold. “How are you? How do you feel?”
“Okay. Morning sickness started.”
“Do you need anything? I can bring…”
“Andrey, let’s meet. We need to talk.”
“Of course! Where? When?”
“Tomorrow after work. At our café on Arbat.”
“I’ll be there. Definitely.”
Vika hung up and looked at the pregnancy test still lying on her nightstand. Two lines. Two lives — hers and the baby’s. Or maybe three? Time would tell.
The café on Arbat was their place. They met here five years ago — Vika came with friends, Andrey sat at a neighboring table with a laptop. The friends left, and they talked until closing.
Now Andrey sat at the same table, nervously twisting a napkin. He had lost weight in those days, shadows lay under his eyes. He wore the same sweater she gave him last birthday.
“Hi,” Vika sat opposite him.
“Hi. You look great.”
“Lying. I saw myself in the mirror.”
They fell silent. The waitress brought menus, but both waved her off — they weren’t hungry.
“Two teas, please,” Vika asked. “Green and black.”
“You drink green now?” Andrey was surprised.
“It’s recommended for pregnant women. Less caffeine.”
Silence again. Outside, people walked, shop windows glowed, a street musician played. Typical Moscow life.
“Your mother came,” Vika said.
“I know. She told me.”
“And brought money. Half.”
“I brought something too,” Andrey pulled a folder out of his backpack. “The contract. I sold the car.”
“What? Why?”
“Because family is more important than a piece of metal on wheels. Here’s one hundred eighty thousand. With Mom’s — three hundred thirty. Even more than before.”
Vika looked at the documents, not believing her eyes.
“But you loved that car…”
“I do. But I love you more.”
Tea was brought. Vika warmed her hands on the cup, gathering her thoughts.
“Andrey, it’s not just about money. You understand that?”
“I do. Now I do. I should have asked you, discussed it. We’re family.”
“And your mother?”
“Mom is mom. I will help her, it’s my duty. But not at the expense of our family. Never again.”
“Promise?”
“I swear.”
Vika reached out her hand across the table. Andrey covered it with his palm.
“You know,” she said, “my dad says you’re a mama’s boy.”
“Probably I was.”
“And that love is not just roses and dates. It’s also chores, compromises, and the ability to listen to each other.”
“I’m ready to learn.”
“And I’m ready too. But we have one condition.”
“What?”
“All important decisions — only together. Whether it’s money, raising the child, helping parents — it doesn’t matter. Only together. Deal?”
“Deal.”
They sat holding hands, looking at each other. There was hope in Andrey’s eyes, cautious joy in Vika’s.
“And one more thing,” she added. “We’re renting an apartment. Separate. To live as three — you, me, and the baby. Without moms, dads, or other relatives.”
“Agreed. When do we move?”
“Not so fast. First, we find the right place. With a nursery, in a good neighborhood, near a park…”
“With a balcony,” Andrey added. “You always dreamed of a balcony.”
“With a balcony,” Vika smiled. “And windows not facing the road.”
“And decent neighbors.”
“And a store nearby.”
They began making plans — timidly, cautiously, as if afraid to scare off the fragile truce. But with every word it became easier, warmer, more familiar.
“Vik,” Andrey suddenly said, “what shall we name the baby?”
“I don’t know yet. Too early.”
“If it’s a girl, maybe Sonya? After your grandmother?”
Vika felt tears well up. Good tears.
“And if it’s a boy?”
“Not Andrey,” he said firmly. “One Andrey in the family is enough.”
They laughed — for the first time in days.
They returned to Vika’s parents together. Walking slowly, hand in hand. Snow crunched underfoot, streetlights cast long shadows.
“You know,” Andrey said, “I thought about these days… We could have lost everything. Because of my foolishness.”
“Not just yours. I wasn’t perfect either — ran away, slammed the door. Could have talked calmly.”
“You had the right to be upset.”
“I did. But family is not about rights. It’s about the ability to compromise.”
They stopped at the entrance. Lights burned in the windows — the parents were waiting.
“Your father will kill me,” Andrey sighed.
“He won’t. He’ll grumble and calm down. The main thing is to behave confidently.”
“Easy to say…”
Vika turned to him, put her hands on his shoulders.
“Andrey. We will manage. Really? We’ll manage everything — chores, parents, the baby?”
“We will,” he said firmly. “Definitely will.”
They went up to the third floor. Voices could be heard behind the door — Vika’s parents were arguing about something.
“Ready?” Vika asked, taking out the keys.
“Ready.”
The door opened. Galina Petrovna stood in the doorway with a kitchen towel in her hands.
“Oh, Andryusha!” she exclaimed. “We thought… Seryozha, come here! The kids are back!”
Her father came out. He looked at Andrey askance, muttered:
“Well, prodigal son, you’re back?”
“Sergey Mikhailovich, I…”
“Quiet. Eat first. Mom made pelmeni, they’re cooling. Then we’ll talk.”
And as they went to the kitchen, Vika caught her father’s glance and saw relief in it. He grumbled for show but was glad his daughter wasn’t alone.
At the table, the four of them ate pelmeni, drank tea, and talked about trifles. About the weather, prices, the neighbor from the fifth floor who got a dog again. A normal family dinner.
“By the way,” Galina Petrovna said, “there’s an apartment downstairs becoming available. Marya Ivanna is moving to her daughter. Maybe you should look? She’ll rent it cheaply, I’m sure.”
Vika and Andrey exchanged looks.
“We’ll look,” Andrey said. “Definitely.”
“Just one thing,” her father waved his fork, “no tricks. The contract must be normal, legal. And pay on time.”
“Of course, Sergey Mikhailovich.”
“And bring the grandchild to me. At least every week.”
“Dad, what grandchild? Maybe a granddaughter,” Vika smiled.
“A granddaughter it is. The main thing is healthy. And looks like grandpa, not that… programmer.”
“Seryozha!” his wife scolded him.
“What? Just stating facts. Genes are a powerful thing.”
Andrey smiled. Under the table, Vika squeezed his hand. Everything will be fine. Not immediately, not easily, but it will be.
Snow fell outside, covering the city with a white blanket. Somewhere in this city was an apartment that would become their home. Somewhere awaited work, friends, new challenges, and joys. Meanwhile, they sat at the family table, drinking tea and making plans.
Because family is not about perfect people. It’s about those who are near. Who are ready to forgive, learn, change. Who choose love every day anew, despite offenses and disappointments.
And when Vika placed her hand on her belly, where a new life grew, she knew for sure: this baby would have a family. Not perfect, but real. A dad who will learn to set priorities. A mom who will learn not to run from problems. And two grandmothers, and two grandfathers, who will argue over whose genes are stronger.
A normal family. A normal life. Normal happiness.
And that’s all she needs.
