All Amazing Babies

“Are you kidding me?” Oleg shook his phone in front of his wife’s face as if it were irrefutable evidence. “I’m trying to pay for a cab and it says ‘insufficient funds.’ What, did you withdraw all the money?”

Anna slowly lifted her eyes from her book. Her face was calm, almost detached, and that calm frightened Oleg more than any shouting ever could. She casually slipped a bookmark between the pages, set the volume aside, and looked at her husband—not at the phone in his hand, not at his face twisted with anger, but straight into his eyes, with a cold, appraising curiosity.

“I didn’t withdraw anything, Oleg. I blocked your extra card. And the account it was linked to.”

He froze, lowering his hand. The air in the room thickened, turning dense and heavy. Every word Anna said fell into the silence like a stone into a deep well.

“What? Why?” His voice dropped into a hoarse whisper.

“I blocked the card and the account—enough spending my money without asking,” she said coldly. Her tone allowed no objections. This wasn’t a reproach, not the start of a fight. It was a verdict.

Oleg stared at her, and the familiar, cozy world he’d lived in began to collapse before his eyes. Anna—his Anya—his quiet, understanding wife of eight years—suddenly turned into a hard, unfamiliar person. He opened his mouth to argue, to shout that it was his money too, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew it wasn’t true. She had always been the main breadwinner in their family. He, a carpenter-cabinetmaker with golden hands but modest earnings, was more like a reliable rear guard and the maker of comfort. She, a financial analyst at a large company, was the provider. It had been that way from the start, and until today it hadn’t bothered anyone.

“But… I had money there. Mine,” he mumbled, clinging to his last straw.

“Your salary goes to a different account, and you have a card for that one. Use it,” Anna said, getting up and heading to the kitchen. “Tea?”

That question—so ordinary, so domestic—right after she’d effectively declared financial war on him, made something inside him explode.

“Tea? What the hell kind of tea, Anna?! You left me without a penny in the middle of the city! I had to ask the driver to wait while I ran home for cash! That’s humiliating!”

She turned back in the kitchen doorway, and for the first time that evening he saw not only coldness in her eyes, but deep, long-standing pain.

“And spending the money I was saving for our vacation on your secret affairs—that’s not humiliating to me? You think I don’t see thirty, forty, fifty thousand disappearing from the account? You think I didn’t try to talk to you?”

He said nothing. She had tried. A week ago, a month ago. Softly she’d asked: “Oleg, sweetheart, do we have some unexpected expenses?” “Do you need something and you’re embarrassed to say so?” And every time he waved her off, lied, muttered something about new tools, about expensive materials for the next job—though they both knew his rare orders barely covered the cost of the materials themselves. He lied because the truth was even more humiliating than begging the cab driver.

That truth had a name: Lena. His younger sister. A perpetual child—fireworks of failed business ideas and ridiculous troubles.

The night passed in oppressive silence. For the first time, they slept in separate rooms. Oleg tossed and turned on the living-room couch, breathing in the smell of resentment and his own helplessness. He felt cornered. On one side—his wife, whom he loved, but whose trust he’d betrayed. On the other—his sister, whom he also loved, but that love felt more like a chronic illness.

In the morning Anna left for work without saying a word. On the kitchen table stood a single cup of cold coffee and a five-thousand-ruble note. The note said: “For groceries.” Oleg stared at the money, and it felt like he’d been slapped in the face. She’d reduced him to the level of a freeloader being handed pocket change. He crushed the bill in his fist until it crackled. No. He wouldn’t take it.

Stubbornly he ate breakfast—yesterday’s bread washed down with tap water—and went to his little workshop set up on the insulated balcony. The smell of wood, the shavings underfoot, the familiar outlines of his tools—normally it soothed him. But today everything irritated him. He picked up a blank for a carved jewelry box, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His thoughts were far away.

At lunchtime the phone rang. Lena. Oleg rejected the call. A minute later the phone rang again. And again. On the fifth time he gave in.

 

“Yeah,” he snapped into the receiver.

“Olezhik, hi! Why aren’t you picking up? I’m worried!” Her voice, as always, was full of cheerful selfishness. “Listen, here’s the thing… So, remember that aerial-yoga studio I told you about? I found an absolutely killer space—rent’s basically nothing! But I have to put down the deposit today, by evening, or it’ll be gone! There’s a line of people who want it!”

Oleg listened in silence, eyes closed. Same old song. A month ago it was a “super-profitable” Korean cosmetics franchise. Before that—web design courses that were going to make her rich. Earlier—buying “eco-friendly” handmade string bags. Every idea required urgent cash and promised mountains of gold, and in the end turned into nothing but a puff of air and new debts.

“Len, I don’t have money,” he said in an even, lifeless voice.

“How do you not have money?” his sister asked, genuinely surprised. “I know your Anya’s salary is good. What, you feel sorry for your own sister? I’ll pay it back—the minute I make my first profit! Oleg, come on. This is the chance of my life!”

“I said no,” he cut her off. “And Anya’s money has nothing to do with it. I. Don’t. Have. Money.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” she whined. “Your Anya put you up to this, didn’t she? She’s always looking at me like I’m stealing her last crumbs! Your wife’s such a petty philistine—she only ever thinks about money!”

That was the last straw.

“Shut up,” Oleg hissed. “Do you even understand that my family is falling apart because of you? Anna blocked all the accounts. All of them, Len! Because I’m sick of lying to her about where our money goes! And it goes into your black hole!”

Silence hung on the line. Oleg thought she’d hang up, get offended—but suddenly Lena sniffled.

“Olezhik, I’m sorry… I didn’t know… honestly… I just wanted something—anything—to work out… so Mom could be proud of me, like she is of you…”

That was a forbidden move. He knew Lena was skilled at manipulating his guilt, but he couldn’t help himself. The image of their mother, Galina Ivanovna, living in a small town in the old family apartment, always disarmed him. She never complained, but he knew how much she worried about her hopeless younger daughter.

“Fine, Len. I’ll figure something out,” he exhaled and hung up, hating himself for the weakness.

“I’ll figure something out” turned out to be harder than he’d thought. Borrowing from friends was shameful. Going to the bank for a loan with his unstable income was pointless. One option remained—the worst one. In the back drawer of the dresser, under a stack of old T-shirts, he kept his grandfather’s cigarette case. Silver, with exquisite engraving. A keepsake. The only thing left from his grandfather—the man who had taught him to work with wood. Oleg took it out and turned the cold, heavy metal in his hands. Forgive me, Grandpa.

The pawnshop gave him twenty thousand for it. Insultingly little, but it should cover Lena’s deposit. He transferred the money to her and trudged home, feeling emptied out and filthy.

Anna came back late. Without a word she went into the bedroom and changed into house clothes. Oleg sat in the kitchen, staring dully out at the dark window.

“I sold Grandpa’s cigarette case,” he said into the silence without turning around.

Anna froze in the doorway.

“Why?”

“For Lena. She needed money urgently again. For ‘the project of her life.’”

He expected reproaches, shouting—anything. But Anna just came over, sat down across from him, and said tiredly:

“Oleg, why didn’t you just talk to me? Why did you decide that lying and taking money behind my back was the best solution? Do you think I’m a monster?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I think I’m a failure. You’re successful, smart, strong. And I… I’m just a guy who can’t provide for his family and fix his sister’s problems without reaching into his wife’s pocket. I was ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed that you earn less. You should be ashamed of lying,” her voice wavered. “I didn’t marry your wallet. I married you. The man who could turn a piece of wood into a work of art. The man who felt warm and reliable to be with. Where did he go, Oleg?”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know where that Oleg had gone either. He’d gotten lost somewhere between love for his wife and pity for his sister, between pride and shame.

The next few weeks their life became a strange cohabitation of two strangers in one apartment. They barely spoke. Anna threw herself into work, came home late, often ate dinner somewhere in the city. Oleg tried to work in the workshop, but nothing went right. He took a few small furniture-restoration jobs just to have some money. Life ran on a schedule—no spontaneous joys, no shared evenings and plans. The money he earned, he spent meticulously on groceries and utilities, leaving the receipts on the kitchen table. It was his silent proof that he wasn’t a freeloader. Anna silently gathered up the receipts, and that silence was worse than any words.

One Saturday Anna was getting ready to go somewhere. She wore comfortable jeans and a sweater, and in her hands she held a small travel bag.

“Where are you going?” Oleg asked, unable to hide his anxiety. Is she leaving?

“I’m going to see your mom,” Anna answered simply. “I think I need to talk to her.”

Oleg went cold. Mom. She’d tell her everything, and Mom… what would Mom do? She’d always been on his side, but in this situation… He imagined Anna complaining about him and Lena and felt a new wave of humiliation.

“Don’t. Don’t drag her into this,” he asked thickly.

“I’m a grown woman, Oleg. I’ll decide what I do,” Anna said, looking at him with a long, unreadable gaze, and walked out.

The two days she was gone were torture. Oleg couldn’t find a place for himself. He called his mother over and over, but she didn’t answer. Anna didn’t answer either. He imagined the worst: the two of them fighting, his mother accusing Anya of coldness, Anya in response spilling every ugly detail of Lena’s schemes.

Anna came back Sunday evening—quiet, thoughtful, with some new, hard expression in her eyes. She brought a bag of homemade pickles and little pies. From his mother.

“Well?” Oleg couldn’t stand it. “Pour a bucket of filth on me? Tell my mom what a worthless son she has?”

Anna set the bag on the floor and looked at him.

“No. Galina Ivanovna and I had a very good talk. She’s a wonderful woman, Oleg. Very wise. And very tired.”

She told him—not how she’d complained, but what she’d heard. Galina Ivanovna defended neither him nor Lena. She simply talked. About how Lena had been like this since childhood—charming and completely irresponsible. How in school she would “lose” the money given for lunches, and Oleg would give her his. How she got into college in another city and dropped out after half a year, spending a full year’s worth of money in three months. How Oleg, then still a student, went to work nights as a loader to pay off her debts. How Galina Ivanovna herself had spent years paying off loans for her until she went down with heart trouble.

“She said you’re not just her brother. You’re her function,” Anna said quietly. “A ‘rescue’ function. As long as you’re there, she doesn’t have to grow up. She’ll keep inventing projects, getting into debt, knowing her big brother will come and fix it all—even at the cost of his own life. His own family.”

Anna fell silent, then added, staring somewhere into the wall:

“And she also said: ‘Anya, don’t let him ruin your life too. I love my son very much, but I can see that this love of his for his sister isn’t kindness—it’s an illness. And he doesn’t want to be cured.’”

Oleg listened, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. His mother’s words, repeated by his wife, struck sharper and more painfully than any reproach. His whole life—his whole “help” for his sister—appeared in a new, grotesque light. He wasn’t helping. He was crippling them all—Lena, himself, his family.

The next day he withdrew all the money from his salary card. He kept a little for living expenses and put the rest on the kitchen table in front of Anna.

“This is the first part,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll pay back every last kopek.”

Anna looked at the money, then at him.

“I don’t need that money, Oleg.”

“But I do,” he said firmly. “I don’t need to return money. I need to return a debt.”

He started working like a man possessed. Through acquaintances he found a way into a furniture factory and got a job in an experimental workshop. He worked twelve-hour shifts, came home wrung out like a lemon, collapsed, and fell asleep. Every two weeks he silently put another sum on the table. Anna silently took it away. The wall between them was still there, but a tiny crack had appeared in it. In her eyes he saw not contempt, but something like… observation. She was watching him.

Lena called a few more times. The aerial-yoga studio, of course, went under before it even opened. Now she needed money to “pay off gangster landlords.” For the first time in his life Oleg told her a firm, final “no” and hung up without listening to her screams and threats. He felt as if someone had pulled a rotten tooth. It hurt, it was empty—but it was right.

Three months passed. One evening, when he put yet another bundle of cash on the table, Anna covered it with her hand.

“Enough, Oleg.”

He looked up at her.

“I haven’t paid it all back yet.”

“It’s not about the money, and you know it. You paid it back.”

She paused, searching for words.

“I filed for divorce.”

He’d been expecting it. All those months he’d waited for the blow, and now it had come. But oddly, there was no anger, no resentment—only a dull, heavy ache and emptiness.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“No. You don’t,” she looked straight into his eyes, and there was no coldness there now, no pity—only endless, cosmic exhaustion. “I love you, Oleg. The you I fell in love with once. But I can’t live with your sister anymore. She will always be between us, invisibly. I can’t be your warden, your banker, and your psychologist. I just want to be a wife. And you… you can’t be just a husband. You’ll always also be a rescuer.”

She stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the night city.

“Maybe someday you’ll handle it. Learn to live your own life. But I can’t wait anymore. My life is passing too. I’m leaving for a few months to another city—our branch is opening there. The apartment stays with you. The money you paid back…” she gave a bitter half-smile, “is sitting in the account. It’s yours. Consider it severance.”

She spoke evenly, almost without emotion, but Oleg saw her chin trembling. She wasn’t kicking him out. She was letting him go. And that was the most frightening thing of all.

He didn’t try to hold her back. He didn’t make promises. He understood that words meant nothing now. She’d taught him the cruelest and most important lesson of his life—and he had to learn it. Alone.

A week later Anna left. The apartment, which had recently felt cramped with tension, became huge and empty. Oleg was left alone with the scent of her perfume in the bedroom, her book on the nightstand, and the hollow silence in which he could clearly hear his old life collapsing. He didn’t know what would happen next. But he knew for certain he would never again let someone else’s trouble become more important than his own life. The lesson had been too expensive.

The words stabbed into Dasha like shards of glass. She stood by the living-room window, holding the younger one—little Kira wasn’t even a year old yet—while four-year-old Misha clung to her leg, sensing that something terrible was happening.

“Stay on your own with your litter!” her mother-in-law, Zinaida Petrovna, said as if she were spitting out something rotten. “And my son and I are leaving—and forget about the car too, you grey mouse!”

Her voice sliced through the room, where just yesterday it still smelled of baby soap and happiness. Yesterday… Yesterday, Dasha had woken up at five in the morning to her daughter’s crying, then got Misha ready for kindergarten, cooked porridge, ironed her husband’s shirt. An ordinary morning. And today Anton stood at the door with two bags, not even looking at her.

“Are you serious?” She didn’t recognize her own voice. “Anton, look at me!”

But he stared at the floor. His mother—dressed to the nines, in pearl earrings and wearing that particular smile Dasha had always called “the victory smile”—stepped forward.

“My son deserves better than this dreariness!” Zinaida Petrovna swept her hand around the room, and Dasha saw it through her eyes: wallpaper they hadn’t managed to replace, children’s toys everywhere, Dasha’s house robe stained with baby purée. “He’s a young man, his whole life is ahead of him! And you… you’ve turned into a housewife with a head that’s never washed.”

Anton picked up the bags. The car keys—their only car, a Lada bought on credit—he slipped into his pocket.

“Wait,” Dasha shifted Kira to her other arm; the baby began to whimper. “We can talk… I understand it’s hard for you, I know the last few months have been difficult, but the children…”

“The children, the children!” her mother-in-law cut in. “Always these children! And when are you going to think about a man? About his career? He became a shift supervisor at twenty-eight, and you’re dragging him down with your endless tantrums!”

The door slammed. Just like that—slam, and that was it. Ten years together, a wedding at the city registry office, two children, thousands of nights side by side—and the door closed, leaving the three of them in a rented two-bedroom on the outskirts of town.

Dasha sank onto the sofa. Kira cried louder. Misha pressed against her and whispered:

“Mom… will Dad come back?”

