All Amazing Babies

We’re not going to the restaurant for your birthday. I’ve already canceled everything,” Marina said, neatly folding the wrapping paper into the box.
Groceries

Her voice was even, almost flat, but there was something tired in it. A birthday should have been a reason to celebrate, but instead of anticipation she felt irritation mixed with a cold indifference.

There were boxes all over the kitchen—the remnants of the move and of recent purchases. From one of them Marina took out a massive cast-iron frying pan. She immediately felt the weight of the metal, the cold under her fingers, and that sense of “reliability” they always praise in ads. The pan was expensive, branded, with a ridged bottom “for perfect grill marks on steak.”

She set it on the stove next to the others—her husband’s gifts.

Last birthday—a set of pots.

For March 8, Women’s Day—a crepe pan.

For their anniversary—a sauté pan.

The kitchen shelf had turned into an exhibition of shiny but soulless cookware.

At that moment Ilya walked into the kitchen. His face shone with pride and satisfaction—like a man who’s sure he’s done something good.
Gift baskets

“Well? How do you like it?” he asked, hugging his wife. “Told you, best brand. Now you’ve got the whole collection. And, by the way, I got it with a discount.”

Marina silently looked at the pan.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Very… practical.”

“Exactly!” Ilya brightened, missing both the sarcasm and the chill. “You cook incredibly well. I thought you’d enjoy using good cookware. Now you’ve got everything at hand.”

She didn’t answer. She ran her finger over the cold ridges on the bottom and felt an unpleasant sensation growing inside. Not anger—something closer to emptiness.

“So what you’re saying,” she spoke after a pause, “is that this is a present for me?”

“Of course! Who else?” he was genuinely surprised. “You yourself said it was inconvenient to fry meat in the old pan.”

Marina nodded.

“Yes, I did. And I also said that sometimes I’d just like to have dinner somewhere where I don’t have to stand at the stove.”

Ilya waved it off.

 

“Well, that’s different. Home-cooked food is better. And we can create atmosphere ourselves.”

His words sounded sincere, but there was no understanding in them. Only logic. Male logic—simple and straight as a line.

When he went back to the living room, Marina stayed by the stove, staring at the rows of pots and pans. They reflected the light like medals—not for victories, but for years of quiet, invisible submission to a role she had never chosen.

A Logical Response

The idea came suddenly, almost by accident. But the longer Marina thought about it, the more clearly she understood—this would be perfect.

If he saw her as a cook, then let him see himself in the mirror—as a handyman.

The next day she called the restaurant and calmly canceled the reservation she’d made a week earlier. The administrator was surprised, but Marina just smiled into the phone:

“Family circumstances. We decided to celebrate at home.”

That evening, when Ilya came back from work, she met him with a cup of tea and a smile in which fatigue and a faint mockery were mixed.

“We’re not going to the restaurant for your birthday,” she said casually. “I’ve already called them, canceled everything.”
Groceries

Ilya froze with his keys in his hand.

“Wait, what do you mean? Why? We had plans!”

“I want to spend a quiet evening, just the two of us,” she answered softly. “You’ve given me so many kitchen appliances now that it would be a sin to eat anywhere else.”

He gave a confused little laugh.

“Well… that’s logical. Fine, whatever you say. Then maybe I’ll order delivery?”

“No need,” she shook her head. “I’ll cook everything myself.”

The next morning Marina got up early, baked a cake, and set the table. At ten o’clock the doorbell rang. A courier with a large box was standing on the doorstep.

“Please sign here. Delivery for Ilya Sergeyevich,” he said.

Ilya took the box with curiosity.

“Is this from you?”

“Open it,” Marina smiled, though her eyes remained cold.

He tore off the tape, lifted the lid—and froze. Inside lay a powerful professional hammer drill in a plastic case.

“A… hammer drill?” he repeated, clearly not understanding.

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “One of the most reliable models. Now you can drill through concrete walls. I added a core bit for concrete too—they say it’s indispensable.”

He stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or get angry.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“Not at all,” Marina said evenly. “Aren’t practical gifts the highest form of care? You said so yourself.”
Gift baskets

Silence hung in the air. Then he abruptly shut the case and set it by the table—the heavy box hit the leg with a loud thud.

“Very… original,” he muttered. “Thanks, I guess.”

Marina just shrugged.

“You’re welcome. The main thing is that it’s useful.”

They ate breakfast in silence. Only the sound of the spoon against the plate broke the quiet. Marina looked out the window and felt a strange sense of relief.

She had finally answered his logic with his own weapon.

Word for Word

During breakfast the air was as thick as the cold steam over cooling coffee. Marina said nothing. Ilya ate the cake she’d baked without once looking at her. Then he set his fork down and let out a heavy sigh.

“Marina,” he began, “I do appreciate your… concern. But a hammer drill? Why? I already have a drill. It’s just… weird.”

She looked at him calmly.

“And I already had three frying pans before you gave me a fourth. Yet you didn’t think that was weird.”

“That’s different!” he snapped. “I wanted you to be comfortable! For the kitchen to be like a chef’s.”

“And I wanted you to be productive,” she replied without raising her voice. “The only difference is that you decided what I needed, and I decided what you needed.”

Ilya pressed his lips together.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To… prove something to me?”

“So you’d understand,” Marina nodded. “Understand what it’s like to get ‘practical’ gifts that don’t remind you of yourself, but of your role.”

He pushed back from the table so sharply that the chair banged against the tile.

“I don’t deserve this! I was just trying to do what’s best!”

“And I just wanted to be seen as more than the kitchen,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving the cake half-eaten.

The next evening Ilya came home late. He dropped his bag down loudly, shrugged off his jacket, and stopped by the kitchen door. Marina was sitting at the table, drinking tea and leafing through a magazine.

“Alright,” he said dryly. “I get your hint. My presents were… wrong. What do you want? Name it. Earrings? A dress? A vacation somewhere?”

Marina put down her cup and looked at him for a long moment.

“Right now you sound like you just want to close the issue,” she said calmly. “Not understand it—just resolve it so we never go back to it.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” he threw back irritably. “I’m trying, and you’re nitpicking!”

“I’m not nitpicking, Ilya. I’m just tired of being part of your comfort.”

He turned away, clenched his fists, and walked out. The door shut softly.

After that they barely spoke. Only short phrases:

“Buy bread.”