Would he? She didn’t know. She knew only one thing: there were three thousand rubles left on the card, rent was due in a week, and she hadn’t worked for two years—she’d stayed home with the kids, like they’d agreed. Anton had promised that after Kira turned three, Dasha would go back to accounting. Promised…

The next three days passed like fog. Anton didn’t answer his phone. Zinaida Petrovna rejected her calls. Dasha fed the children whatever was left in the fridge—pasta, porridge made with water. Misha kept asking about his dad, and she didn’t know what to say.

On the fourth day she wrapped Kira up warmer—October had turned vicious, with sharp wind—and pushed the stroller across the city to the center, to the factory where Anton worked. Misha trudged beside her in a jacket he’d already outgrown.

At the gate she waited two hours. Workers came out, smoking, glancing sideways at her—a disheveled woman with two kids, clearly out of place. Finally she saw him. Anton walked with a colleague, laughing at something, and that laugh stole Dasha’s breath.

“Anton!”

He turned, and his face went flat as stone.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. The kids need money—food…”

 

His colleague stepped aside but stayed close—curiosity won. Misha tugged at his father’s hand:

“Dad, let’s go home!”

Anton pulled his hand away.

“Dasha, I told you. We’re getting divorced. Mom thinks…”

“Mom thinks?!” Her voice cracked. “Is this your life—or hers?!”

“Don’t yell here!” he glanced at his colleague, and Dasha understood: he was ashamed. Not ashamed that he’d abandoned his family—ashamed of the scene.

He shoved five thousand into her hand—crumpled bills—turned around and walked away. Just walked away, without even looking at Kira in the stroller.

They rode back on the bus. Misha fell asleep on her lap, Kira snuffled in the stroller. Outside the window the city drifted by—alien, indifferent, with bright shop windows and happy people whose lives were normal. Dasha hugged her son tighter and thought: what now?

What does a woman do with two children, no job, no husband, no car—nothing?

A message arrived from an unknown number: “Your husband is with me. Stop calling and making scenes. Zinaida Petrovna.”

Dasha deleted it and stared out the window. Somewhere out there, in this city, there was an answer. There had to be.

The morning began with the hot water being shut off. Dasha boiled kettle after kettle and bathed the kids in a basin. Kira fussed; Misha stayed silent—his frightened child’s look broke her heart more than any words. As if he was afraid to speak, scared his mom might cry.

The five thousand melted away at a terrifying speed. Diapers, formula, bread. Dasha counted every kopek, setting some aside for rent, and realized: the money would last, at best, two weeks. And after that?

She pulled out her laptop—an old one, seven years at least—and started searching for vacancies. An accountant with a two-year gap… Everywhere demanded experience with new software she’d never even seen. She called companies, and they politely refused: “We’ll call you back.” No one called back.

On the sixth day she gathered her courage and went to the employment center. A grey building on Lenin Street greeted her with queues and the smell of bureaucratic hopelessness. Dasha stood in line for two hours with Kira in her arms—she’d left Misha at kindergarten; at least they fed him lunch there.

“Unemployment benefits will be fifteen thousand for the first three months,” the clerk said without looking up. “Bring your documents—work record book, certificate from your last workplace, passport…”

“I haven’t worked for two years. I’ve been at home with the children.”

“Then register, and in a month we’ll assign the payment.”

A month. So long.

That evening her mother called—from Novosibirsk, where she lived with her new husband.

“Dashenka… oh, honey…” Her voice was sympathetic but tired. “You know, Kolya had surgery, and his teeth—implants. So much money… I’d help, but right now I just can’t.”

She would, but she couldn’t. Dasha knew that song by heart. Her mother was always nearby—one phone call away—but at the crucial moment she always had reasons. New husband, new life, and her adult daughter’s problems didn’t fit into it.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll manage.”

I’ll manage. She repeated the words like a mantra as she put the kids to bed. Kira finally fell asleep, Misha lay with his face in the pillow, and Dasha sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea—the tea was running out, so she used one bag three times.

The phone buzzed. Unknown number.

“I saw your application on the job site. We need an office assistant—can you come in tomorrow? Ksenia.”

Dasha read the message three times. Office assistant… She didn’t even remember which vacancies she’d applied to—there had been dozens. But it was a chance.

In the morning she took the kids to her neighbor Lyudmila—an elderly woman next door who sometimes watched Kira.

“Three hours or so, okay? I have an interview.”

“Of course, dear. Just… do yourself up a bit. Comb your hair properly. Put on some lipstick.”

Dasha looked at herself in the mirror. When had she last worn makeup? When had she last looked at herself for more than a second? A thinner face, dark circles, hair twisted into a bun. Grey mouse—her mother-in-law had been right.

She dug out her only decent trousers and a blouse she’d worn to work three years earlier. The blouse hung loose—Dasha had lost eight kilos from stress. She put on makeup, fixed her hair, and another woman appeared in the mirror. Not the old Dasha yet—confident and smiling—but no longer the hunted one who’d been pacing the apartment these last days.

The address was in the business district—a glass building on the embankment, with guards and turnstiles. Dasha went up to the seventh floor and found the right office: “Vector Consulting Group.”

Ksenia turned out to be around forty, with a short haircut and a strict suit.

“Sit down. Do you have experience?”

“I worked as an accountant, but there was a two-year break…”

“Right. How many kids?”

Dasha tensed up. Usually the interview ended right there.

“Two. But I can—”

“I can too,” Ksenia interrupted. “I have three myself. I know how it is. Do you need a flexible schedule?”

Dasha nodded, not believing her ears.

“Good. The duties are simple: paperwork, meeting clients, coffee and tea, sorting mail. Hours are nine to six, but if a child gets sick you can work remotely. Salary thirty-five thousand, plus bonuses. Can you start the day after tomorrow?”

Thirty-five thousand. That was money. Real money you could live on.

“Yes,” Dasha breathed out. “Thank you.”

“No need. Bring your documents—we’ll sign the contract.”

Walking out of the office, Dasha felt something inside her thaw. For the first time in days she could breathe fully. Work. She would have work.

At the building’s exit she ran into Anton.

He was with a woman—young, in an expensive coat, hair styled at a salon. They were laughing, and the woman held his arm as naturally as if she’d always held it.

Time froze. Anton saw Dasha and his face twitched. The woman looked Dasha up and down—appraising—and asked him something. He gave a small shake of his head, and they walked past.

Past—as if she were nothing.

Dasha stood by the glass door and watched them go. So it wasn’t about the kids. Not about her exhaustion, not about her turning into a “housewife.” It was about another woman. All this time—another woman.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A voice message from Misha—Lyudmila had taught him how to use her phone:

“Mom, are you coming soon? Kira’s crying.”

Dasha wiped her eyes and headed for the bus stop. Soon, sweetheart. Mom’s coming.

And somewhere in that same city, Anton sat in a café with his new girlfriend, while his mother kept calling, demanding he come over—something had grabbed at her heart again. But he didn’t hurry. He had a different life now—pretty, without nightly baby cries and a perpetually tired wife. The life he deserved.

Only for some reason, emptiness scraped at him from the inside.

Four months passed.

Dasha worked from morning to night, picked the kids up from kindergarten, cooked dinners, put them to bed. On weekends she took Misha to the library—he’d fallen in love with dinosaur books—and Kira to the park, where she chased pigeons and laughed. Life was getting simpler. Not easier—simpler. Dasha learned not to think about Anton, not to wait for calls, not to hope.

Ksenia turned out to be more than a boss—she became almost a friend. She taught Dasha the new programs, sometimes invited her to lunch, listened when Dasha needed to talk.

“You know,” Ksenia said once over coffee, “my ex left too. For a twenty-five-year-old secretary. Thought life would suddenly become bright and new. And a year later he found me on social media, whining that she was milking him and the kids had turned away from him.”

 

“And what did you do?”

“Blocked him,” Ksenia smirked. “Why would I bring back something that left on its own?”

In February Dasha got a bonus—fifteen thousand. She bought Misha the construction set he’d been dreaming of for half a year, Kira a plush bear, and herself new boots. The first in three years. Standing in the shoe store mirror, she suddenly caught herself smiling. Just like that—no reason.

And meanwhile Anton’s life began to crumble.

That woman—Zhanna, as it turned out—really did drain his money. Restaurants, gifts, trips to the sea. Loan after loan. Zinaida Petrovna was thrilled at first: “Now that’s a woman! Not like your ex!” But when Zhanna asked him to buy her a car—not some Lada, but a proper foreign one—she started to grumble.

“Son, maybe she’s not your woman?”

“Mom, don’t start.”

But she did. Zinaida Petrovna couldn’t not start. She’d controlled her son all her life, and the thought that some “girl” had taken him from her was unbearable. Scandals, tears, accusations. Zhanna quickly realized that getting involved with a mama’s boy was a bad idea and left for a more promising man.

Anton was left alone. More precisely: with his mother, with half a million rubles in debt, and with the understanding that time can’t be turned back.

In March he wrote to Dasha: “Can we meet?”

She stared at the message for a long time. Before, her heart would have clenched—she would have run to him, forgiven everything. But now… she simply replied: “No.”

A week later another message came: “I need to see the kids.”

“Have you paid child support even once?”

He didn’t answer.

And in early April something happened that Dasha could never have imagined. A call from an unfamiliar number—a woman’s voice, worried:

“Is this Darya Sergeyevna? I’m calling from Hospital No. 7. Zinaida Petrovna Krylova has been admitted. She listed you as an emergency contact…”

“What? I’m not—”

“She’s had a stroke. Is Anton Viktorovich your husband? We can’t reach him—his phone isn’t answering.”

Dasha came to the hospital that evening after leaving the kids with Lyudmila. Zinaida Petrovna lay in intensive care—pale, with an IV, nothing like the domineering woman in pearl earrings.

“Where is Anton?” Dasha asked the duty nurse.

“We don’t know. A neighbor called the ambulance—said her son went somewhere.”

Somewhere. Of course. He had his own life now.

Dasha sat in the hospital corridor, drinking vending-machine coffee, thinking. This woman had destroyed her family, called her children “litter,” pushed her own son out of their lives… and now she lay alone because that son had simply vanished.

The doctor came out about two hours later.

“Are you a relative?”

“Ex-daughter-in-law.”

“I see. Her condition is stable, but she’ll need long rehabilitation. She’ll have trouble walking, and she’ll need constant care. Is there anyone?”

Dasha said nothing. Anton showed up only the next day—unshaven, red-eyed, in a wrinkled shirt. He saw Dasha in the corridor and stopped.

“You… how is she?”

“Ask the doctors.”

“Dasha, I didn’t know it was this… I was on a work trip, my phone died…”

“It doesn’t matter, Anton.”

She stood up and picked up her bag. He grabbed her wrist.

“Wait. I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For everything. I realized what I’ve done. Mom was right about you—but not in the way she thought. You’re strong. And I’m a weakling who…”

“Anton,” Dasha cut in softly. “Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Forgive you? Tell you it’s all okay?”

He was silent.

“I won’t. Because it wasn’t okay. You abandoned two children. You took the last car when I didn’t know how to feed them. You walked past me with another woman as if I were nothing.”

“I’ll pay child support, I swear…”

“You’ll pay it through the courts,” Dasha freed her hand. “And about your mother… hire a caregiver. I have my own family. Two children—the ones you called ‘litter.’”

She walked out into the April night. The city breathed spring—somewhere lilacs were blooming, somewhere young people were laughing by an entranceway. Dasha headed for the bus stop and suddenly laughed. Quietly, to herself.

Grey mouse—that’s what she was in her mother-in-law’s eyes. But mice are tough creatures. They survive where others don’t. They adapt, raise their young, build nests out of nothing.

At home, Misha and Kira were already asleep. Dasha kissed them both, brewed tea—real, good tea, not one bag used three times—and sat by the window. A message from Ksenia waited on her phone: “We need to talk. After work tomorrow, come by—I want to offer you the assistant manager position. With a raise.”

Dasha smiled and looked at her sleeping children. Her children. Her life. Grey, but honest. Simple, but real.

And somewhere in the hospital, Anton sat by his mother’s bed and, for the first time in many years, understood what it meant to be alone. Truly alone—when there is no wife who will forgive, no children who will run to you, no person who will always be there.

Only emptiness. And the bills for the loans.

Zinaida Petrovna came to around morning. She saw her son and whispered:

“Where… is Dasha?”

“Mom, she’s not here.”

“Call her… I was wrong…”

But there was no one to call. The grey mouse had gone to build her own nest—and she had no intention of coming back.

 That day was supposed to be completely different. Sergey and I had planned to spend a quiet weekend at the dacha—grill some shashlik, putter around in the garden beds, and just laze in the hammock. But those plans crumbled to dust in an instant, the moment I walked into the house.

As always, the first thing I did was head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. And that’s when my fingers brushed against it—against the kettle. Cold, wet with condensation on the outside. I hadn’t used it the day before; we’d only just arrived. A strange, unpleasant feeling stirred low in my stomach. I opened the cupboard where I kept my tea collection. The packet of expensive oolong from our last trip lay there crumpled and half-empty.

“Sergey,” I called my husband, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Did you make tea the last time we were here?”

He walked into the kitchen, looking around with the usual awkwardness of someone who rarely sets foot there.

“What tea? No, of course not. We left right after lunch on Sunday. Why?”

“Because someone boiled our kettle, and someone drank my oolong,” I said, holding up the packet.

Sergey sighed and rubbed his face. I knew that gesture by heart—it was the gesture of a tired peacemaker.

“Marina, maybe my mom dropped by? To air the place out, water the plants. Maybe she made herself some tea. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Sergey, this isn’t the first time! Remember that new pack of coffee we never even got to open? It was half-empty. And my new garden bench? Where did those scratches come from, like someone raked it with nails?”

I walked out of the kitchen into the living room, and he followed. The air in the house was stale, smelling of dust and someone else’s perfume. Not mine.

“Mom says it could’ve been the neighbor’s cat,” Sergey mumbled uncertainly.

“What cat?!” I almost squealed with indignation. “A cat that opens packs of coffee and brews itself oolong? That’s a genius cat!”

I walked over to the washing machine we’d bought only a couple of months ago. It stood there like a silent reproach.

“And this, was that the cat too, in your opinion? We bought it, set it up, used it carefully. And three weeks later it broke down. Still under warranty. The repairman comes and says: ‘You’ve got a clog in the pump. Hair, some kind of fur.’ We have a short-haired hamster, Sergey! Where is all that fur from?”

He kept silent, staring at the floor. I could see he was uncomfortable, that he didn’t want to get into this. His mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, lived in the neighboring house, literally five minutes’ walk away. And for Sergey she was sacred. Widowed early, raised two sons alone, and he, the elder, had carried a lifelong guilt before her.

“Marina, calm down,” he finally said. “Mom’s not a thief. She’s just… a little tactless. She’s lonely, she comes over to feel useful. Maybe really to water the plants, tidy up a bit… Have some tea.”

“A little?!” I felt myself boiling over. “Sergey, this is my house! Our house! I’m supposed to feel like the mistress here, not a night watchman in a warehouse that’s constantly being pilfered! I can’t relax, I keep checking whether things are in their place, whether I’ve locked all the locks. What locks?! I’m sure your mother has spare keys!”

He stepped closer, trying to hug me, but I pulled away. His conciliatory position infuriated me even more.

“Fine, I’ll talk to her,” he promised, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Carefully, tactfully. I’ll ask her to knock before coming in.”

“She doesn’t ‘come in’, Sergey, she lives here when we’re gone!” I exhaled. “And it’s not just about the tea. It’s that the place smells like someone else. I don’t feel at home here.”

That evening we never did grill the shashlik. We just sat at the table in oppressive silence. I felt like a stranger in my own home, in a fortress whose walls had treacherously melted away. And Sergey didn’t see a loving wife in front of him, but a shrew attacking his poor, lonely mother.

Later, back in the city, I was complaining about all this to my friend Olga over the phone.

“Yeah, your mother-in-law is a real gift,” she sympathized. “You know what lots of people do now? Put in hidden cameras. Not to ‘spy’, but to keep an eye on things. Like those smart door intercoms. You install one, and everything becomes clear right away: who, when and why.”

I laughed, but the laugh came out nervous.

“A camera? Oh no, that’s too much. Like I’m in some spy movie.”

“Just think about it,” Olga insisted. “Otherwise you’ll keep snapping at Sergey, and he’ll keep thinking you’re paranoid. You need proof. Ironclad.”

I hung up, and her words lodged in my head like a splinter. “Proof. Ironclad.” All the next week I moved around like in a daze, constantly coming back to that thought. It seemed so radical, so… distrusting. But every time I remembered the wet kettle and the crumpled tea packet, I felt my certainty growing.

And then one evening, sitting in front of my laptop, I found myself scrolling through an online store catalog without any hesitation. My finger froze over one image. A small, minimalistic device disguised as a smoke detector. “Perfect,” I thought. “No one will ever notice.”

I added it to my cart and clicked “Place order.”

The package arrived faster than I expected. A small cardboard box, so harmless-looking. I hid it at the bottom of my bag like stolen goods, and on Friday, when Sergey and I were packing for the dacha, my heart was pounding wildly.

I spent the entire car ride in silence, staring out the window at the passing trees. My husband turned on the radio, and soft music filled the car, but it couldn’t drown out the voice of my conscience whispering, “You’re crossing a line. This is sneaky.”

But then I remembered that wet kettle, the ruined bench, and Sergey’s helpless face. No. I had to do this. For peace of mind. For proof.

Installing it took only a few minutes on Sunday, right before we left. Sergey was loading things into the trunk.

“I’ll be right there,” I called to him, going up the stairs to the bedroom. “Just checking we didn’t forget anything.”

I took the small plastic cylinder—so much like a real smoke detector—out of my purse. My fingers trembled as I fixed it to the ceiling, carefully snapping on the base. It blended with the white surface, looked completely natural. I plugged it into the power, downloaded the special app to my phone, and checked the connection. A clear image of the empty room popped up on the screen. Everything worked.

Just then Sergey’s voice drifted up from downstairs:

“Marina, how’s it going up there? Looks like we loaded everything!”

“Coming!” I answered, my voice cracking, and after taking a deep breath, I walked out of the room.

I didn’t tell my husband a word. My thoughts were a tangle. What if I was breaking some law? What if it got discovered? But no, I was protecting my property, my home. I had that right.

On the way back to the city, Sergey seemed to be in a good mood.

“Well, that was a nice weekend. No fights. Mom, by the way, walked past today, waved, didn’t even come in. See? And you were worried.”

I just nodded, clenching my phone in my jacket pocket. “Worried”… If only he knew.

The first two days at work I couldn’t concentrate. My phone lay on the desk in front of me like a rattlesnake ready to strike at any moment. I kept picking it up and opening the app. The screen showed an empty sunlit living room. Peace and quiet. I even felt a bit ashamed. Maybe I really had imagined it all? Maybe my mother-in-law did just drop in for a minute, and the rest was the product of my fevered imagination?

On the third day, Tuesday, around three in the afternoon, I was in a meeting. My phone suddenly vibrated briefly but insistently in my bag. My fingers went cold. It was a notification from the app. “Motion detected.”

I excused myself and stepped out into the empty staff kitchen. My hands were shaking so much I could barely unlock the screen. I tapped on the notification.

The image loaded. My heart dropped.

In my living room stood Lyudmila Petrovna. She was talking to someone, her back partly turned towards the camera. She held a key in her hand. My key. Then she stepped aside, and two more people entered the frame.

I almost dropped the phone.

Behind her came her younger son, Dima, my brother-in-law. He was carrying several full grocery bags. Next to him trotted his wife Irina with a shoulder bag and that same smug expression I always saw on her face.

I stood there, leaning against the fridge, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. So that’s who the “thieves” were. Our own relatives.

Lyudmila took off her jacket and hung it over the back of my armchair, the one I’d brought back from a trip to the Baltics.

“Well, home at last,” her voice came through clearly on the microphone. “Unpack the groceries, Dimulek. I’ll put the kettle on.”

She headed for the kitchen, and in a moment I heard that familiar sound—the hiss and bubbling of water in my kettle.

I watched, my mouth gone dry. So that’s what “airing out the house” meant.

I stood in the silence of the office kitchen, glued to my phone screen. The picture was sharp, the sound crystal clear, as if I were in the next room. This wasn’t a passing visit. This was a full-blown picnic over my bones.

Dima plunked the bags down on my coffee table, noisily pulling out bottles of drinks, a packet of cookies, cheese.

“Ira, fix some snacks,” he threw over his shoulder to his wife, sprawling on the couch and slinging his leg over the armrest. “Mom, where d’you keep that whiskey Sergey was raving about? Bet he’s got something fancy stashed away.”

Lyudmila bustled over to the sideboard where we kept alcohol for special occasions, looking every inch the rightful hostess.

“Here, son, I know where. He keeps it on the bottom shelf so it’s not on display. Take it, don’t be shy. We’ll tell your brother we had guests over. He’s not stingy.”

A chill ran through me. They were talking about my husband, my generous, trusting Sergey with such matey disdain that the blood rushed to my head. Dima casually pulled out the expensive whiskey and, not immediately finding any glasses, poured the golden liquid into my favorite large coffee mugs.

Meanwhile Irina was looking around the room with interest. Her gaze slid over the shelves, the framed photos, and stopped at the bedroom door.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, can I have a look at what kind of bedding they’ve got?” she asked. “Last time I noticed Marina bought some new silky set. I want to see it up close.”

“Go on, go on, dear,” my mother-in-law said graciously. “Our dear daughter-in-law likes to pamper herself. Wouldn’t hurt you either.”

Irina disappeared into the bedroom. I switched the view to the bedroom camera as well. My heart started pounding again. She walked over to our bed, ran her hand over the silk duvet cover, then her eyes moved to my wardrobe. Without a second’s hesitation, she flung it open.

Heat flushed through me. She started rummaging through my dresses, tops, blouses, taking some off the hangers and holding them up to herself in front of the mirror. Then she picked one—a dressy sand-colored dress I’d worn only once, to Sergey’s birthday party. Irina took off her own sweater and jeans and slipped into my dress. It was a bit tight on her, but she spun in front of the mirror, striking sultry poses.

“Dima, come here!” she called. “Take a picture of me. Let people see how to really relax out of town.”

Dima lazily got up with his mug of whiskey, pulled out his phone and started snapping her. They laughed like kids pulling a prank while their parents were away.

“Look good?” she cooed.

“Very. Suits you. Maybe you should keep it? Marina probably won’t even remember it,” Dima snorted.

I watched, barely able to breathe. This wasn’t just crossing boundaries. This was mockery. They felt like masters here, entitled to everything.

Back in the living room, Irina continued her little fashion show for my mother-in-law. The latter nodded approvingly.

“Oh, what a beauty you are! A real model. And on Marina…” she paused briefly, “…it didn’t sit as well. That cut doesn’t suit her.”

I couldn’t take it anymore and muted the sound, sinking onto a chair. I felt physically ill. From their audacity, from the sheer sense of being completely powerless. I was sitting there in my office, miles away from the dacha, and they were playing house in my home, trying on my life like it was a borrowed dress.

Then I turned the sound back on. They were already sitting at the table, eating the food they’d brought and washing it down with our whiskey. The conversation flowed smoothly—and disgustingly.

“Well, how do you like it here, son?” Lyudmila asked, sweeping the room with a proprietary gaze.

 

“It’s fine,” Dima mumbled with his mouth full. “Sergey’s got taste. His wife helps, of course, but the base is ours, family property. We’ve been here all our lives, you and me. And she just showed up and made herself the mistress of the place.”

Lyudmila sighed, pouring herself more whiskey.

“What can you do, Dimulek. A stranger came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And she thinks she’s in charge here. What does she understand about our history? Our traditions? Nothing. She just latched on.”

The word “stranger” sounded so open and venomous it was like a slap in the face. All my attempts to build a relationship, all my compromises, all the festive meals I’d cooked for them—everything shattered against the stone wall of their certainty in their own superiority.

Suddenly Irina, pushing her plate aside, went back to the wardrobe. But this time her eyes fell not on the clothes, but on a large cardboard box on the top shelf. I froze. That box held old family photographs, letters and several albums that had belonged to my late mother—my most precious possessions, priceless to me.

Irina took the box down, plunked it on the floor and started rifling through it without much interest. She flipped through albums, tossing photos back in. Then she came across one where I was about seven, sitting on my mother’s lap. Irina stared at it for a couple of seconds, shrugged, and, holding the picture by the corner, flicked it back into the box like some useless scrap of paper.

Something broke inside me at that moment. The tears I’d been holding back poured out in a flood. It wasn’t about things anymore. It was about my memories, my love, my mother, whom she’d never even known. This was a deliberate, cynical desecration.

I wiped my tears and turned the sound back on. I needed to hear all of it. Every word. Every chuckle. I watched those strangers in my home and for the first time in a long while felt not confusion and anger, but a cold, steely resolve. By their own hands and their own words, they were putting weapons into mine. And I fully intended to use them.

They stayed in the house for about another hour. I kept watching the screen, a mute, helpless witness to my own humiliation. They finished eating, drinking, Dima sprawled on the couch and turned our TV up to full volume, and Irina still hadn’t taken off my dress.

When they finally decided to leave, Lyudmila cast a satisfied look around the room.

“Well, that was a nice little get-together. We’ll come by tomorrow to take out the trash,” she said, as if bestowing a favor.

They left, abandoning dirty plates on the table, an empty whiskey bottle, and that invisible but acrid smell of someone else’s presence. The door slammed shut behind them.

I sat alone in the office kitchen, and only ragged sobs broke the silence. My hands were still trembling. I turned the sound back on, but the house was now hollow and quiet. The camera showed an empty living room littered with the traces of their feast.

So that’s what “airing the house out” meant. That’s why my tea was always gone. That’s where the bench scratches and the broken washer had come from.

My thoughts whirled, one replacing another. Fury. Pity for myself. A dull, gnawing sense of betrayal. But stronger than all of it was confusion. What now? Call Sergey? Scream into the phone: “I told you so! I saw everything!”?

I imagined his face. First disbelief. Then an attempt to justify them. “Mom must’ve just stopped by to tidy up, and Dima and Irina dropped in by chance… Don’t exaggerate, Marina.”

No. Words wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t feel that icy shiver that ran down my spine when Irina tossed my mother’s photograph aside. He hadn’t seen how gleefully they drank his whiskey while talking about his wife.

I didn’t need words. I needed a movie. That recording now stored in my phone’s memory.

I took a deep breath, wiped my tears and opened the app again. Now my movements were precise and deliberate. I found the archive function and began reviewing the recordings from the previous weeks. And I found them. Not as long, but still: short visits. Here’s Lyudmila alone, brewing tea and curiously inspecting the contents of my kitchen cabinets. Here she is bringing Dima in, and they’re chatting animatedly, though the microphone is too far to catch the words. And here’s Irina, popping in “for a minute” to drop off some box.

I started saving the most telling moments from that day to my phone. A separate clip of Irina trying on my dress. Another of them drinking the whiskey. Another of my mother-in-law’s monologue about the “stranger” in the family. And a separate, shortest but most painful one—my mother’s photo being flung back into the box.

Each saved clip was like a knife driven into my memory, but I forced myself to continue. I was gathering my weapons. Cold, ironclad, undeniable.

Later, at home, I tried to act normal, but everything boiled inside me. Sergey was talking about work, and I just nodded, hearing his voice as a distant hum. All I saw were their smug faces.

“You’re not yourself,” he noticed over dinner. “Tired?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Very tired.”

He reached across the table and stroked my hand.

“It’s okay, you’ll get some sleep. Next weekend we’ll go back to the dacha, get some fresh air.”

I looked at his kind, unsuspecting face and felt a strange wave of pity. His world, his belief in a “friendly family” was on the brink of collapse. And I was the one who had to bring it down.

Lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I ran through all the scenarios in my head. Make a scene. Show the recordings right away. Dump everything into the family chat. But every option felt too emotional, too impulsive. They’d circle the wagons, declare me crazy, accuse me of faking everything. My mother-in-law would burst into tears, Dima would start threatening me, and Sergey would once again be stuck in the middle.

No. What they needed wasn’t a tantrum. They needed a verdict. And for that, one emotional talk wasn’t enough. I needed a full dossier. Multiple recordings. An airtight evidence system of their systematic, brazen, cynical behavior.

I quietly turned on my side and stared into the darkness. The anger was giving way to cold, calculated determination. They thought they were playing in their own sandbox. They didn’t know I’d already started digging a pit for them. And their next party in my house would be their last.

The following weekend came with a sense of heavy, oppressive anticipation. We were driving to the dacha, the silence in the car thick and ringing. I stared out the window, mentally rehearsing my moves. Sergey, sensing my tension, tried several times to start light conversation, but when I didn’t respond, he fell silent.

When we pulled up to the house, my heart began to race. On the veranda, just as I’d expected, they were sitting. All three. Lyudmila knitting, Dima scrolling on his phone, and Irina, seeing our car, stretching languidly like she’d just woken up at her own place.

We got out of the car. The air was fresh and clear, but between us hung an invisible wall.

“Well, finally, we waited long enough,” my mother-in-law greeted us, putting down her knitting. “The kettle’s already boiling.”

“Hello, Mama,” I said dryly, walking past her without offering a hug.

We went into the house. I immediately swept my gaze over the living room. Everything was clean, tidy. But I knew all too well what was hiding behind that façade.

Over tea, what I had dubbed “reconnaissance by fire” began. I took my cup and took a small sip.

“How odd,” I said thoughtfully, looking at the wall. “Right before we left, I had a full pack of good tea here. And somehow it disappeared. In just a week.”

The atmosphere at the table instantly changed, crackling with tension. Lyudmila froze with her saucer in hand.

“Maybe you finished it yourself and forgot?” Irina chimed in quickly, syrupy sweet.

“No,” I replied just as calmly. “I was saving it. Same with the coffee that mysteriously vanished last time. Or that new bench… Where did those scratches come from, like someone scraped nails across it?”

Dima tore himself away from his phone and slowly raised his eyes to me. They were full of irritation and challenge.

“Are you hinting at us?” His voice came out rough and loud.

Sergey immediately stirred.

“Dima, calm down. Marina is just stating facts.”

“What facts?” Lyudmila flared up, her eyes instantly filling with offended tears. “I keep an eye on this house, don’t take my eyes off it, and I get accused of stealing! I, your own mother, Sergey, to whom you entrusted your keys, get humiliated like this!”

She dabbed at an imaginary tear with the corner of a napkin.

“Mama, no one’s accusing you,” Sergey squirmed on his chair, shooting me a pleading look.