“Wash the towels.”

“Where’s the iron?”

Their words became mechanical, their voices flat—like two coworkers forced to share the same space.

Marina more and more often cooked in the old, worn pan she had inherited from her mother. The new, “gift” one just sat there untouched. Sometimes Ilya would look at it, wanting to say something, but he couldn’t find the right words.

He understood: a wall had grown up between them. And he was the one who had built it.

Reflections in the Elders

A week later they went to visit Ilya’s parents—Larisa Viktorovna and Pavel Semyonovich. It was Sunday, the kettle hissed on the stove, and the house smelled of baking. Everything seemed as usual, yet there was a strange quiet at the table.

Larisa peered at them over her glasses.

“You two are awfully quiet today. Is everything alright?”

“We’re fine, Mom,” Ilya answered without looking up. “Just tired.”

Pavel chuckled.

“‘Just tired’—that’s what we used to call it when someone was sulking.”

Marina smiled slightly but replied gently:
Gift baskets

“I guess we’re having… a creative crisis with gifts.”
Gift baskets

“Oh really?” his mother perked up. “I was wondering why my son’s walking around so gloomy. What, you guessed wrong with a present?”

“On the contrary,” Ilya cut in with a hint of irony. “Now Marina’s decided to answer using my own logic.”

“Let me guess,” said Larisa, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “He bought you something for the kitchen again, didn’t he?”

Marina nodded.

“And I got him a hammer drill.”

Pavel burst out laughing, almost spilling his tea.

“That’s the spirit! A man should feel the full depth of practicality!”

Larisa smirked, shaking her head.

 

“Nice way to answer. But you know, dear, it won’t fix it. Men think it’s all about the object itself. But really, it’s about what’s behind it.”

“Oh yeah,” Pavel snorted. “Remember when I gave you that juicer for your birthday? You didn’t talk to me for a month.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Larisa huffed. “I thought you saw me as some sort of kitchen appliance.”

“I just wanted to make your life easier!” he protested.

“Did I ask you to?” she replied coolly.

Marina and Ilya exchanged glances. Their eyes met—briefly, but long enough to understand: they weren’t the first to stumble over the same thing.

After dinner Larisa called Marina into the living room. It was quiet there, and it smelled of lavender.

“Listen,” her mother-in-law said softly. “I’ve been through this too. Men don’t do it out of malice. It’s just that their language of care is things. And ours is attention.”

“He keeps insisting I make a wish list,” Marina admitted. “So he’ll know what to buy.”

Larisa smirked.

“Then he hasn’t understood yet. When I put that juicer in a consignment shop and told him it had ‘broken,’ Pavel walked around pensive for a week. Then he finally asked: ‘What do you actually want?’ That’s when things started to change.”

Marina nodded. For the first time in a long while, she felt a little lighter inside.

The drive home passed in silence, but this time it wasn’t resentment—it was reflection. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts.

For the first time in a long time Ilya caught himself thinking that he had no idea what Marina wanted—not in terms of things, but in life.

Wish Map

That evening at home, Ilya went into the study they had planned to turn into a nursery. Usually the room was “Marina’s territory”—he rarely went in there except to grab a book or a tool.

A large world map hung on the wall. It was covered in multicolored pins, like a carpet where every mark meant something.

“What’s this?” Ilya asked, stepping closer.

Marina didn’t look up from her book.

“Places I want to go,” she said quietly. “Red ones are the most desired.”

He leaned in, examining the pins: the Norwegian fjords, Japanese hot springs, Peruvian mountains. He had never paid attention to these places, even though the map had been hanging there for years.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted at last, a bit sheepishly.

“You never asked,” she answered calmly. “And I never told you because I thought you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Ilya braced his hands on the desk and stared at the map for a long time. Something clicked inside him—an understanding that her world was much wider than the kitchen and the cookware in it.

“I… I want to understand,” he said, almost in a whisper. “What matters to you.”

Marina smiled faintly. Her eyes softened. For the first time she felt that the wall between them was beginning to crumble.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s start with what we can do without leaving the city. But someday we’ll go to those places.”

Ilya nodded. For the first time in a long time he felt that a gift didn’t have to be about pots, pans, or tools—but about understanding.
Gift baskets

Turning Point

On their anniversary Ilya came home with a flat package. He looked excited and also a little shy.

“Here,” he said, handing the parcel to Marina. “I’m not sure this is what you wanted, but I tried.”

Marina unwrapped the paper. Inside was an old, worn map of South America, covered with a traveler’s markings and notes. In the mountains of Peru, a small red cross was drawn.

“That’s Machu Picchu,” Ilya explained. “You once said you wanted to go there. If you want, we can go.”

She took the map in her hands, traced the faded ink with her finger, and looked at the little cross. This wasn’t a gift to buy himself off. This was a gift from the heart—one that acknowledged her dream, not her role.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“I was probably wrong before,” he admitted. “I used to see only what I wanted to see.”

Marina nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Now you see.”

They hung the map on the living room wall. The red pins glowed against the soft colors of the wallpaper like beacons. Now it wasn’t just decoration, but a plan they were going to carry out together.

For the first time in a long time there were no walls between them—only maps and dreams they would explore side by side.

Ilya sat down next to her, and Marina laid her hand on his. There were no reproaches or accusations in that gesture—only understanding and a new beginning.

“So, we’re starting with Machu Picchu?” he smiled.

“We’ll start with Machu Picchu,” Marina replied. “And then we’ll see.”

And for the first time in a long time, they laughed together as equals, not as master and mistress of the house

Olya will cook something, like always…” Viktor’s voice rang out as he answered his relatives, staring at the empty fridge. I didn’t start cooking—I decided to make a record of the food that had been eaten.

I opened the fridge and froze for a moment, peering into the emptiness. On the middle shelf stood a lonely jar of brine with the last pickle floating in it. Next to it, a dried-out piece of cheese and a small packet of mayonnaise. That was all.

I ran my finger along the cold shelf. Just yesterday there had been a big pot of borscht here, cutlets neatly wrapped in foil, a container of salad. In the freezer—only ice and a single bag of dill, frozen back in August.

The phone rang in the hallway, Viktor picked up, and I stayed in the kitchen, wiping an already perfectly clean table and catching scraps of the conversation.

“Yeah, hi, Mom… Yes, of course, we remember… No-no, we weren’t planning anything… What, Sveta will be there too? Great…”

I froze with the rag in my hand; that familiar unpleasant feeling slowly clenched in my stomach.

“Of course, come over. Yeah, Olya will cook something tasty, like always…”

I put the rag down on the table. His words sounded as if I wasn’t his wife, but a built-in part of the family system, a function called “make something tasty.” He hung up and carefully looked at me.

My gaze fell on the empty shelf where the honey cake had stood just yesterday. Only two weeks ago I’d spent half a day making it according to my mom’s recipe: rolling out layers thin as paper, cooking the custard, assembling the cake and sprinkling it with crumbs.
Family games

At the table, Anna Petrovna, his mother, had taken a small piece, tried it and, addressing her son, said:

“Tasty, of course, Vityusha, but it’s very sweet. At our age we need to watch our sugar…”

His sister Sveta added with light, sympathetic intonation:

“Mom, oh come on, Olya tried… probably.”

That “probably” sounded like a quiet verdict. The cake stayed on the table, bitten into, a symbol of effort wasted for nothing.

And now the fridge was empty again, but this time the cold was inside me.

My mother-in-law doesn’t eat store-bought ‘chemicals,’ and my husband invited her to look at empty shelves. I made a list of the most expensive products: let this tradition hit his wallet from now on.

“What do you mean, ‘buy food for your relatives’?” I broke the silence.

Viktor stared at the floor, his hands in his pockets, as if he were looking for an escape hatch down there in the linoleum.

“Well… Mom… Sveta… you know how it is. They’ll come… it’ll be awkward if the table is empty.”

“‘Awkward’ is when I’m put in front of a done deal,” I flung open the fridge door, showing the result of other people’s appetites. “This, Vitya, isn’t awkward, it’s a pattern.”

He scratched the back of his head.

“Well… family traditions…”

“Family traditions… We had traditions in my family too. Guests were greeted with whatever was in the house, and people were happy to see them, we didn’t work for them like in a factory canteen. And we also had a tradition of bringing a small cake with you.”

He shifted from foot to foot, as if he had nothing else to say.

“Fine, since we have such guests, we need to prepare properly.”

I took a pretty leather-bound notebook from the shelf—the one he’d once given me—and a good pen. My movements were slow. This wasn’t the start of a hysterics; it was the start of a calculated operation.

“Dictate what your mother likes.”

 

He raised his eyes to me in surprise; I caught a flicker of relief there, as if the storm had passed.

“Well… beef tenderloin, only from the central market, from Aunt Masha, remember?”

“I remember. The kind that’s a thousand per kilo, or can we get something simpler?”

“Oh, only that one… Next.”

“Cottage cheese… farmhouse, 9%, the kind they bring in the morning to the little shop by the park.”

“Got it. Vitya, why doesn’t your mother eat store-bought cottage cheese?”

“Well… there’s chemicals in it.”

“I see, chemicals. What else?”

Not sensing the trap, he started to perk up a bit.

“Oh! And that cheese with holes, the one Sveta likes, but Swiss, not ours. They sometimes have it at the shop on the corner, but not always.”

“So we’ll check.”

“And ‘Ptichye Moloko’ candies. Only Rot Front, she doesn’t acknowledge any others.”

“Of course. That’s it?”

“That’s it, I don’t think there’s anything else special.”

I looked at the neatly written list.

“You’re doing great, Vitya.

Let’s see how much your mother’s love costs us!” I sent my husband for the Swiss cheese. And for the first time he saw how expensive his relatives’ nerve costs really are.

Saturday morning. I touched my husband’s shoulder; he was lying with his back to me, facing the wall.

“Get up, provider.”

Viktor mumbled something and tried to pull the blanket over his head. I set yesterday’s list, the bank card, and a printed city map down on the pillow in front of him.

“Time to go get the groceries.”

He sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes, stared at the papers for a few seconds, then gave me a sleepy, confused look.

“Olya… what are you doing? Maybe we’ll just buy everything at the supermarket next door?”

I feigned surprise.

“What, for your mom? Are you serious? She’ll sense it right away, she’ll be offended.”

Viktor let out a heavy sigh and reached for his jeans hanging on the chair. He knew that tone; arguing was pointless.

“Here’s the market. Meat from Petrovich, he starts selling from six in the morning. Tell him you’re from Olga, he’ll set aside the best piece for you, just don’t be late or the wholesalers will take everything. And here’s the shop with the cottage cheese, the fresh delivery is exactly at seven.”

I handed him the map.

“The money is on the card, it should be enough. Just keep all the receipts, okay? I’m curious how much your mother’s love costs us.”

He flinched at my last phrase, silently grabbed the car keys and left.

An hour later the first call came.

“Olya, I’m at the market, I can’t find your Petrovich!”

“Vitya, you’re a grown man, ask people. You’ll manage, I believe in you.”

And I hung up.

The second call was from the cheese shop.

“Olya, have you seen how much this costs?!” he was practically shouting. “This Swiss cheese is like the price of a plane wing! Maybe we should take ours instead? Poshekhonsky?”

“Vitya, you know Sveta doesn’t like ‘our’ cheese, she’ll be upset, don’t skimp on your relatives. Please, darling, don’t make me ashamed in front of your sister.”

I heard a heavy sigh in the receiver.

The climax was a call from Anna Petrovna.

“Olya, what are you thinking?! Vitenka just called me! You’ve made my son run around some warehouses! The child is exhausted!”

“Anna Petrovna, what are you talking about! This is his initiative! He says: ‘I want to make Mommy happy, I’ll pick everything myself, only the very best!’ A real son, your pride! I’m so impressed by him right now! Don’t stop him from doing something nice for you.”

Silence hung on the other end of the line.

My mother-in-law grew embarrassed when she saw the empty pots, and I said: Vitya set the table all by himself. Let’s thank him! In that moment he realized for the first time what I had done.

By evening Viktor came back, practically fell into the apartment, shoulder-slamming the door open. Three huge, backbreaking bags landed with a dull thud on the hallway floor. His face was flushed, his hair wet.

He sat down on the little hallway stool, breathing heavily, silently untying his shoes. He didn’t raise his head, hunched over, staring at one spot.

Soon the doorbell rang—the relatives. They came in loud, cheerful, already anticipating a hearty dinner.