“Then who is?” Dima went on, heating up. “Your wife is straight up saying we’re stealing things and wrecking the place! Are you serious? I’ve got more money than I know what to do with! You think I need your tea and benches? Don’t make me laugh!”

“Who said anything about stealing?” I turned to him, keeping my voice icy-calm. “I simply listed the things that have disappeared or been damaged recently. I’m stating facts. And asking whether you might have seen anything.”

“We haven’t seen a thing!” Irina snorted. “Maybe you’ve got mice? Or your memory’s gone?”

“My memory is just fine,” I shot back. “It’s my sense of security in my own home that’s been suffering.”

My mother-in-law now burst into genuine tears, but I could see the pure theatrics in them.

“Sergey!” she sobbed. “Do you see this? Do you see how your wife talks to us? She thinks we’re thieves! Crooks! We’re family! And she… she’s the stranger here, if that’s how she treats us!”

The word “stranger,” spoken aloud, cracked across the table like a slap. Sergey turned pale. He was wedged between a weeping mother and a cold, unbending wife—pressure building on him from both sides.

“Marina…” His voice trembled. “Maybe that’s enough? Mom is upset. Maybe you could just apologize for the misunderstanding and we’ll forget it?”

Everyone fell quiet, staring at me. Dima’s eyes gleamed with gloating triumph. Irina was barely suppressing a smile. Lyudmila peered at me over her tissue, silent reproach in her gaze.

I slowly set my cup down on the saucer. The sharp clink of porcelain rang out in the tense silence. I lifted my head and looked straight at my husband.

“No, Sergey. I’m not going to apologize. Because there is no misunderstanding here.”

And standing up from the table, I walked out into the garden, leaving a dead silence behind me.

That evening we sat at opposite ends of the couch like two strangers accidentally locked in the same room. Sergey didn’t look at me, his attention glued to his phone. I could feel his hurt, his confusion, but inside me everything had frozen into crystal hardness. Their reaction had only confirmed that I was right.

The next morning, under the pretext of urgent business in the city, I left the dacha alone. Sergey just nodded when I said goodbye, his face like stone.

 

I drove along the empty Sunday highway, one thought pounding in my head: “What next?” An emotional blow-up wasn’t enough. I needed a plan based not on shouting, but on the law.

On Monday, during my lunch break, I met Olga in a quiet café. She was already waiting, and from her expression I could see she knew it was serious.

“So, how’s your James Bond operation going?” she asked. The joke came out strained.

I didn’t say anything. I just took out my phone, opened the saved videos, and handed it to her. I watched her face change gradually: curiosity, then surprise, then mute outrage. She watched Irina prancing in my dress, Dima pouring whiskey, my mother-in-law delivering her speech about the “stranger.”

“They are… they’re just…” Olga searched for words, pushing the phone away like it was hot. “This is insane! The nerve of them!”

“Now do you understand?” I said quietly, taking the phone back. “I showed this to Sergey. He asked me to apologize.”

Olga was silent for a few seconds, digesting that.

“Okay. Yelling at them is useless. They’ll twist everything. You need a lawyer. A real one. My cousin had a similar problem with neighbors. I’ll give you her contact.”

Two hours later I was sitting in a strict, tidy office across from a woman in her fifties with smart, attentive eyes. Her name was Alla Viktorovna. For the third time I replayed my humiliation, but this time it was easier. I spoke like a robot, listing facts.

Alla listened without interruption, occasionally jotting notes in a notepad. When I finished, she set her pen down.

“Let’s go through this step by step,” she began calmly. “First and most important: hidden recording in your own house or in a house you legally own is not a violation. You are not infringing on anyone’s right to privacy, because these people were in your home without your permission—or, more precisely, exceeded the permission you had granted. You had every right to protect your property this way. These recordings are material evidence.”

Relief washed through me at her words. I wasn’t the offender. I was the victim.

“Second,” she continued. “From what you’ve described, we can pick out several offenses. First, petty theft. Tea, coffee, food. Second, possibly unlawful entry, if we can prove that your mother-in-law exceeded the authority you gave her when you handed over the key ‘to water the plants’. Third, property damage—the scratches on the furniture. For now these are administrative violations, but under certain conditions it could escalate to criminal charges.”

She looked straight at me.

“What do you want as a result? A criminal record for your relatives? Compensation for the damaged bench?”

“No,” I answered firmly. “I want this to stop. For good. I want them to be afraid to even come near my house. I want my husband to finally see the truth and stop blaming me. And I want all the trump cards in my hands if they decide to retaliate.”

Alla nodded.

“Reasonable. In that case, you don’t need to run to the police with these recordings. Not yet. You need to structure your evidence. Make a detailed list of everything stolen and damaged with the cost for each item. Attach receipts if you have them. Edit the recordings into a short but striking video, five to seven minutes long, with the most telling moments. And prepare an informal written statement demanding compensation for damages and a pledge not to approach your house. We’ll notarize it.”

“And if they refuse to sign?” I asked.

The lawyer smiled slightly.

“Then you calmly inform them that your next step will be filing a report with law enforcement, along with all the material you’ve gathered. And then things will follow a very different script. I assure you, once they see those recordings, they’ll lose all desire to argue.”

I walked out of her office with a completely different feeling. Fear and uncertainty had given way to a clear, thought-out plan. I had a weapon. And now I knew how and when to use it.

That evening I came home to our empty apartment. Sergey hadn’t returned yet. I sat down at the computer, plugged in the flash drive with the recordings, and opened my editing program. Now, watching those clips, I felt no pain—only cold focus. I cut, spliced, added subtitles to the most offensive lines.

I wasn’t just making a video. I was preparing a verdict. And it would be read at the next family council.

Saturday greeted us with a dull sky and heavy, humid air. It felt like even nature was holding its breath before the storm. Sergey and I drove to the dacha in silence, denser and heavier than ever. He was still sulking, and I was mustering strength for the performance where I’d have the lead role.

When we arrived, they were already there. All three. Sitting on the veranda like we were the ones coming to visit them. Lyudmila with chilly dignity, Dima with a defiant smirk, Irina with a sickly-sweet, disdainful smile.

We went into the house. The atmosphere was taut as a drawn wire.

“So, have you made up?” Dima asked sarcastically, lounging in an armchair.

“I asked everyone to come because I want to put an end to this ‘misunderstanding’ once and for all,” I began, trying to keep my voice steady. I walked over to the big TV in the living room and connected my laptop.

“Oh, we’re watching a movie?” Irina snorted. “Should I make popcorn?”

Sergey looked at me with confusion and worry.

“Marina, what are you doing? Cut out the theatrics.”

“This isn’t theatrics, Sergey,” I said, looking him in the eye. “This is our life. And you’re about to see it without curtains and makeup.”

I picked up the remote. The big screen showed a frozen image of an empty living room from a high angle. Lyudmila frowned.

“What is this? What are these spy tricks?”

“You didn’t believe my word,” I said, and my voice finally hardened to steel. “You called me hysterical. Let’s take a look at the truth.”

I hit “play.”

The screen came to life. The sunlit room. The creak of the door opening. And there they were—Lyudmila, Dima with the bags, Irina. The audio was clear and loud.

“Well, home at last,” my mother-in-law’s voice rang out.

For the first seconds, the room was dead silent. They watched themselves, watched the screen, unable to grasp what was happening. Then, when Dima poured whiskey into my coffee cups and Irina headed into the bedroom, Lyudmila leapt to her feet.

“Turn that off right this minute! This is vile! This is illegal!”

“Sit,” I said coldly, not taking my eyes off the screen. “The most interesting part is just starting.”

On the screen, Irina, already in my dress, twirled in front of the mirror.

“Turn it off!” Dima roared, lunging toward me and grabbing for the remote.

But then Sergey stood up. His face was chalk white, and in his eyes burned a rage I had never seen before.

“SIT DOWN!” His voice cracked like a whip, making Dima freeze mid-stride. “Don’t move. I want to see everything. To the end.”

He said it with such absolute authority that Dima, blinking in shock, backed away and dropped heavily onto the couch.

And on the screen, that very monologue was playing.

“…She came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And thinks she’s in charge here… She’s just a stranger…”

Sergey stood motionless, absorbing every word, every chuckle. He watched how they talked about him, his wife, his home. How they treated it all with cynical contempt.

 

When Irina tossed the photograph aside on screen, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.

The film ended. I stopped the video. The room was buried in silence, broken only by Dima’s heavy breathing and Lyudmila’s quiet sobs.

All eyes turned to Sergey. He slowly turned to his mother. His gaze was empty and cold.

“So that’s what ‘airing out the house’ means?” he asked quietly. “That’s why things went missing? That’s why Marina was on edge? You… you just lived here. Like cockroaches behind a cabinet.”

“Son, I…” my mother-in-law began, but he cut her off sharply.

“Silence!” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “This is physical evidence. The next step is a call to the police. Marina, dial.”

Panic erupted.

“Sergey, dear, you can’t! We’re family!” Lyudmila wailed.

“Family?” He laughed bitterly. “Family doesn’t behave like looters. Like vulgar freeloaders.”

I had already picked up my phone, but not to call the police—rather to pull the papers from my bag. A written agreement to compensate for damages, and a pledge not to approach the house. The lawyer had been right. After that “movie,” they had no strength left to argue.

The silence in the living room was deafening. It hung like a thick, heavy blanket, pierced only by Lyudmila’s sniffling and Dima’s ragged breathing. They sat there, broken, unable to meet our eyes. All their fake grandeur and arrogance had evaporated, leaving only their pathetic core.

I silently laid two sheets of paper on the table in front of them. The text was printed in large, clear font.

“This is a written acknowledgment of full compensation for damages,” my voice sounded even and quiet, but in the silence it was perfectly audible to everyone. “I’ve made a detailed list. The damaged bench, food, alcohol, moral harm. The total sum is here. And this is a pledge not to approach our house and our land any closer than a hundred meters. Ever.”

Dima raised his eyes to me, rage and fear battling in them.

“And if we don’t sign?”

“Then I call the police immediately,” I replied. “And hand everything over to them, including the bit where you move menacingly toward me just now. It won’t stop at a minor offense. Do you want that?”

Sergey, still pale but completely composed, stepped forward. He was no longer the confused son trying to please everyone. He was a man defending his home.

“Sign,” he said quietly, in a voice that sent goosebumps down my arms. “And leave. While I’m still able to talk to you calmly.”

Lyudmila sobbed something about family, about forgiveness.

“Mom,” Sergey looked at her, and there was only tired sorrow in his eyes. “You destroyed it yourself. You called my wife a stranger in our home. You let them play house here. What kind of family is that? Sign and go.”

The signing took only a few minutes. They did it silently, hunched over like they were being led to execution. Shaking hands, illegible signatures. When the last dot was put down, they stood up without a word and, without looking at us, shuffled toward the door. Dima and Irina practically pushed Lyudmila outside. The door clicked quietly shut behind them.

We were alone. Sergey slowly came up to me. He took my hands in his. His palms were cold.

“Forgive me,” he exhaled, his voice breaking. “I was blind and stupid. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect our home. I let them think this was normal. I was so afraid of conflict I almost lost everything we have.”

I looked at him, and the stone wall inside me began to melt. In his eyes I saw no pity, no excuses—only pain and clear understanding.

“Our home is protected now,” I said softly. “Not by the camera. By our decision. By our unity.”

He nodded and pulled me into a hug. We stood there in the middle of the living room where a whole world had just collapsed—and for the first time in many months, the house smelled of peace again. Our peace.

A week later, I ordered a new surveillance system. Not hidden this time, but the real, obvious kind. Cameras on white brackets, visible wiring, and a big sign on the gate: “Video surveillance in operation.” I was done hiding.

One of the following Saturdays, Sergey and I went back to the dacha. A fresh wooden plank gleamed on the bench, covered with new varnish. I poured myself a cup of expensive oolong from a new packet and went out onto the terrace.

The air was clear and transparent. Birds sang in the garden, and not a single foreign sound disturbed the silence. I sat in my armchair, drank my tea, and looked at my house. It was mine again. Every speck of dust, every rustle of leaves in our garden.

Sergey came out, carrying two plates with freshly made sandwiches. We had breakfast, exchanging a word now and then, and it was an ordinary morning, completely cloudless.

I no longer checked the locks or listened for footsteps at the door. I just lived. And that was the most precious thing I had won in that war. Not the things, not the money, but my right to peace. To my home. And to my own life

 

Alexey stood in front of the door to his apartment, his keys trembling in his hand. Three days ago he had slammed this very door shut to teach Irina a lesson. Three days of proud absence at his ex’s dacha. Three days that were supposed to make his wife understand how deeply she had hurt him. And now he was standing here, breathless with anticipation of what her remorse would look like.

It had all started with an ordinary family dinner. More precisely, with the lack of one.

“You’re late again,” Irina said in that particular tone Alexey had learned to recognize over seven years of marriage—calm, but threaded with deep disappointment.

“Traffic,” he snapped, tossing his keys into the little bowl in the entryway.

“Alexey, you promised you’d be home by seven. It’s almost nine.”

He walked into the kitchen, where a single covered plate stood on the table. The food had long gone cold. Irina sat nearby, scrolling through something on her phone.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said irritably. “Why are you starting?”

“Why am I starting?” Irina looked up. “This is the third evening in a row I’ve been waiting for you with dinner. We agreed we’d have dinner together at least three times a week. This was the last chance this week.”

With a sigh, Alexey sat down and lifted the lid off the plate.

“Like I was out partying instead of working my ass off.”

“It’s not about that, and you know it,” Irina said, setting her phone aside. “We had an agreement. It matters to me. I cooked, I waited. Like last time. And the time before that.”

“My project is on fire, you know that!” Alexey raised his voice. “What was I supposed to do—stand up and leave in the middle of a meeting? Tell Mikhalych my wife is baking pies and I need to run home?”

Irina straightened in her chair.

“First of all, I’m not baking pies—I’m making a normal dinner for my family. Second, you could have at least called and warned me. Third, your Mikhalych knows perfectly well the workday ends at six.”

“Don’t start,” Alexey sighed, poking at the cold potatoes.

“What do you mean, ‘don’t start’? I’m not allowed to say I’m unhappy?”

“You are,” he said, dropping his fork onto the plate. “You have the right. But you know what? I’m tired of these complaints. I’m tired of coming home and, instead of resting, getting another dose of dissatisfaction. I work from morning till night so we can afford this apartment, your new fur coat, a vacation in Turkey!”

“What does the fur coat have to do with it?” Irina shook her head. “I didn’t ask for a fur coat. I asked you to be home at seven three times a week. Is that so hard?”

“It is when you’ve got a tyrant of a boss and deadlines burning!” Alexey jumped up. “Why can’t you understand? Why do I get nothing but reproaches instead of support?”

Irina stared at him in silence for a few seconds.

“You know what?” she said at last. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of being in second place after your job. Maybe you should marry your Mikhalych, if he matters more to you than your family.”

That was the last straw.

“Fine!” Alexey threw his napkin onto the table. “If I’m such a terrible husband, maybe you should go find another one—someone who’ll sit at home and cling to your skirt?”

“I didn’t say that,” Irina replied quietly.

“But you thought it!” Alexey couldn’t stop now. Everything that had built up over weeks of stress burst out. “You know what? I’m leaving. I’ll stay a few days at Sveta’s dacha—at least she appreciated my time and my effort!”

Irina went pale. Sveta was his ex-girlfriend; they had split shortly before he met Irina. They kept in touch as friends—always a source of tension between him and his wife.

“Are you serious right now?” Her voice was strangely calm.

“Absolutely.” Alexey went into the bedroom and started tossing things into a gym bag. “I’ll stay there a few days. Think. And maybe you should think, too, about what matters more to you—my presence at dinner, or everything else I give this family.”

Irina stood in the bedroom doorway with her arms folded.

“If you go to your ex now, you’ll regret it,” she said quietly.

“Is that a threat?” Alexey smirked, zipping the bag.

“It’s a fact.” Irina turned and walked out.

Alexey brushed past her, grabbed his keys, and slammed the door so hard the walls trembled.

Sveta met him with surprise, but without many questions, she offered to let him stay at the dacha as long as he needed. It was a small house in a gardening co-op about an hour from the city—a place Alexey used to go years ago, before marriage.

“Family problems?” she asked, as they drank tea on the veranda.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alexey waved her off.

“As you wish.” Sveta shrugged. “Make yourself at home. I’m only here on weekends anyway, so I won’t bother you. You know where the keys are, there’s food in the fridge. If you need anything—call.”

She left for the city the next morning, leaving Alexey alone with his thoughts. He was sure Irina would call by evening—apologize, beg him to come back. But the phone stayed silent.

By the end of the first day he grew nervous and texted: “Everything okay?”

An hour later the reply came: “Yes. You?”

Short. Cold. No просьба to return, no apologies. Alexey got even angrier. Fine—if she thought he’d be the first to give in, she was wrong.

The second day passed in a strange quiet. Alexey tried to work remotely, but his thoughts kept circling back to Irina. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Why wasn’t she calling?

That evening he couldn’t take it and called first.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Hi,” Irina answered. In the background he could hear laughter and music.

“Where are you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“At home,” she said. “Masha and Katya are over. A girls’ night. We’ve been meaning to do it for ages, but it never worked out.”

Alexey felt a stab of irritation. He was suffering out here—and she was throwing parties?

“Ah, I see,” he said dryly. “I won’t bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said calmly. “Did something happen?”

“No, I just… wanted to check that everything’s okay.”

“Everything’s great, thanks for the concern.” Her voice held neither warmth nor coldness—just ordinary politeness, like with a stranger. “How are you there? Is Sveta pestering you with questions?”

“Sveta isn’t here—she’s in the city,” Alexey said for some reason. “I’m alone at the dacha.”

“Oh, I see,” Irina echoed his tone exactly. “Well, enjoy your rest then. Bye.”

And she hung up before he could add anything.

The third day was the hardest. Alexey paced around the dacha like a caged animal. He checked his phone every five minutes. He typed messages to Irina, deleted them, typed again. What was going on? Why wasn’t she begging him to return? Did she really not care?

By evening he couldn’t stand it and texted: “Coming back tomorrow morning.”

The reply was brutally simple: “Okay.”

That was it. No emotion, no questions. Just “okay,” as if he’d said he’d pick up milk on the way.

 

In that moment Alexey realized his plan hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. And that was exactly why, standing now in front of his own door, he felt a strange mix of anxiety and irritation.

He opened the door and walked in. The apartment smelled of fresh baking and Irina’s perfume. From the kitchen came sounds—someone moving dishes, chopping something.

“I’m home,” Alexey called, stepping into the entryway.

No answer.

He walked into the kitchen and froze in the doorway. Irina stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She was wearing a new dress he’d never seen before—dark blue, elegant, flattering her figure. Her hair was done, light makeup, and that perfume… She looked like she was getting ready for a date, not greeting a husband who’d returned after a fight.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a quick glance. “Hungry?”

Alexey nodded, thrown off. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Where were the tears? The relief? The apologies?

“What are you cooking?” he asked, setting his bag down on the floor.

“Stew,” she replied. “It’ll be ready in half an hour. You can take a shower while you’re at it.”

He stood there, not knowing what to say. This calm, collected woman didn’t resemble the one he had expected to see.

“Ira, we need to talk,” he finally said.

“Of course.” She nodded without looking up from cooking. “We’ll talk over dinner. Go on, freshen up. You look tired.”

Alexey obediently headed to the bathroom, feeling strangely disoriented. What was happening? Why was she so calm? And why did she look so good?

After showering and changing, he returned to the kitchen. Irina had already set the table—nice dishes they usually brought out only for guests, candles, wine glasses.

“Are we celebrating?” he asked, sitting down.

“No.” She smiled, pouring wine. “Just in a good mood.”

Irritation rose in Alexey. He’d spent three days at the dacha suffering, waiting for her call, her apologies—while she was here arranging… what? A celebration of his return? Or showing how great she’d been without him?

“I see you didn’t miss me much,” he couldn’t help saying.

“Why not?” she sat down opposite him. “The first evening was hard. And then… it got easier.”

Something in her tone put him on alert.

“What do you mean, ‘easier’?”

Irina took a sip of wine and met his eyes.

“You know, Lyosha, I’ve thought a lot these days. About us. About our relationship. About what’s been happening between us these past months.”

Here it was. Now she’d apologize, he thought. Now she’d admit she was wrong, that she’d realized how important his work and effort were.

“So what did you conclude?” he asked, preparing for his long-awaited moment of triumph.

“I realized we put too much weight on little things,” she said calmly. “And that life is too short to spend it on resentment and waiting.”

Alexey frowned. That wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean”—Irina served herself stew—“when you left, at first I was very upset. Then I got angry. And then I decided it was a good chance to think about myself.”

“About yourself?” he repeated.

“Yes. You know, for so many years I’ve built my life around our relationship, our plans, your work… But what have I done for myself? What did I want, personally?”

She spoke calmly, without accusation—which somehow irritated him even more.

“And what do you want?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“A lot,” she smiled. “For example, I signed up for photography classes. I’ve wanted to for a long time but kept putting it off. I started going to yoga in the evenings. And, you know, I met up with friends I hadn’t seen in ages.”

“I noticed,” Alexey muttered, remembering yesterday’s call and the party noise in the background. “All that in three days?”

“It’s amazing how much you can do when you don’t have to sit at home waiting for someone to show up for dinner,” she said without the slightest reproach, simply stating a fact.

A knot of тревога tightened in Alexey. Something was off. He’d expected tears, accusations, maybe coldness… but not this calm, almost detached composure.

“Did you meet anyone else besides your friends?” The question escaped before he could stop himself.

Irina looked up, surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it literally. In these three days. Did you meet someone?” He heard how ridiculous it sounded, but couldn’t stop.

Irina slowly set her fork down.

“Are you serious right now? You left to your ex for three days, and now you’re asking whether I cheated on you in that time?”

“I didn’t leave to my ex! I mean, yes, to my ex, but not to her… I—” he tangled himself up. “Sveta wasn’t even there!”

“And if she had been?” Irina asked quietly.

“What?”

“If Sveta had been there, what would have changed? You said you were going to her on purpose. You wanted to hurt me as much as possible, didn’t you?”

Alexey stayed silent. She was right. Mentioning Sveta had been calculated to cause pain.

“I didn’t cheat on you, Alexey,” Irina said after a pause. “Not in these three days, not in all seven years of our marriage. And you know why? Not because there wasn’t opportunity. But because I respect what we have. Even when you demonstratively slam the door and go live at your ex’s to ‘teach me a lesson.’”

Her words hit harder than he expected.

“I wasn’t trying to teach you…”

“No?” She raised an eyebrow. “Then what was it? ‘Maybe you should think about what matters more to you’? Isn’t that a lesson?”

Alexey said nothing. She was right—and that only made it worse.

“I really did think,” she continued. “And I understood something important. I love you, Lyosha. I truly do. But I don’t want to be a woman who sits at home and waits until her husband deigns to appear. I want to build my life—with you, but not around you. Do you understand the difference?”

 

He understood, but wasn’t sure he liked it.

“So what now?” he asked. “You won’t cook dinners anymore?”

Irina laughed.

“My God, Lyosha, are you serious? I’m telling you about fundamental changes in our relationship, and you’re worried about dinners?”

She shook her head, but there was no anger in her eyes—more like mild disappointment.

“I’ll cook when I want to cook. Sometimes for both of us, sometimes just for myself. And sometimes we’ll cook together or order food—like normal modern people. The main thing is we’ll agree, not wait and resent.”

“You’ve changed,” Alexey said, watching his wife with growing unease. This new, confident Irina both attracted and frightened him.

“Yes,” she nodded. “In three days. Imagine what would happen if you left for a week.”

She smiled, and in that smile was something he’d never seen before—light irony, confidence, maybe even a challenge.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked directly.

Irina thought for a moment.

“You know, no. At first I was, of course. But then I realized your leaving was possibly the best thing that’s happened to us in a long time.”

“In what sense?” A pang of jealousy flared. “You were happy without me?”

“It was different,” she answered. “I was able to look at our life from the outside. And I realized I don’t want to go back to what it was. I want to move forward. With you, if you’re ready. Or…” She paused.

“Or?” he echoed, his heart skipping a beat.

“Or on my own,” she said simply. “I’m not afraid of that anymore, Lyosha.”

There was no threat or ultimatum in her voice—just calm fact. And that was what made it so frightening.

“You… you want a divorce?” he asked, his mouth dry.

“No.” She shook her head. “I want a relationship. A real, adult relationship where both partners respect each other. Where there aren’t childish games of ‘teaching a lesson’ and ‘punishing.’ Where we talk when something hurts us, instead of slamming doors.”

Alexey looked at his wife and realized with surprise that he was seeing her as if for the first time. When had she become so… wise? So calmly confident? And why hadn’t he noticed earlier?

“I missed you,” he said suddenly—and it was the truth. “All three days. I missed you terribly.”

Something flickered in her eyes—softness, warmth.

“I missed you too,” she admitted. “Especially the first night. It was strange falling asleep alone.”

“But you didn’t call,” it came out like an accusation, though he hadn’t meant it that way.

“No,” she agreed. “Because it was your choice to leave. And it had to be your choice to come back. Without my begging and tears.”

Alexey lowered his head. She was right. As always.

“I behaved like an idiot,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“I forgive you.” She smiled. “But Lyosha, I’m serious. I don’t want to go back to the old way. I want both of us to change. To become better. Together.”

“What do you propose?” he asked, feeling a strange mix of anxiety and hope.

“To start, let’s be honest with each other,” she said. “I’ll tell you when something bothers me—plainly, without hints. And you do the same. And let’s stop taking each other for granted.”

“What does that mean?” he didn’t understand.

“Well, for example,” she thought, “when you’re late at work, I automatically assume you don’t care that I’m waiting. And when I remind you of our agreement, you automatically hear it as a complaint. We stopped seeing each other as people with feelings and reasons.”

Alexey mulled it over. There was truth in it—truth he hadn’t wanted to admit. He really had started taking her care for granted, her waiting as obligation.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “And you’re right. I… I’ll try to change.”

“I know.” She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Because I know who you really are. Otherwise I wouldn’t have married you.”

Her touch was warm, familiar. But something had changed. Before, that gesture had felt pleading, soothing. Now it was equal—steady, supportive.

“So we’re okay?” he asked, still not fully sure.

“We’re in progress,” she replied with a faint smile. “We’ll always be in progress, Lyosha. A relationship isn’t a final result—it’s constant movement. And right now, I think we’re moving in the right direction.”

She got up and began clearing the table. Alexey watched her—beautiful, composed, confident—the woman he thought he knew by heart, yet now he was discovering anew.

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked, helping with the plates.

“Actually, yes,” she said, and his heart sank. “I have a photography lesson at seven. But it ends at nine. Afterward we can go to that new bar on Sadovaya, if you want. I’ve heard they make great cocktails.”

Alexey froze with a plate in his hand.

“You… want to go to a bar? On a weekday?”

“Why not?” she raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s a workday, sure, but one cocktail won’t hurt anyone. Besides”—she winked—“I missed you. I want to make up for lost time.”

And in that moment, looking at his wife—new, changed, yet still so dear—Alexey understood his plan to “teach her a lesson” had turned out completely differently than he’d expected. But maybe it was exactly how they both needed it to be.

“I’ll wait for you by the studio at nine,” he said, feeling a rush of excitement—almost like the beginning of their relationship. “And Ira… thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, surprised.

“For not leaving me when I behaved like an idiot,” he said honestly. “For giving us a chance to become better.”

Irina smiled, and in that smile was everything he’d once loved in her—and something new he still had to discover.

“You’re welcome,” she said, and rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “Now I need to get ready. I don’t want to be late for class.”

 

She left the kitchen, and Alexey remained standing there, stunned, watching her go. His plan to teach his wife a lesson had ended with her teaching him one instead—maybe the most important lesson of his life.

Three months later, Alexey sat in the kitchen working on a project on his laptop. The clock read half past six—he’d come home early on purpose to finish work here.

“I’m home!” Irina’s voice rang from the entryway.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, closing the laptop.

Irina came in carrying a big folder of photos and a grocery bag.

“Hi,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. “Already home? Did Mikhalych let you off early?”

“I left on my own,” Alexey smirked. “Said I had an important meeting.”

“And with who?” she asked, unpacking groceries.

“With the prettiest girl in the city.” He winked. “It’s our anniversary today.”

“Seven years and three months?” Irina laughed. “That’s not an anniversary.”

“Three months of a new life,” he explained, pulling out a bouquet he’d been hiding under the table since morning. “I’d say that’s a pretty good reason.”

Irina froze with a carton of milk in her hand.

“Lyosha…” She blinked, and to his surprise he saw her eyes glisten. “You remember.”

“Of course I remember.” He handed her the flowers. “That was the day I almost lost the most precious thing I have.”

Irina took the bouquet carefully, as if it might crumble at a touch.

“You know, I think about that day a lot too,” she said softly. “How scared I was when you left. And how I decided I’d never be that afraid again.”

“I’m glad you chose to change,” Alexey said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “And that you made me change too.”

“We both changed,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “And we keep changing. Together.”

He hugged her tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume—the same one she wore the day he came back.

“I can take a shower and cook something for dinner,” he offered. “Or we can order delivery and watch that show you wanted.”

“And your project?” she asked, nodding at the laptop.

“It can wait till tomorrow,” Alexey said firmly. “Today is our anniversary, remember?”

Irina smiled—that same smile that three months ago had turned his world upside down. The smile of a woman who knows her worth and isn’t afraid of the future.

“I remember,” she said, kissing him. “And you know what? I’m glad you decided to ‘teach me a lesson’ back then.”

“Why?”

“Because it became the best lesson for both of us.”

And Alexey couldn’t disagree. Sometimes the most important lessons come to us in ways we never planned. And sometimes that’s for the best

 

Olga sat in the kitchen, mindlessly poking at a salad with her fork. It had already darkened, turning into some pathetic mix of yesterday’s optimism and today’s exhaustion. Sergey was rushing around the apartment like someone who hadn’t lost his keys, but the meaning of life. Galina Petrovna sat in the armchair by the window, looking like a judge presiding over a particularly serious criminal case.

“Seryozh, you’re rustling around like a rat in a sack of crackers,” Olga said without lifting her eyes. “What are you looking for?”

“The apartment documents,” he grunted. “You said yourself it was time to get everything ready to sell.”

“I said it was time to look at options. And you’re already packing like we’re moving into a barn tomorrow,” Olga rolled her eyes.

“Well, if you want to stay in this concrete box until retirement…” Sergey opened a closet, and a winter jacket and a bag with some mysterious contents tumbled onto him.

“Better a box than your village with no decent internet,” she snapped.