“Olenka, hello! And what smells so good here?” started Anna Petrovna, though the flat smelled only of her son’s exhaustion.

“Hello. Ask Viktor, he’s the main one today.”

They went into the kitchen, their eyes slid across the empty table and then stopped on me. Svetlana peeked into the empty pots on the stove.

“And what… are we having for dinner?”

I nodded toward the bags in the hallway.

“Well, Vitya brought it all. Only the freshest, the finest delicacies. I’m afraid to even touch such products, I’ll just ruin them. We’ll probably just slice everything: the cheese, the tenderloin…”

An awkward silence fell; Anna Petrovna and Svetlana exchanged glances. They had to unpack the bags themselves, take out their son’s and brother’s trophies, look for plates. I simply sat there with my hands folded in my lap, watching.

There was tension at the table; they were eating the expensive tenderloin and Swiss cheese, but without their former pleasure. Because now this food tasted of Vitya’s torments at the market, his anger over the phone. He sat next to me, shoulders slumped, pushing food around his plate with his fork, barely raising his eyes.
Groceries

When the pause became unbearable, I smiled gently:

“Mom, don’t scold me if something’s not right. This is all Vitya—he picked it, he bought it, he brought it. A truly caring son, let’s thank him.”

Anna Petrovna blinked in confusion, a piece of cheese on her fork; Svetlana buried her face in her plate, and Viktor lifted his heavy, resentful gaze to me. And in that gaze, for the first time, I saw not only resentment, but understanding—he understood everything.

My husband himself cancelled the visit to his mother when I opened the notebook to a blank page. He realized that my list was the price of his weakness, a price he was no longer willing to pay.

 

Dinner ended quickly; conversation didn’t flow. The relatives left almost immediately after the meal, citing tiredness. No “see you next weekend” or “that was delicious.”

On the way out, Anna Petrovna patted her son on the shoulder:

“Get some rest, son, you look worn out.”

It was the final jab, aimed of course not at him, but at me.

Viktor and I were left alone among the dirty dishes and leftovers of expensive food on the table. He was silent for a long time, gathering the plates and stacking them in the sink, then he turned to me:

“Why did you do that?”

“And how else, Vitya? What other way is there? I tried talking, you didn’t listen. Now you’ve felt it.”

He didn’t answer, just turned away and turned on the water.

A week went by in silence; we barely spoke, keeping to purely practical phrases. The tension hung in the apartment.

On Friday evening he came up to me while I was watering the plants, shifting nervously as he searched for words.

“Olya… maybe… this weekend… guests…” I could see how hard it was for him to say it.

I said nothing, set the watering can down, went over to the dresser, took out the leather notebook and the pen. Sat down at the table and opened it to a clean page.

He looked at me, then at the blank sheet, and panic flickered in his eyes. He understood: this wasn’t a threat, just a reminder.

Silently he turned around, took his phone and went out onto the balcony, carefully closing the door behind him. Through the glass I could see his silhouette, standing with his back to me, the phone pressed to his ear. His voice was firm, without the childish, ingratiating notes:

“Hi, Mom. Yeah. This weekend we’re going to Olya’s parents for pancakes. Yeah, we’ve already arranged it. Next weekend? Mom, let’s talk during the week and see. Okay, bye.”

He came back in, put the phone on the table and walked past without looking at me.

I put the pen and notebook back in the dresser drawer and went to the fridge. Same jar of brine and packet of mayonnaise, but now that emptiness no longer weighed on me; it was a symbol of freedom.

I took a big red apple from the fruit bowl and, for the first time in a long while, truly smiled

“Valera, you’ve got visitors!” Irina called out when she heard the doorbell ring on Saturday morning.

She had just sat down to check her eighth-graders’ tests, spreading the exercise books out on the kitchen table. Sunday was tomorrow, and on Monday she had to submit the academic performance report. Off to the side lay a stack of unmarked notebooks that didn’t seem to get any smaller no matter how much Irina worked.
Kitchen supplies

The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Irina sighed, put down her red pen, and went to open the door. On the threshold stood Galina Petrovna, Irina’s mother-in-law, her daughter Natalya with her husband Sergei, and their fifteen-year-old daughter Dasha.

“Surprise!” Galina Petrovna exclaimed with a broad smile. “We were just passing by and decided to drop in for lunch!”

Irina silently stepped aside, letting the guests into the apartment. “We were just passing by” was the standard phrase she’d heard dozens of times in five years of marriage to Valera. For some reason, her husband’s relatives never called in advance. They preferred to “just happen to be nearby” precisely at lunchtime.

“Valera’s in the shower,” Irina said when everyone had entered the hallway. “Go on into the living room, he’ll be out in a minute.”

“And what are you making for lunch today, Irina dear?” asked Galina Petrovna, taking off her coat. “I hope it’s something tasty? We got so hungry on the way!”

Irina took a deep breath, counted to three, and slowly exhaled.

“No, I’m not going to cook for you. If you’d like, I can pour you some water,” she said calmly to her husband’s relatives, who once again had shown up without warning.

A deafening silence fell in the hallway. Galina Petrovna froze with her mouth slightly open. Natalya blinked several times in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard right. Her husband Sergei suddenly became very interested in the pattern on the wallpaper, and Dasha hid a smile behind her phone.

 

Valera came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair as he walked.

“Oh, Mom! Natasha!” he said happily, then immediately noticed the tension. “What’s going on?”

“Your wife is refusing to feed us,” Galina Petrovna said in an icy tone. “She says she can only offer us water.”

Valera stared at Irina in shock.

“Ira, what are you doing? This is my family who came to visit.”
Family games

“Without warning,” Irina replied calmly. “For the third time this month. I’m working, I’m drowning in notebooks and reports. I don’t have time to cook everything.”

“But they’re hungry!” Valera protested.

“There are plenty of cafés along the way,” Irina shrugged. “Or you could have called in advance. I would’ve prepared.”

“So that’s how relatives are treated in this house,” Galina Petrovna muttered loudly, turning to her daughter. “Natasha, you would never behave like this.”

Part 2

“Mom, let’s not start,” Valera said unexpectedly. “Maybe we really should have called first?”

Galina Petrovna looked at her son as if he had betrayed his country.

“So now I have to make an appointment to see my own son?” Her voice trembled with hurt. “We’re leaving. We won’t interfere with your… busy life.”