“Olga,” Galina Petrovna cut in, lips pressed tight, “you always dramatize everything. A house outside the city means fresh air, your own land, cucumbers. And an apartment… what’s an apartment? The walls close in.”

 

“Right,” Olga snorted. “Especially when there’s a mother-in-law behind one of those walls waiting for me to slip up.”

“My girl, I warned you,” Galina Petrovna leaned back in her chair. “You need to listen to a man while he still wants you to listen. Later it’ll be too late.”

“Mom, don’t start,” Sergey tossed out wearily, pulling a folder from the closet.

Olga looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Sergey, are you sure we’re acting in my interests?” Her voice was calm, but inside everything was already boiling.

“And whose else would we be?” He didn’t even look at her. “You’ll just sign a power of attorney for me, and everything will go faster.”

“Sure,” she smirked. “A power of attorney—so that later I’m left with the loan, and you and your mom are left with the keys to the new house?”

“Olga, what nonsense are you talking?” Sergey spun around sharply. “Do you seriously think I’d trick you?”

“Think?” She set down her fork. “I’m almost certain.”

“This is paranoia,” Galina Petrovna stepped in, rising from her chair. “Men don’t like being suspected of things. Have you tried being his wife instead of his investigator?”

“And have you tried being his mother?” Olga shot back. “Not some advisor in schemes for how to squeeze property out of his wife.”

“Enough!” Sergey raised his hands like he was breaking up two neighborhood dogs. “Both of you are driving me crazy. I want a normal life. A house, a bathhouse, a dog, barbecues…”

“And a thirty-year loan,” Olga cut in.

“So what? It’s an investment in the future,” he shrugged.

“Whose future, Seryozh?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. Galina Petrovna immediately jumped in:

“The family’s future! Is that really so hard to understand?”

“Yeah, the family… only that family’s last name is Sergeyev, not Sergeyeva and Kovalenko. Because you didn’t include me,” Olga stood up abruptly. “I’m not an idiot, Sergey. And I’m not giving you a general power of attorney.”

“Fine, your choice,” he snapped the folder shut, already irritated. “You’ll regret it later.”

“Maybe,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “but at least I’ll regret it because of my own mistake—not yours.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, like an old carpet on the wall in a grandmother’s bedroom. Only the fridge hummed, and Galina Petrovna breathed angrily like a steam engine.

“I’m going to the notary tomorrow,” Sergey said slowly. “You’ll change your mind.”

“Just try signing anything without me,” Olga said coldly. “And it won’t be a move—it’ll be a divorce.”

Galina Petrovna snorted.

“Fine. Then live in this… concrete box.”

Olga gave a thin smile.

“At least it’s not a cage.”

And she walked into the bedroom, leaving the two of them alone.

But one thought was already spinning inside her: I need to check everything. And it looks like I’ll have to play their game—only by my rules.

Olga came home earlier than usual. The project at work had collapsed like a memorial-table setup—quickly, quietly, and with a faint smell of something burnt. Her thoughts kept circling: What if Sergey has already pulled something off behind my back?

She set her bag down by the door, took off her shoes—and suddenly heard familiar laughter from the kitchen. It wasn’t Sergey’s laugh—his was always nervous, breathy. This was Galina Petrovna laughing. Quietly, but with the kind of pleasure people have when they’ve just won the lottery.

Olga froze at the doorway.

“Well, Seryozh, I told you,” her mother-in-law’s voice carried. “The main thing is to register everything in your name first. Then we’ll decide who lives where.”

“Mom, don’t say it like that,” Sergey sounded quiet, almost whispering. “If Olya hears—there goes the plan.”

“She won’t hear,” Galina Petrovna snorted. “Women are like… those… cats. As long as the bowl is full, they purr. The moment they sense the food’s been taken away, they start scratching.”

“Yeah, I know…” Sergey sighed. “I thought she’d agree quickly, without drama. She’d sign the power of attorney, we’d sell the apartment, buy the house…”

“And the loan goes on her, Seryozh. Don’t forget,” steel rang in Galina Petrovna’s voice. “You do understand a man has to be the master of the house. If the house is in your name, no one can throw you out with your things.”

“Mom, well…” he faltered. “Olya put money into it too.”

“Exactly—she put money into it. And she will keep putting money into it,” his mother cut him off. “Do you think I want you ending up with a suitcase in some dorm? Not a chance.”

Something itched behind Olga’s ear, and she barely stopped herself from bursting into the kitchen and applauding. Bravo, family council! A real opera in the genre of “deception for noble reasons.”

Sergey poured tea—the cup sliding across the table made a soft sound.

“Mom, are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Seryozh, your wife is naïve like a first-year student on her first scholarship day. If she starts suspecting something—tell her it’s all for her peace of mind.”

Olga smiled. That part was one step too far.

She pushed the door open and walked in like in a bad TV drama—slow motion, the look of someone who wasn’t holding a grocery bag, but an arrest warrant.

“Good evening, family,” she said sweetly, like tea with eight spoons of sugar. “What are we discussing today? Loans, real estate, how to trick the wife?”

Sergey almost spilled his mug.

“Olya… it’s not what you think…”

“Oh, come on,” she set the bag on the table, staring straight at her mother-in-law. “I think you’ve got strategic planning in full swing. Only here’s the problem—I’m not signing up for your script.”

Galina Petrovna lifted her chin.

“Girl, you misunderstood everything.”

“Oh, I love that phrase,” Olga smirked. “It’s usually said by people caught with their hand in someone else’s wallet.”

Sergey stood, stepped closer, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Olya, listen…”

She pulled away.

 

“No, Seryozh, now you listen. You wanted to make a fool of me. But you know what’s funniest? I almost agreed. And now…” She pulled an envelope from her bag. “Here’s my statement. Tomorrow I’m going to the bank to revoke the authorization—and I’ll also check if there are already any surprises from you.”

Galina Petrovna scoffed.

“And who needs you with your paranoia?”

“Probably not you,” Olga answered coldly. “But I need me.”

She turned and went to the bedroom, leaving behind a thick, sticky silence in the kitchen—so thick even the tea in the mugs seemed to cool down out of spite.

That’s it. The game has begun. But now—by my rules, she thought.

Sergey packed his things on the third day. Not because Olga kicked him out—he decided on his own that he “needed to wait it out.” He went to his mother’s, and a week later sent a text:

“Let’s talk calmly. I’ll explain everything.”

Olga replied briefly:

“We’ll meet at the notary.”

That day the office was stuffy and smelled like old linoleum. Sergey arrived wearing a tie, like he was heading to a job interview, and Galina Petrovna came in a new coat, clearly bought for the “ceremonial moment.”

“Olya, we’ve been thinking…” Sergey began, making his voice soft. “Maybe we shouldn’t act rashly. A house outside the city—it’s a dream.”

“Yes, and the loan on you,” Galina Petrovna added like it was a compliment. “Your salary is stable.”

“Oh, I see you still believe in my altruism,” Olga smirked, pulling out a folder. “Only there’s one little nuance. The apartment is now registered solely in my name. And—attention—I’ve already sold it.”

Sergey went pale.

“What?! When?!”

“Yesterday,” Olga answered calmly. “At market price. And without your schemes.”

“You… you decided without me?!” His voice started to crack.

“Without you, Seryozh, I decide a lot of things now,” she said coldly. “And yes—here’s your notice of divorce.”

Galina Petrovna gasped.

“How dare you?! We’re family!”

“Family?” Olga leaned in so close she could see every wrinkle. “Family doesn’t sit around planning how to throw each other out on the street.”

Sergey stood, slamming his fist on the table.

“You’ll regret this! You’ll have nothing left!”

“You’re wrong,” Olga smiled. “I’ll have freedom. And money.”

The notary coughed, making it clear the circus had gone on long enough. Olga stood, put the documents back in her bag, and headed for the exit.

On the steps outside, she breathed in the icy air and felt something click inside her—like a lock that had kept her trapped in that marriage had finally snapped.

Sergey ran after her.

“Olya, wait… Can we at least do this without a scandal?”

She turned, looked him straight in the eyes, and said:

“Seryozh, the shop is closed.”

And she walked on—toward a new life where no one sits around plotting how to set her up

 The scrape of a key in the lock sounded at the exact moment I finished arranging the vases with the chrysanthemums I’d just bought. Autumn flowers filled the apartment with a special scent—sharp, slightly bitter, the kind that brings back memories of walks through the park with fallen leaves rustling underfoot.

I wasn’t expecting visitors. More than that, this sound—the sound of the front door opening—should have disappeared from my life a month ago, when Andrey packed his things and moved out. We separated quietly, without shouting matches or broken dishes, like civilized people. Eight years of marriage, no children, different views on life, and a gradually widening distance—such was the formula for our divorce. All very logical, though still sad.

I froze with a vase in my hands, listening to the noises in the hallway. The rustle of clothing, a muted female laugh, Andrey’s deep mumbling. So he wasn’t alone. And judging by the tone, his companion wasn’t some random acquaintance.

I set the vase on the side table and straightened up. Strangely, instead of the jealousy or hurt I would have expected, I felt only mild curiosity and a pinch of irritation—why had he come, and why not alone? A month after he took his things, leaving his keys on the dresser with a short note: “Sorry for everything. I was wrong.”

Andrey appeared in the living room so suddenly it was as if he’d materialized out of thin air. Behind him stood a young woman—about thirty—smiling a little shyly, with a fashionable haircut and a light-blue dress that emphasized her slim figure.

“Vika?” He clearly hadn’t expected to find me at home. “You’re here…”

“Where else would I be?” I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “In my own apartment, after work, on a Friday evening.”

Andrey looked thrown. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I knew well from our years together. He always did that when he was nervous or stuck in an awkward situation.

“I thought you were at your parents’. You always go there on Fridays.”

“Not this one.” I shrugged. “Mom and Dad went to the dacha to close up for the season.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. The girl’s gaze darted between me and Andrey, clearly not understanding what was happening.

“Andrey, introduce us,” she finally said, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

“Yes—of course.” He cleared his throat. “Vika, this is Marina. Marina—Victoria, my… my wife.”

At first I didn’t process what he’d said. Then it hit me—he had introduced me as Marina. And he’d called his companion… his wife?

“I think you’ve got something mixed up,” I couldn’t hold back a smirk. “I’m Victoria. And as for ‘wife’—now that’s interesting.”

Andrey went pale. His companion frowned, confused.

“What do you mean—you’re Victoria?” she turned to Andrey. “You told me your ex’s name was Marina, and that you divorced a year ago!”

“This is my premarital apartment, sweetheart!” I said with a cool smile when my husband brought his new fling. “And Andrey and I are still married. Technically, at least. Though the divorce petition has already been filed.”

 

The girl’s face twisted. She stepped away from Andrey as if he’d suddenly turned into something disgusting.

“You lied to me? All this time?” Her voice shook with outrage. “We’ve known each other for six months, and you never once…”

“Marina, it’s not like that,” Andrey tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. “I can explain—”

“Explain what?” Now she was practically shouting. “That you brought me to your real wife’s apartment? That everything you told me about your past was a lie?”

I watched the scene with a strange detachment, like I was watching a film with unfamiliar actors. Marina—so that really was her name—looked genuinely upset and betrayed. Well, I understood her. Andrey had always been a master at inventing his own version of reality.

“You know,” I said to her, “maybe we should talk. The three of us. Like adults.”

“What’s there to talk about?” she sniffled, holding back tears. “It’s all clear.”

“Not entirely.” I nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a bottle of decent wine. And I think it’ll be useful for both of us to know the truth. The whole truth.”

Marina hesitated. Then, throwing Andrey a look that could have annihilated him, she nodded.

“Fine. But only for the truth.”

We sat at the kitchen table, each of us with a glass of red wine. Andrey perched on a stool, clearly uncomfortable between two women he’d so carelessly pitted against each other.

“So,” I took a sip, “let’s be honest. What exactly did Andrey tell you about his… supposedly ex-wife?”

Marina nervously turned her glass in her hands.

“That you were married for five years and divorced a year ago. That she’s a music teacher at a school, and you split up because she didn’t want kids and preferred her career.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Interesting. And now the truth: we’ve been married eight years. We’re not divorced, though we’ve been living separately for the past month. I’m a lawyer, not a teacher. And the ‘kids’ thing’—it was his idea to wait until he ‘made a career.’”

Marina stared at Andrey, who sat with his eyes down like a guilty teenager.

“Why did you lie?” she asked quietly. “And what else have you lied about?”

Andrey exhaled.

“I… got tangled up. When we met, I was still married, but Vika and I practically weren’t living together anymore. I didn’t want to scare you off. And then… then it was already too late to tell the truth.”

“It’s never too late to tell the truth,” I said. “Though in your case, Andrey, it’s always been a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Marina turned to me.

“That lying is his habit,” I took another sip of wine. “Small, harmless lies that slowly destroy a relationship. ‘I didn’t smoke’—when he reeks of cigarettes. ‘I was at a business meeting’—when he was actually playing poker with friends. ‘Of course I did it’—when he hasn’t even started.”

Andrey jerked his head up.

“That’s not fair, Vika. You’re making me out to be some kind of pathological liar.”

“Aren’t you?” I shrugged. “Look where we are right now. You brought your new… girlfriend into the apartment where your legal wife still lives. And you apparently fed her a whole load of nonsense.”

“You told me it was your apartment,” Marina said softly. “That you bought it after the divorce.”

“That’s his favorite trick,” bitterness crept into my voice. “Claiming other people’s achievements. This apartment was my grandmother’s, long before our wedding. I even insisted on a prenup to protect the inheritance. Smart, right?”

Marina drained her wine in one gulp and poured herself more.

“So what else did you lie to me about, Andrey?” Her voice sounded tired now. “That you have your own business? That you make a hundred thousand a month?”

“He really does have his own business,” I cut in. “A small logistics company. But as for the income—better not ask. Things haven’t been going great this past year.”

Andrey sprang to his feet.

“Enough! You’re talking about me like I’m some object, not a person! Yes, I messed up. Yes, I lied. But I did it because—”

“Because it’s easier,” I finished for him. “It’s always easier to create a pretty illusion than admit an ugly reality.”

He sank back onto the stool, suddenly deflating like a punctured balloon.

“I loved you, Vika. I really did.”

“I know.” I nodded. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You always needed something more. Someone more.”

Marina set her glass down so hard wine sloshed over the rim.

“I’m leaving,” she said decisively. “And I never want to see you again, Andrey. Never.”

She turned to me.

“Thank you for the wine and… for the truth. You deserve better.”

With that, she stood and headed for the door. Andrey and I heard the front door slam.

We were left alone at the kitchen table, not looking at each other. The wine in the glasses, unfinished, darkened like dried blood.

“Why did you come?” I asked at last. “And why did you bring her?”

Andrey looked up at me.

“I wanted to pick up my winter clothes. I thought you wouldn’t be home. And Marina… she wanted to see where I live. I couldn’t tell her I’m actually renting a room from a friend.”

“So you decided to show her my apartment? Pass it off as yours?”

“Our apartment,” he corrected. “We lived here eight years. And I thought… just for a couple of hours, while you were out…”

“God, Andrey,” I shook my head. “You never change. Same tricks, dodging, little lies that turn into big problems.”

He stayed silent, and in that silence I saw his admission that I was right.

“Do you really love her?” I asked after a pause.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe. She’s… different. Not as smart as you, but warmer, I guess.”

“And that’s why you told her I’m some bitter music teacher who chose her career over family?” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm.
Family games

“I just…” he faltered. “I just wanted to start with a clean slate. Without the baggage.”

“But the past always catches up, Andrey,” I finished my wine and set down the glass. “Like today.”

He nodded, accepting it.

“So what now?” he asked after a long pause.

“Now you take your winter things,” I stood up. “And you never show up here again with your keys. I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”

“And our divorce?”

“It’s going as planned. Court in three weeks. Like we agreed—no mutual claims.”

Andrey stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare.

 

“What?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Are you… okay, Vika?” His voice held a sincere concern I hadn’t heard in a long time. “After we split up.”

The question caught me off guard.

“Yes,” I nodded after a pause. “Surprisingly okay. Like… like I finally took off a heavy backpack I’d been dragging for too long.”

He smiled sadly.

“Was I the heavy backpack?”

“Not you,” I shook my head. “Our relationship. What it became. An endless cat-and-mouse game where I tried to catch you lying and you wriggled out of it. It’s exhausting, you know.”

“I know,” he lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Vika. For everything.”

I looked at him—the man I’d spent eight years with, shared a bed with, made plans with. He stood there lost and pitiful, and I felt nothing but fatigue and a faint sadness for what could have been, but never was.

“I forgive you,” I said at last. “But it doesn’t change anything. Our time is up, Andrey.”

He nodded, accepting it as a fact.

“Can I at least call you sometimes?” he asked. “Just to see how you are.”

“Why?” I looked at him in surprise. “We have no kids, no business, no reason to stay in touch.”

“Just…” he hesitated. “I’m used to you being in my life. Eight years, after all.”

“And I’m getting used to you not being in it,” I answered gently but firmly. “And I like it, Andrey. For the first time in a long time, I feel calm. Don’t ruin it.”

He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then he nodded, accepting my decision.

“Alright. I’ll take my things and go.”

He went to the bedroom, where some of his winter jackets and sweaters were still in the closet. I heard him open the doors, pull things out, rustle bags. Ten minutes later he came out with a large duffel in his hand.

“That’s it,” he paused in the doorway. “Goodbye, Vika.”

“Goodbye, Andrey,” I stood by the window, looking out at the autumn city spread below. “Good luck. Truly.”

When the door closed behind him, I stood still for a long time, breathing in the scent of chrysanthemums and processing what had happened. Strangely, instead of emptiness or bitterness, I felt light. As if the last thread tying me to the past had finally snapped—and I was truly free.

I walked over to the vase of flowers and straightened a drooping stem. Life went on. My life, in my apartment, without lies and manipulation. And in that moment I understood I really was okay. More than okay. I was on my way to something new, and the feeling was worth every tear and disappointment of the past.

The phone rang. My friend’s name lit up the screen—the one who’d been trying for a week to drag me to a blind dinner with some colleague of hers.

“Hi, Lena,” I answered with a smile. “You know, about that dinner on Saturday… I think I’ll say yes.”

Life went on. And maybe the best part of it was still ahead

Mom, well, not so abruptly. We need to prepare… yes, I understand we can’t drag it out, but you know Ksyusha. You can’t just swing the axe with her—you have to be careful, gradually…”

Ksenia froze in the hallway, the key still not fully turned in the lock. Dima’s voice—her husband’s—came from the bedroom, muffled and conspiratorial, with those ingratiating intonations he used only when talking to his mother. He was home, though he was supposed to be back a couple of hours later. A nasty chill—nothing to do with the damp cold outside—began to creep slowly from her stomach up to her throat. She silently pulled the door shut without taking the key out and stayed standing on the doormat, turning into pure listening.

“No, she doesn’t know anything. Of course not. I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought it all through. We just need to choose the right moment. Tonight, maybe. I’ll make dinner, pour her some wine… yes, good wine, the kind she likes. I’ll set the mood so she’s relaxed.”

He spoke, and Ksenia stared at the wall in front of her—at the textured wallpaper they’d chosen together a year and a half ago, bickering playfully over the shade. Now the pattern looked like an ugly, lifeless spiderweb. Every sound from the bedroom, every word, pierced her mind like a red-hot needle. The mood. The wine. He was going to anesthetize her before striking.

“What scandal? We’ll talk calmly. She’s a smart woman—she’ll understand… Well, maybe she’ll scream a little, that’s normal. Women always scream. The main thing is that she understands it’s not the end of the world. People get together, people split up—it happens. I’ll tell her everything honestly. That my feelings have cooled off, that I met someone else…”

Ksenia slowly—very slowly—lowered the grocery bag to the floor. The carton of milk inside thudded dully against the parquet. Feelings have cooled off. Met someone else. Those banal, worn-out phrases she’d heard a hundred times in cheap TV dramas were now meant for her. And they weren’t being said by a man ready for an honest conversation, but by a cowardly boy rehearsing his speech with his mommy. He wasn’t repenting. He wasn’t suffering. He was building a strategy.

 

“About the apartment? Mom, not now. We’ll sort it out. I’m registered here. The main thing is to present it the right way. So there’s no hysterics. Okay, that’s it—bye. I’ll call you later, tell you how it went. Kisses.”

Short beeps. Ksenia didn’t move. She waited. She heard him set the phone on the bedside table, heard his relieved sigh, heard him pacing around the room. He came out of the bedroom whistling some simple tune and froze in the doorway when he saw her. His face went through every stage in a fraction of a second—from carefree ease to panicked horror. The smile slid off, his eyes darted, his hands hung awkwardly at his sides.

“Ksyu… you… have you been here long?” His voice came out pitiful and hoarse.

She looked at him in silence. Not at the husband she’d loved, but at a stranger—someone completely unknown to her. There was no pain in her gaze, no hurt. Only cold, crystal-clear contempt. She didn’t ask who she was. She didn’t ask how long his feelings had been “cool.” All questions were pointless. He’d just answered them himself, consulting his mother.

Ksenia glanced at the wall clock in the living room. Then she looked back at him.

“Finished your consultation?” Her voice was perfectly even, not a tremor in it. “Good. Then listen to me. You have ten minutes. Pack the essentials. Phone, documents, charger. Laptop. Whatever fits in your gym bag. The rest I’ll put out in the common hallway later. You can pick it up anytime.”

Dmitry blinked—his brain refused to process the information. He’d expected tears, screaming, accusations. He’d prepared for the scene he’d already rehearsed. But he wasn’t prepared for this calm, businesslike tone, as if she were giving instructions to a courier.

“Ksyu, you misunderstood everything! Let’s talk! I’ll explain! It’s not what you think!”

He took a step toward her, reaching out, trying to turn on the familiar reconciliation mechanism. But she didn’t even flinch. She simply looked at the clock again.

“Nine minutes.”

Dmitry stared at her as if she’d gone insane. His face was pale, his mouth half-open in a ridiculous attempt to say something—to argue, to justify himself. But the words stuck in his throat. In front of him wasn’t his soft, understanding Ksyusha; it was a stranger with a surgeon’s eyes before a difficult operation—cold, focused, allowing not the slightest weakness. He jerked toward the bedroom, then back again, as if he didn’t know what to grab first. His movements were frantic, panicked.

“Ksyu, wait—this is some mistake… We have to talk this through…”

“Eight minutes.” Her voice stayed just as level. It cut through the air like a scalpel. “Don’t make me call a service to change the locks right now—with you still standing in the hallway.”

That threat, delivered without a hint of anger, hit him harder than any screaming could have. He finally understood this wasn’t a game. Not another fight. This was the end. He darted into the bedroom. Ksenia heard him yank open the closet, heard something crash to the floor, heard the zipper of the gym bag rasping. He wasn’t packing—he was stuffing pieces of his past life into it on pure instinct, like an animal fleeing a burning forest.

Ksenia didn’t move. She stood in the hallway by the front door, cutting off every path—back to negotiation, to dialogue, to his usual manipulations. She was the silent guard of her new space, free of him. Exactly six minutes later he burst out of the bedroom—rumpled, red blotches on his neck. Gym bag in one hand, laptop in the other. He stopped a meter from her, his eyes full of pathetic pleading.

“Ksy…”

She simply took the door handle and opened it. It said more than any words. He swallowed, dropped his gaze, and awkwardly squeezed past her onto the landing. The door clicked shut behind him—quietly, politely.

The apartment sank into silence. But it wasn’t the soothing silence of being alone. It was heavy, viscous, soaked with his smell, his presence, his lies. Ksenia went into the bedroom. Abandoned hangers lay scattered on the floor. The closet door hung open. And the bed… their bed was rumpled.

She looked at it, and a wave of icy disgust rose inside her. Without turning back, she went to the bathroom and pulled on rubber cleaning gloves. Then she returned and, with one sharp, strong motion, ripped the duvet cover, sheet, and pillowcases off the bed. She balled them into a tight knot and threw them into the corner like filthy rags. Then she took a fresh set of linens from the closet—still smelling of factory newness—and began making the bed methodically, with measured precision. Every movement was crisp and mechanical. Smooth the sheet. Fluff the pillows. Thread the duvet.

When she finished, she looked around the room. Cleaner. But not enough. She went to the kitchen. On the table stood his blue mug with half-finished morning coffee. She picked it up with two fingers, carried it to the sink, and put it into the dishwasher. Then she wiped the table, removed his plate from the drying rack. She moved through the apartment like a sanitation worker, methodically destroying every trace of him. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She worked. That mechanical, purposeful activity was the only thing keeping her afloat, not letting her fall into the black void of betrayal.

When the last trace was erased, she felt a strange, ringing emptiness—not only in her soul, but in her stomach. She opened the refrigerator. Empty. The milk she’d bought was still sitting in the bag in the hallway. She needed something else. Bread. Cheese. Something simple. Life, it turned out, didn’t stop. It demanded food.

Ksenia took off the gloves, threw on her jacket, grabbed her bag, and left the apartment. Outside it was gray and damp, but the air felt surprisingly fresh. She walked to the store, looking straight ahead. People hurried past on their errands; cars drove by; somewhere children laughed. This ordinary world felt like scenery for someone else’s play. She bought what she needed, paid, and headed back.

As she neared her building, she saw two figures from a distance. They stood right by the entrance, blocking the way. One was hunched and wretched, shoulders slumped—the unmistakable silhouette of a beaten dog. The other stood rigid, hands clasped behind her back. Her posture radiated unbending, militant resolve. Even from far away, Ksenia felt the aggression rolling off her. Her husband. And his mother. The lull was over. The storm was beginning.

Ksenia walked with an even, measured step, neither speeding up nor slowing down. The grocery bags tugged at her hands, but she carried them as if they weighed nothing. She saw Tamara Igorevna straighten as Ksenia approached, square her shoulders, and assume a fighting stance. Dmitry beside her, on the contrary, seemed to shrink—tucking his head into his shoulders and staring at his boots. He looked like a guilty schoolboy dragged to the principal’s office.

Ksenia reached the steps. Only a few steps remained to the спасительная door, but Tamara Igorevna stepped sharply into her path with surprising speed for her age and build. She planted herself right in front of Ksenia, blocking the entrance. Her face was crimson, her eyes burning with a fanatical, righteous fire.

“So,” she began without preamble, her voice loud—meant to be heard not only by the three of them but by passersby as well. “The games are over. You take your words back right now and let Dima come home. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Ksenia said nothing. She looked not at her mother-in-law but through her, at the scuffed entrance door. Her face remained absolutely still, as if carved from cold marble. That impenetrability—that icy calm—infuriated Tamara Igorevna far more than any shouting would have.

“Are you deaf? I’m talking to you!” she raised her voice another notch, nearly screeching.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You can’t just throw my son out of the house! He’s your husband, which means he’ll stay in your apartment as long as he wants! And after the divorce you’ll sign over half of this apartment to him, regardless of the fact that you bought it!”

She paused to let her words—her ultimatum—land with full force. Dmitry shifted awkwardly behind her but still didn’t lift his eyes. This street theater was staged by his mother; his role was silent scenery, living proof of her “rights.”

“He gave the best years of his life to this family! He worked, he tried! And you—what? You think that because the apartment is in your name you have the right to throw people out on the street? You don’t. That won’t happen. I won’t allow it. My son won’t be homeless because of your whims. You will open the door right now, he will come in, and you will live as you lived until you resolve all property issues in a civilized way. Do you understand me?”

She finished her fiery speech and planted her hands on her hips, waiting for surrender. She was sure she’d won. In her world, maternal authority and brute pressure were forces that could crush any resistance.

Ksenia slowly turned her gaze to her. And there was nothing in that look—no fear, no anger, no hurt. Only deadly exhaustion and cold, endless contempt. She took a step forward.

“Did you hear me?!” Tamara Igorevna shrieked, trying again to block her, thrusting out a hand to grab her by the elbow.

Ksenia didn’t dodge. She simply took that hand in her free palm and moved it aside. No malice. No jerk. She did it with the same calm, detached strength you’d use to shift a chair in the way or move a fallen branch off the path. As if what stood in front of her wasn’t a living person, but an object.

Tamara Igorevna blinked, stunned by that audacity—by that wordless physical humiliation. And Ksenia, ignoring her completely, looked straight at her husband. For the first time she addressed him directly. Her voice was quiet, but against the raw November wind it sounded deafening.

“You brought your mother to win you a place in my bed?”

And without waiting for an answer, she turned away, took her key from her pocket, slid it into the lock, and, opening the heavy metal door, disappeared into the dim stairwell. The click of the door closer sounded like a gunshot, leaving mother and son standing on the gray concrete steps in complete, humiliating silence.

Ksenia entered the apartment and leaned her back against the door she’d just shut. She didn’t turn on the light in the hallway, staying in the half-dark. The silence pressed down—but it was her silence. Her fortress. She slowly lowered the grocery bags to the floor, giving herself a second to even out her breathing. She was sure that was it for today—that they, humiliated and crushed, had slunk off to lick their wounds.

But less than a minute later, there was a scrape in the lock. Metal rasped against metal. A key—the one he hadn’t given back.

The door swung open, and Dmitry appeared on the threshold, shoved forward from behind by his mother. His face was twisted with a mix of fear and desperate determination. Behind him loomed Tamara Igorevna, flushed with fury and triumph. They had forced their way in. Crossed the last line.

“So that’s how it is!” Tamara Igorevna hissed, pushing past and flipping on the hallway light. “You thought you could get rid of us that easily? This is his home too! He’s registered here and he will live here!”

Dmitry, finding a semblance of a voice under his mother’s pressure, bleated, “Ksyusha, we have to talk. You can’t just act rashly like this. I… I was wrong not to tell you myself. Give me a chance to explain everything.”

 

They stood in her hallway, polluting her air, her calm, her space. Ksenia looked at them, and the cold, calculating fury inside her began to melt into something else—into white-hot liquid steel. She was no longer a victim. She was the judge.

She slowly—very slowly—straightened up. Not a single muscle moved in her face.

“Fine,” she said so quietly they had to fall silent to hear. “You want to talk about what belongs to whom here? Excellent idea. Let’s take a walk.”

Without waiting for their reaction, she turned and went into the living room. Confused, they followed. She stopped in the middle of the room and gestured around with her hand.

“This sofa. I chose the upholstery for three weeks. I drove to the warehouse myself to check the seams. I paid for it with money I’d been saving for vacation. Your contribution? You said gray is practical.”

She moved on, into the kitchen. They trailed after her like an экскурсия.

“This kitchen set. Ordered from my drawings. I designed every drawer myself. The installers put it in while you were fishing with friends. This coffee machine was a work gift for a successful project. You use it every morning.”