“Wait,” Valera tried to stop his mother, but Galina Petrovna was already marching toward the door, dragging Natalya with her. Sergei and Dasha exchanged glances and followed them.

When the door closed behind the relatives, an oppressive silence settled over the apartment.

“Happy now?” Valera turned to Irina, folding his arms across his chest.

“No, I’m not happy,” she replied. “I’m tired of being a 24/7 canteen for your relatives. They come whenever they feel like it and expect me to drop everything and run to the kitchen.”

“They just wanted to visit us!” Valera raised his voice.

“They wanted to be fed,” Irina shot back. “And why is it always me who has to do it? Why not you?”

“Because you’re a woman!” Valera blurted out, then immediately fell silent, realizing what he’d just said.

Irina gave a bitter little laugh.

“There it is. The truth. For your family I’m just service staff. A cook, a maid, a waitress.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Valera muttered.

“That’s exactly what you meant,” Irina said and went back to the kitchen, to her stack of notebooks. “I’m a math teacher. I have my own job that I need to do. And I am not obligated to drop everything every time your mother feels like sitting at a laid table.”
Kitchen supplies

Valera stared at her silently for a few seconds, then grabbed his jacket.

“I’m going to my mom’s. I need to calm her down after your… stunt.”

“Of course, go,” Irina nodded, not lifting her head from the notebooks. “Just don’t forget to apologize for my behavior.”

The door slammed so hard the glass rattled.

That evening Valera didn’t come back. He didn’t show up the next day either. On Monday morning, as Irina was getting ready for work, the phone rang. It was Marina, a colleague from school.

“Ira, are you okay?” she asked in an anxious voice.

“Yes, why? What happened?”

“The principal got a call from some woman who said you’re a bad wife and unfit to work with children. That you threw your husband’s relatives out of the house hungry and without even offering them water.”

Irina sank down onto a chair. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“That was my mother-in-law,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to the principal.”

“Don’t stress,” Marina reassured her. “Anna Sergeyevna said she’s not interested in employees’ family dramas as long as they don’t affect their work. She just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Family games

After her lessons, Irina walked home slowly, wondering what awaited her there. Valera had ignored her calls all weekend. Could a five-year marriage really fall apart over one refusal to cook?

Part 3

The apartment was quiet and empty. Irina checked her phone—no messages from her husband. She dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. Deciding to keep herself busy, Irina started sorting through the kitchen cabinets—something she’d been meaning to do for a long time but never found the time.

The doorbell rang. Irina’s heart leapt—maybe Valera had come back? But on the threshold stood their neighbor, Zinaida Vasilievna.

“Irochka, is everything all right?” the elderly woman asked. “I saw your Valera leaving on Saturday with a suitcase. Didn’t you two have a fight?”

“Everything’s fine, Zinaida Vasilievna,” Irina replied politely. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

“Because of your mother-in-law, right?” the neighbor asked unexpectedly, and seeing Irina’s surprise, she added, “I saw her car by the entrance. She comes over a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, quite often,” Irina sighed.

“And always without warning, so you don’t have time to prepare?” the older woman asked knowingly. “And then she criticizes your cooking and how you keep house?”

Irina stared at her in amazement.

“How do you…?”

“I had a mother-in-law just like that,” the old woman smiled. “Only back then times were different. I put up with it for thirty years, until my Petya… well, until he passed away. And you did the right thing, showing some backbone right away.”

“And did your husband run off to his mother’s too?” Irina asked hopefully.

“Of course!” Zinaida Vasilievna laughed. “Three times over the course of our life together. But he always came back. Where else could he go? Just don’t give in. You have to set your rules right from the start, otherwise it’ll be too late later.”

After talking to her neighbor, Irina felt a little better. At least she wasn’t the only one who had decided to stand up to “family traditions.”

On Tuesday evening the doorbell rang again. This time it was Valera. He looked crumpled and tired.

“I’m here for my things,” he said, walking into the apartment. “I’ll stay at Mom’s for a while.”

“You’re serious?” Irina could hardly believe it. “Because I refused one time to cook for your relatives?”

“That’s not the point,” Valera started taking clothes out of the wardrobe. “You insulted my family. Mom says you don’t respect our traditions and…”

“Your mom?” Irina cut him off. “You’re a grown man, Valera. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. Can’t you see she’s manipulating you?”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that!” Valera snapped. “She’s always wanted only the best for me!”

“And calling my principal to badmouth me—is that ‘only the best’ too?” Irina asked quietly.

Valera froze.

“What call?”

“Your mother phoned the school and said all kinds of nasty things about me. She wanted me fired.”

“That can’t be,” Valera muttered in confusion. “She wouldn’t…”

“Ask her yourself,” Irina shrugged. “Though I doubt she’ll admit it.”

Part 4

At that moment the doorbell rang again. Irina opened it and saw a tall, gray-haired man of about sixty.

“Good evening,” the stranger said. “I’m looking for Valery Nikolaevich Sokolov. Does he live here?”

“Dad?” Valera peered out of the bedroom, not believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see what kind of mess your mother has stirred up,” the man replied calmly. “May I come in?”

Irina stepped aside, letting her father-in-law into the apartment. She had never seen Valera’s father before. All she knew was that her husband’s parents had divorced when he was twelve and that since then Nikolai Ivanovich had lived in another city.

“My name’s Nikolai,” the man introduced himself, holding out his hand to Irina. “Sorry for coming without warning, but apparently that’s our family tradition.”
Family games

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Irina couldn’t help but smile.

“How did you find out what was going on?” Valera still looked stunned.

“Natalya called,” Nikolai Ivanovich replied. “She said you’ve got a family drama unfolding here and your mother is getting ready to ‘rescue’ you from your ‘evil wife.’ I decided to come and see for myself.”

 

“And you came from another city?” Valera asked skeptically.

“I’ve actually been back for a year,” his father answered calmly. “I work as a consultant at a construction company. I just didn’t want to meddle in your life, son. I thought you’d call when you were ready.”

They sat down in the living room. Nikolai Ivanovich looked around with interest.

“It’s nice here. Cozy,” he remarked. “Now tell me, what happened?”

Irina and Valera started talking at the same time, then stopped.

“Let’s go in order,” suggested Nikolai Ivanovich. “Irina, why don’t you start.”

Irina told him how her husband’s relatives constantly came over without warning, always right at lunchtime, expecting her to feed them despite her workload. How her mother-in-law criticized her housekeeping skills and lectured her on how to run a home properly. And how, the last time, she’d simply had enough and refused to cook.

“And now you, son,” Nikolai Ivanovich turned to Valera.

“Mom says Ira doesn’t respect our family,” Valera began. “That she’s a bad housewife and doesn’t take care of her husband. That if she doesn’t apologize to everyone, it’d be better for us to split up.”

Nikolai Ivanovich sighed heavily.

“And you, of course, took your mother’s side,” he said—not as a question, but as a statement. “As always.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Valera protested. “Ira was rude to Mom!”

“She wasn’t rude,” his father said calmly. “She refused to comply with a demand she considered unfair. There’s a difference.”

Part 5

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that your mother calls your wife’s workplace?” Nikolai Ivanovich went on. “That she turns you against Irina and demands a divorce because she didn’t get a hot meal on command one time?”

Valera stayed silent, staring at the floor.

“Son, you’re repeating my mistake,” his father said gently. “I also always did whatever your mother wanted. I always put her wishes above my own and above those of my family. And do you know where that led? To divorce and to the fact that you and I hardly spoke for twenty years.”

“But Mom said you left her for another woman,” Valera said, bewildered.

Nikolai Ivanovich gave a bitter little smile.

“I left because I couldn’t stand the control and manipulation anymore. And the other woman came into my life much later. But it was easier for Galina to paint me as a traitor than to admit her own mistakes.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Irina didn’t know what to say. She could see Valera digesting the information, his expression changing.

“I’m not saying your mother is a bad person,” Nikolai Ivanovich continued. “She’s just used to controlling everyone around her. It makes her feel safe. But it destroys relationships, Valera. And right now she’s destroying your marriage, and you’re helping her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Valera asked helplessly.

“That’s up to you,” his father shrugged. “But if you want my advice—start setting boundaries. Tell your mother you love her, but that you and Irina have a right to your own rules in your own home.”

“She’ll be offended,” Valera said quietly.

“Of course she will,” Nikolai nodded. “She’ll sulk, lay on the guilt, maybe even threaten you. But if you don’t do it now, you’ll lose your wife. And then the next one. And in the end, you’ll end up alone, like me.”

Valera raised his eyes to Irina.

“Forgive me. I… I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“I’m not angry at you,” she replied softly. “I just want our family to have fair rules for everyone. I’m not against your relatives, really. I just want them to respect our time and our home.”

“You know what,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, clapping his hands lightly, “let’s have a big family talk. We’ll invite Galina, Natasha and her family, and discuss everything like adults. What do you say?”

Irina and Valera exchanged glances.

“I’m in,” Irina nodded.

“Me too,” Valera said, looking determined. “It’s time for everyone to grow up—me included.”

Part 6

The following Saturday, everyone gathered in Irina and Valera’s apartment: Galina Petrovna, Natalya with Sergei and Dasha, and Nikolai Ivanovich. Irina had prepared a spread, but this time Valera helped her in the kitchen instead of sitting with the guests, waiting for his wife to serve everyone.

When Galina Petrovna saw her ex-husband, she almost turned around to leave. But curiosity got the better of her, and she stayed, though her entire posture radiated displeasure.

“So,” Valera began when everyone sat down at the table, “we’re here to talk about the situation in our family and find a solution that works for everyone.”

“What solution can there be?” snorted Galina Petrovna. “Your wife needs to apologize for her behavior, that’s all.”

“Mom,” Valera said firmly, “let’s listen to each other first, okay? No accusations.”

Galina Petrovna pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

“Irina,” Valera turned to his wife, “please tell us what’s bothering you.”

Irina took a deep breath.

“I work as a math teacher. I have six classes—over a hundred and fifty students. I teach lessons, check notebooks, prepare materials, write reports. It takes almost all my time. When you come over without warning and expect me to drop everything and cook lunch for six people, it’s… it’s simply impossible. I’m not against family gatherings, truly. I just want them to be planned so I can prepare.”

“Listen to her, how busy she is,” muttered Galina Petrovna. “And what about family values? When I was young, I always found time for my husband’s relatives!”

“Times have changed, Mom,” Valera said gently. “Nowadays women work just as much as men. Ira really does have a lot on her plate. And I should’ve understood that and helped her instead of expecting her to manage everything alone.”

“This is what modern upbringing leads to,” Galina threw up her hands. “In the old days wives respected their husbands and their husbands’ families!”

“Respect has to go both ways, Galina,” Nikolai Ivanovich suddenly interjected. “You can’t demand respect for yourself while not respecting others.”

“Oh, you be quiet!” flared up Galina Petrovna. “You haven’t been around for twenty years, and now you’re here to teach us?”

“Grandma, please don’t shout,” Dasha said quietly. “Let’s really talk calmly.”

Everyone looked at the teenage girl in surprise.

“Aunt Ira is great,” Dasha went on. “She helps me with math when I ask. And she always treats us when we come over. It’s just that this time we came without warning when she was busy. Is it really fair to expect her to drop her work?”

Galina Petrovna was taken aback; she hadn’t expected this from her granddaughter.

“Dasha’s right,” Sergei unexpectedly chimed in, supporting his wife’s sister-in-law. “We wouldn’t be thrilled either if people kept showing up at our place unannounced and demanding to be fed.”

“Sergei!” Natalya exclaimed indignantly. “Whose side are you on?”

“On the side of common sense,” he replied calmly. “We’re the ones being rude, Natasha. Just admit it.”

 

Part 7

Little by little, the conversation became more constructive. Valera suggested setting clear rules for family visits: agree in advance, at least a day ahead, preferably several. And share responsibilities for cooking—if the gathering is at their place, he and Irina would cook together.

“And it would be nice sometimes to meet at a café or restaurant,” Irina suggested. “So no one has to cook and everyone can just talk and enjoy being together.”

“At a café? To waste that kind of money?” protested Galina Petrovna.

“Mom, we’re not destitute,” Valera said gently. “Once a month we can afford to go out as a whole family.”

“Yes, and I can treat everyone,” Nikolai Ivanovich offered unexpectedly. “After all, I have the right to spend time with my family too.”

Galina pursed her lips but stayed silent. It was clear she didn’t like what was happening but could no longer control the situation as before.