Her voice stayed flat, almost lifeless. She wasn’t accusing. She was stating facts. Each fact was like a hammer blow on a nail being driven into the lid of their shared past. She led them into the bedroom. The freshly made bed looked like an altar in a desecrated temple.

“This bed. I paid for the orthopedic mattress because your back hurt. Remember?”

Dmitry said nothing, his face turning a dull gray. Even Tamara Igorevna’s fighting fire dimmed. They hadn’t been ready for such methodical, cold annihilation.

Ksenia went to the closet and flung the doors open. On one side hung her dresses. On the other—his shirts, trousers, jackets. Her gaze settled on a dark-blue suit of expensive wool. His pride. The suit he wore to the most important negotiations to look solid and successful. The suit bought on her credit card.

She took it off the hanger. Jacket and trousers. The fabric was soft and heavy. She turned and, without a word, walked back to the kitchen. They stared after her blankly, not understanding what was happening. She went to the cabinet under the sink and opened the door where the trash bin stood. Inside were morning coffee grounds, eggshells, an empty cheese wrapper. She took the jacket. Carefully—like she was folding it for storage—she folded it in half and began stuffing it into the bin. The expensive fabric touched the wet remains of their breakfast. She pressed down, packing it deeper. Then she took the trousers and did the same. She shoved them into the trash with force but without haste, until they disappeared completely beneath the rest of the garbage.

Then she closed the lid. The quiet plastic click rang through the silence like a verdict.

She turned to them. Dmitry stared at the trash bin in horror, as if she’d just buried something living inside. Tamara Igorevna stood with her mouth open, speechless.

“Trash goes out on Tuesdays,” Ksenia said in her calm, even voice. “Time for you to go.”

And in that moment they both understood. Understood everything. That there was no more “us.” No “shared home.” Nothing left to cling to. She hadn’t just kicked him out. She erased him—turned him into trash that needed to be taken out.

They turned and went to the door. In silence. Dmitry didn’t look back. Tamara Igorevna didn’t yell anymore. They simply left, and Ksenia closed the door behind them and—for the first time all day—slid the inner bolt into place…

Sergey slammed the door and exhaled. That was it. He’d taken him. Legally. The court had sided with him—so it must be the right thing. Dima’s briefcase stood by the refrigerator, his jacket was lying on a chair. The boy stared at the floor and stayed silent.

“Dim, well? You hungry? We’ll eat properly now.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to? It’s already eight, you were at school.”

“I don’t want to, Dad.”

Sergey opened the fridge. Empty. I mean, completely empty. Some old kefir, mayonnaise, dried-up sausage. He’d forgotten to buy groceries. Yesterday he’d thought, I’ll go tomorrow—but today had been all court: nerves, paperwork, lawyers.

“Listen, should we order pizza? You like mushroom pizza, right?”

Dima nodded—but weakly, without any enthusiasm. Sergey took out his phone and dialed. While they waited for delivery, the boy sat on the couch staring at his tablet screen. Silent. Sergey turned on the TV and found some action movie. Forty minutes later the pizza arrived. They ate in silence.

“Dim, why are you so sad? You should be happy. We live together now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You wanted to live with me, remember? You said so.”

“I did.”

“Well, there you go. Now we live together. That’s cool, isn’t it?”

The boy took a bite of pizza and stared at the tablet again. Sergey looked at him and felt irritation rise. Was it really that hard? He’d tried. He’d collected documents for half a year, gone through the courts, spent money.

He’d proven he was a normal father. That the mother—she was always at work, always busy. And he was right here, ready to take care of his son every day. And now. He’d taken him. But the kid sat there, closed off inside himself.

“Alright, let’s go to bed. We have to get up early tomorrow—school.”

“Where will I sleep?”

“On the couch for now. Later we’ll buy a proper bed, with drawers.”

Dima nodded. Sergey pulled a blanket out of the closet and made up the couch. The boy lay down still fully dressed.

“At least change. Jeans are uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Dima, what is it? You’re not little.”

“Dad, leave me alone.”

Sergey clenched his fists. Then he exhaled and stepped away. Fine. The kid was tired. It had been a hard day. Tomorrow would be better—definitely.

In the morning Dima woke up soaked. He’d wet himself. Sergey saw the wet blanket and froze.

“Dim, you’re already eight!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“How not on purpose? You’re a big boy!”

“I didn’t want to! I just woke up and it was already wet!”

The boy burst into loud tears. Sergey scratched the back of his head and sighed. Great. Now this too. He stripped the blanket off, tossed it into a basin in the bathroom, and handed Dima a clean T-shirt and pants.

“Come on, get dressed quickly. We’ll be late for school.”

They left the house at seven thirty. Sergey held his son’s hand tightly. At school Dima walked slowly, looking around. At the entrance he stopped and stood rooted to the spot.

“Dad, will Mom come pick me up today?”

 

“No. I told you yesterday—you live with me now.”

“And when will I see her at least?”

“I don’t know exactly. Later. Sometime.”

“When is ‘later’?”

“Dima, damn it, don’t whine now. Go on, get to school.”

The boy flinched and walked slowly toward the doors. Sergey stood by the entrance, lit a cigarette, then drove to the office.

In the evening he picked Dima up from school. The teacher, Maria Petrovna, stopped him at the classroom door.

“Sergey Vladimirovich, may I have a minute?”

“Yes, of course. What happened?”

“Dima had big problems today. He was silent the whole day, didn’t answer at all in class. He didn’t eat anything at lunch. And also… he was crying during the long break, in a corner.”

“I understand. Thank you very much. I’ll talk to him at home.”

They left the school together. Dima walked beside him, head down, silent.

“So what happened at school?”

“Nothing happened.”

“The teacher told me you were crying.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Dima, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then what happened?”

“Leave me alone!”

The boy jerked away and ran ahead along the sidewalk. Sergey caught up fast and grabbed the hood of his jacket.

“Stop. Where are you running?”

“Let me go!”

“I won’t let you go anywhere. First explain what’s going on with you.”

“I want my mom!”

Dima broke into sobs. Sergey was completely thrown. What was he supposed to do now? How to calm him down? He crouched in front of his son and held his shoulders with both hands.

“Dim, listen to me. Your mom… she’s very busy with work. She doesn’t have time to take care of you.”

“That’s not true! She was always home with me!”

“Well… now everything is different.”

“Why is it different?”

“Because we—the adults—decided so.”

“I don’t want to live like this!”

“Dima, enough. Let’s go home, now.”

They walked in silence for about twenty minutes. Sergey felt something tightening inside him. How did it even happen like this? He’d done everything by the law. He’d proved to the judge that the mother wasn’t ideal. That he could raise him better. And now what? The child was suffering every day—and Sergey had no idea what to do next.

At home Dima lay down on the couch right away. Didn’t eat dinner at all. Sergey tried to talk to him calmly, but the boy just turned his face to the wall. An hour later he fell sound asleep. Sergey sat alone in the kitchen, drinking beer from a can. The same thought kept pounding in his head: what do I do? What do I do next?

On the third day Dima didn’t even get up from the couch. In a quiet voice he said his stomach hurt badly. Sergey got scared and called a doctor to come to the house. She arrived quickly, examined the boy carefully, and said calmly:

“Physically he’s completely healthy. But the child is under severe stress. You can see it yourself—he’s tense all the time.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Talk to him properly. Calmly find out what’s bothering him so much.”

The doctor left the apartment. Sergey sat down beside Dima on the couch.

“Alright, tell me. What exactly hurts?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“It just hurts. Everything.”

“Where exactly does it hurt?”

“Everywhere… inside.”

Sergey sighed heavily. Then he took out his phone and called his mother. She arrived about an hour later. Came in, looked at Dima for a long time.

“Seryozha, what are you even doing to the child?”

“What am I doing?”

“He’s miserable here. Look at him properly.”

“I’m trying as hard as I can!”

“Then try the right way. He wants to go back to his mother.”

“Mom, don’t start this again.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m telling you the truth. You took him out of stubbornness, and now you don’t even know what to do with him.”

“I didn’t take him out of stubbornness!”

“You did. And out of anger. You got hurt by Lena back then, so you decided to hurt her through your son.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is true. Seryozha, you’re a grown man. Think. Dima is suffering every day. He’s really unwell. And what are you doing? Proving to everyone that you’re right?”

Sergey stayed silent. Then he went out onto the balcony to smoke. Lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Heavy thoughts spun in his head. Was his mother right? Maybe she was completely right. Had he really taken Dima just out of anger—to make Lena hurt, to make her finally understand how deeply he’d been offended?

That evening his mother went home. Dima lay motionless on the couch. Sergey approached, sat down carefully beside him.

“Dim, listen to me. Do you want to go see Mom tomorrow?”

The boy lifted his head sharply and looked at his father.

“Really I can?”

“Really. Tomorrow morning we’ll go.”

“You’re not lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

Dima hugged his father tight. Sergey stroked his head slowly. Something inside him hurt—just hurt.

The next day they drove to Lena’s place. She lived two districts away. Sergey stopped the car by her building.

Dima jumped out and immediately ran to the door. Sergey followed very slowly. Lena opened quickly. Dima threw himself at her at a run. She scooped him up, held him tight, and burst into loud tears. The boy sobbed too.

“Mom, I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too, my sunshine.”

Sergey stood in the doorway, silent, watching the two of them. And suddenly he understood one thing sharply: he’d ruined it himself. Completely. He’d taken the child not because it would be better for him, but because he was deeply hurt by his wife. He’d been proving his righteousness to everyone, while Dima was just suffering. And Lena was suffering too.

“Len, can I talk to you?”

She lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were red from crying.

“Yes. Dim, go to your room for now.”

The boy ran off. Lena wiped her tears with her hand and looked at Sergey in silence.

“What did you want to say?”

“I… Len, forgive me for everything.”

“For what exactly?”

“For everything that happened. For taking Dima to live with me. For not thinking about him at all. And I didn’t think about you either. I just… I was really hurt by you. And I decided to prove to everyone that I’m not as bad as you said back then.”

“Seryozha…”

“No, let me finish. I was a complete idiot. I thought I could handle it alone. That I’d raise him much better than you. But in the end—I can’t even manage to buy food properly. Dima keeps crying, wetting the bed at night, not studying at all at school. I just can’t cope. And I realized one thing: he really needs his mother. He needs you.”

Lena wiped her tears again.

“You’re saying this seriously?”

“Absolutely. Len, let’s do it together somehow. Not as husband and wife like before. Just… together, raising our son properly. He’ll come to you all the time, live with you. And I… I’ll help him. Really help. Not out of anger, not to prove something to other people. Just to be a normal father.”

Lena was silent for a long time, studying him. Then she nodded slowly.

“Okay. Let’s try to do it that way.”

Sergey exhaled with huge relief. Inside, it immediately felt lighter. He went into Dima’s room. The boy was sitting on his old bed.

“Dim, listen carefully. You’ll stay living here with Mom.”

“Like… forever?”

“Well… you’ll live with her here all the time. And I’ll come regularly. I’ll take you every weekend. We’ll go гулять—walk around—go to the movies together. Are you okay with that?”

Dima nodded quickly, then hugged his father tight.

“Dad, you’re not going to leave us completely?”

“No, of course not. I’ll always be near you.”

“You really promise?”

“I really promise. Honestly.”

They hugged for a long time. Sergey suddenly felt hot tears rise to his eyes. He wiped them quickly and left the room quietly.

A week later Dima was already doing fine at school. He stopped crying during lessons. Sergey picked him up every Saturday morning. They went to the movies, walked in the park, talked about everything—calmly, normally. Without shouting, without old grudges.

One day in the park Dima suddenly asked:

“Dad, will you and Mom ever make up completely?”

 

“I don’t know for sure, Dim. Maybe not.”

“I’m really sad about that.”

“Me too. But you know what… sometimes adults just can’t live together нормально—normally. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love you for real.”

“I understand that now.”

“Good. That’s great then.”

They walked slowly through the park. Dima held his father’s hand tight. Sergey looked down at him and thought: this is how it should have been from the start. Not stubbornly proving things to everyone, not being offended over little things—just always being near his son. Just loving him sincerely. And then everything would truly be okay

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not clutching, I just…”

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“PIN?”

“Four eight two one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marina typed back: “All good, thanks.”

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

Her phone rang—an unfamiliar number.

“Hello?”

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

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

“Hello, Elena Vasilyevna.”

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

“You’re welcome,” Marina replied mechanically.

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

Marina went cold.

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

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

“Five thousand,” Marina echoed.

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

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

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

She dialed Igor. Long rings, then his voice:

“What is it? I’m busy.”

“Where’s the money, Igor?”

“What money? What are you talking about?”

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

A pause. Then an irritated exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At seven, the front door slammed.

 

“Marina, I’m home!” Igor called.

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

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

“Dinner’s ready,” Marina said calmly.

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

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

“I’m not going.”

Igor looked up from his plate.

“What do you mean, ‘I’m not going’?”

“I mean I have other plans.”

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

Marina stood up.

“Igor. Where are the fifteen thousand?”

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

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

Igor jumped up, knocking over his chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Igor stopped, clearly not expecting resistance.

“You… you’re threatening me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop this hysteria! The neighbors will hear!”

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

Igor’s face darkened.

“Shut up, idiot!”

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

That hit its mark. Igor jerked as if slapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go. Now.”

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

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

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

“Marina… let’s talk calmly—”

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

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

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

Marina opened the door.

“Marina! Stop! Come back!”

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

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

She took out her phone and called her friend.

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

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

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

On the fourth day Elena Vasilyevna called.

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

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

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

 

“He didn’t tell you the truth?”

“What truth?”

Marina took a deep breath.

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

Silence on the line.

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

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

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

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

That evening Olya came home from work, shaken.

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

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

“Should we call the police?” Olya offered.

“No. I’ll handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need to put an end to this.”

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

“Don’t come closer.”

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

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

Igor flinched.

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

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

He went pale.

“Who told you?”

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

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

“So it’s my fault you cheated?”

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

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

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

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

“I loved you! I love you!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t do it!”

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

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

“Marina…”

 

“Goodbye, Igor.”

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

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

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

“How did it go?”

“Fine. I said everything I think.”

“And him?”

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

“But you won’t go back?”

“Never.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Galina Ivanovna laughed into the receiver, her voice clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it done?” she asked, lips tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexey slammed his fist on the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anna smirked.

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

Her father nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

She thought the hardest part was over.

She was wrong.

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

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

“Go on,” she said, instantly alert.

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

Anna went still.

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

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

Anna swore under her breath.

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

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

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

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

But that was only the first act.

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

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

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

Anna laughed.

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

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

Anna leaned in.

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

The woman’s lips tightened, and she left.

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

Their market value now exceeded 40 million rubles.

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

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

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

Anna’s father called her into his office.

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

Anna nodded.

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

“What are you planning?”

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

“You wanted to keep it for rest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Anna went pale.

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

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

Anna’s hands clenched into fists.

This was no longer just a game for money.

It became a war for the right to be herself.

Anna didn’t believe it at first.

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

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

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

It was rock bottom.

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

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

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

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

Fate had it that she agreed anyway.

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

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

Anna didn’t react.

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

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

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

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

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

Anna was silent for a long time.

Then she said:

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

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

But events spun out of control again.

Galina Ivanovna disappeared.

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

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

Anna didn’t sleep all night.

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

Inside was a sheet of paper covered in sweeping handwriting:

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

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

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

A year later.

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

Her father retired and moved to Spain.

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

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

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

But one thing was clear:

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

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

But she believed in herself