“You know,” Natalya said thoughtfully, “Dad is right. We really could meet as a whole family more often. Dasha barely knows her grandfather.”

“I’d like that,” Nikolai smiled at his granddaughter.

By the end of the evening, the atmosphere had noticeably lightened. Even Galina had thawed a little, though she still kept somewhat aloof. When the guests started to leave, Valera walked his parents out.

“You did the right thing, son,” Nikolai said quietly, shaking his hand. “Take care of your family. And don’t repeat my mistakes.”

Hearing this, Galina sniffed indignantly but said nothing. She kissed her son on the cheek and left the apartment without saying goodbye to Irina.

“Don’t worry,” Natalya said, hugging Irina goodbye. “Mom just isn’t used to being contradicted. She’ll get over it.”

When everyone had gone, Irina and Valera were left alone in the suddenly quiet apartment.

“Thank you,” Valera said softly, hugging his wife. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that closed loop. And I’d never have reconciled with my father.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Irina smiled. “I just wanted us to be respected.”

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Valera stepped back and looked her in the eyes. “Maybe we should move? Rent a place farther from Mom? So she can’t ‘just happen to be passing by’ every week.”

“And you’re ready for that?” Irina asked in surprise.

“I think so,” he nodded. “We need our own space to build our own family. By our own rules.”

Part 8

Three months passed. Irina and Valera moved to another part of the city, renting an apartment not far from the school where Irina worked. This significantly cut down her commute time and gave them more freedom from unexpected family visits.

They established a new tradition—family lunches once a month, agreed upon in advance. Sometimes the gatherings were at their place, sometimes at Natalya and Sergei’s, and sometimes in a café or restaurant. To everyone’s surprise, Nikolai Ivanovich began to appear regularly at these meetings, gradually building relationships with his grandchildren and children. At first, Galina kept her distance and often refused to come if she knew her ex-husband would be there. But gradually, seeing how the family dynamics were changing, she too started to soften.

At one such gathering, when everyone met at a café for Valera’s birthday, Irina noticed Galina and Nikolai having a calm conversation in the corner, without their usual tension.

“Can you believe it,” Natalya whispered, sliding into the seat next to Irina, “they’re discussing how they’ll help Dasha prepare for her exams together. Mom offered to help with Russian, and Dad with physics.”

“Miracles do happen,” Irina smiled.

“And it’s thanks to you,” Natalya said seriously. “If you hadn’t stood your ground back then, everything would still be the same. Mom would be controlling everyone, we wouldn’t be talking to Dad, and Valera would be torn between you and her.”

Irina shook her head.

“I just didn’t want to cook lunch without warning.”

“And in the end you turned our whole family system upside down,” Natalya laughed. “By the way, things are different between me and Sergei now too. He helps more with the housework, and I’ve learned to ask for help instead of waiting for him to magically guess.”

Just then Valera came over with a big cake in his hands.

“Ladies, help me cut this masterpiece,” he grinned. “I can’t handle it alone.”

“Before, you’d just plop it down in front of Irina and go back to the guests,” Natalya pointed out.

 

“Before—yes,” Valera nodded. “But now I know that a family is a team. Everyone has to pull their weight.”

When the cake was cut and everyone gathered around the table, Nikolai unexpectedly stood up and raised his glass.

“I’d like to make a toast. To my son, who turns forty-one today. To the fact that he turned out wiser than his father and found the strength to change what wasn’t working in his family. To the fact that he wasn’t afraid to go against the usual way of doing things and create new, healthy traditions. And”—he looked at Irina—“to his wonderful wife, who helped him do it.”

“To Valera and Irina!” everyone echoed.

Only Galina stayed silent, but when Irina met her eyes, her mother-in-law gave her the slightest of nods. It wasn’t a full admission of guilt or an apology, but it was a step toward understanding. A small one, but important.

After the celebration, when she and Valera came home, Irina asked:

“Do you regret that everything changed so much?”

Valera thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. You know, for the first time I feel like we’re a real family. Not one where everyone plays assigned roles and no one dares step out of line, but one where people respect each other and can be themselves.”

“And all because I refused to cook lunch,” Irina smiled.

“No,” Valera said seriously. “All because you weren’t afraid to break the unspoken rules. Sometimes you just have to say ‘no’ to change what doesn’t work.”

He hugged his wife and added quietly:

“So, how about we cook something together now? I’m hungry.”

Irina laughed and nodded. Cooking together with her husband, by choice and not on demand, was a completely different thing.

Six months later, Nikolai Ivanovich and Galina Petrovna announced they had decided to try to rebuild their relationship. No one had expected such a twist, but everyone was happy. Even Irina, who had already grown used to the fact that her mother-in-law now called before visiting and no longer criticized her housekeeping.

“I never would’ve thought that my phrase, ‘No, I’m not going to cook for you,’ would lead to your parents getting back together,” she said to Valera when they heard the news.

“And I’m grateful you said it,” he replied. “Sometimes you have to stop doing what doesn’t bring anyone happiness so you can start building what really matters.”

And Irina couldn’t disagree. Sometimes a single refusal can change an entire system of relationships. You just have to find the courage to say it out loud.

When I got married at thirty, I didn’t have a penny to my name. No, I wasn’t poor—I just had no savings, no inheritance, no financial cushion. My wife, Anna, came from the same kind of family, where every kopek was accounted for. Her only close relative was her father, a quiet, taciturn man in his sixties living on a modest pension.

Soon after our wedding he moved in with us. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was Anna’s father, and I respected her wish to take care of him. What I couldn’t possibly foresee was that he would stay with us for many, many years.

Two decades. He lived under our roof for twenty years.

In all that time, not once did he offer to help pay the electric or water bills, buy groceries, or cover his medicine. He never volunteered to watch the kids, never cooked dinner, never cleaned up after himself, and he rarely joined in conversation. Some of our acquaintances jokingly called him “the neighborhood’s chief homebody.”

I tried to remain patient, but sometimes the irritation rose right to my throat. I’d come home after a hard day, open a nearly empty fridge, and see him sitting in the living room in his armchair, calmly sipping tea as if that were the natural order of things. I remember once muttering through my teeth, “Must be nice—living without paying for anything…” But I never said it out loud where he could hear.

Every time anger started to boil in me, I stopped myself. He’s old. He’s my wife’s father. If not us, who would look after him? And so, over and over, I swallowed my resentment and carried on.

That’s how our days flowed into years. Our children grew up. We scraped by—sometimes living from one paycheck to the next—but we managed. And he stayed the same: silent, motionless, like part of the furniture, a familiar element of the home’s scenery.

Then, one morning, it was all over. As usual, Anna made his breakfast—a bowl of oatmeal. When she went to call him, she found him sitting still, his hands resting calmly on his knees. He had passed away quietly in his sleep.

The funeral was very modest. Since he had no other relatives, all the arrangements and expenses fell on our shoulders. I didn’t complain: to me it was the last duty I owed. After all, he had lived with us for twenty years, whether I liked it or not.

 

Three days later, as life was slowly settling back into its usual rhythm, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood an elderly man in a formal suit, a leather briefcase in his hand.
“Are you Mr. Artyom Semyonov?” he asked politely.
I nodded, feeling a flicker of unease.
He entered and set his briefcase on the coffee table in the living room.

Chapter 1

The stranger introduced himself: Sergei Petrovich, an attorney. His face was impassive, but there was a certain solemn gravity in his eyes.

“Your father-in-law, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov, left a will,” he said clearly. “In this document, you and your wife are named as the sole heirs.”

My mind refused to process what I’d heard.
“Heirs?” I repeated, bewildered. “Heirs to what? He had nothing but his pension and an old suitcase with war medals.”

Sergei Petrovich allowed himself a faint, barely noticeable smile.
“That’s just it, Artyom. Your father-in-law left you a house. And funds in a bank account. The amount totals seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

The air seemed to thicken around us. I looked at Anna—she had gone as pale as a sheet.
“This… must be a mistake,” she whispered. “Papa? Seven hundred thousand? That can’t be.”

The lawyer gently but firmly shook his head and laid a certified copy of the will before us. Everything was official: signatures, seals, the date—the document had been drawn up two months before his passing.

Chapter 2

We sat in complete silence, unable to say a word. Scenes from the past flashed before my eyes—twenty years spent side by side with a man I had thought of as a quiet, unassuming lodger. He rarely spoke, ate little, spent his days at the window with a cup of tea and old newspapers. Sometimes he dozed. Sometimes he would slowly write something in a thick notebook.

But an estate? Savings? It seemed utterly unreal.
“Excuse me,” I finally managed, trying to collect myself. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no mix-up? Maybe he… sold something before he died? Or…”

Sergei Petrovich delicately cut off my wandering guesses.
“All the documents have been thoroughly verified. The funds were in an account opened in his name twenty-five years ago. The heirs named are you and Anna.”

He handed us a heavy envelope. Inside was a key and a short note written in an unsteady, trembling hand:

“Artyom, forgive the trouble. Everything I had now belongs to you. Don’t judge me harshly. You can’t imagine what I had to go through to save this.”

Anna began to cry softly. I sat there, clutching the slip of paper, as a hot, heavy wave of shame washed over me.

Chapter 3

The next day we went to the address listed in the will. It was a small, time-blackened wooden house on the very edge of the city, looking long abandoned. The paint on the shutters had peeled; the yard was overgrown with weeds.

The key from the envelope fit the lock perfectly. Inside, it smelled of dust, old paper, and time.

Right on the table stood a metal box. Inside, neatly arranged, were stacks of notebooks, cracked photographs from the war years, several letters, and… an old, worn diary.

With trembling hands, Anna opened to the first page.
“1944. France. If I’m destined to return alive, I must repay them this debt…”

We read, holding our breath.

It turned out that during the war Ivan Grigoryevich had saved the life of a young French businessman—the son of the owner of a small jewelry workshop. In gratitude, the man registered a share of the family business in Ivan’s name. After the war, Ivan never returned to France, but that little workshop eventually grew into a successful chain of stores. And his share—ten percent—had continued to yield income all those years. The money quietly accumulated in an account no one knew about.
Family games

Chapter 4

We sat in his old house until late evening. Every object breathed the history of a life lived in the shadows—the worn armchair by the window, the stack of letters with French stamps, a small box with a “For Courage” medal.

“Why didn’t he tell us anything?” Anna asked softly, almost in a whisper. “Why did he live so modestly, almost in need, if he had those means?”

I thought for a moment. And then it struck me. He didn’t want to live for himself. He lived for her. So that one day she would have the security he himself had never known.

I remembered how he would silently hand me a cup of tea when I was especially anxious about the bills. How sometimes, passing by, he would simply lay his hand on my shoulder at a hard moment. No extra words. He was just there.

And the shame surged again, searing and merciless.

Chapter 5

In one of the notebooks we found an envelope marked: “To be opened only after my death.”

Inside was a letter addressed to both of us.

“Artyom, Anna,
I know you were often irritated with me. I felt it, even though you tried not to show it.
Forgive me.
I didn’t tell you about the money because I didn’t want it to change anything between us. I saw how honestly you live, how hard you work. You are the kind of people I can rely on.
This money is not a reward. It is protection.
Artyom, you taught me to forgive myself. You never turned me out, even when I felt I’d become a burden.
And you, Anna—you were the light of my life all these years.
I wasn’t the best father, but I hope I managed to become part of your home.
With love,
Ivan.”
Gift baskets

 

Chapter 6

We came home completely different people. The house where his quiet footsteps had sounded for twenty years now felt empty, and yet it was filled with a new, profound meaning.

Anna completed all the inheritance paperwork, and a month later the very sum appeared in our joint account.

I assumed she would immediately want to buy something expensive—a new car, a larger apartment. But Anna looked at me and said:
“We’ll create a fund. A fund in my father’s name. To help veterans who have no family left. Let it make life a little easier for someone.”

I couldn’t help smiling.
“He would be proud of you.”

Chapter 7

A week after the fund’s official opening, the bank called.
“Mr. Semyonov,” the manager said politely, “while processing the documents we discovered another safe-deposit box registered to Ivan Grigoryevich. You may want to come in.”

In the box lay a small envelope and an old photograph: Ivan Grigoryevich in uniform, embracing a young woman holding a small child.

On the back was written: “Marie and little Jean. Paris, 1946.”
And in the letter—just a few lines:
“If fate has arranged for you to read this, tell them I never forgot them. That I was grateful for every day I had the chance simply to breathe.”

At the bottom an address for a notary office in France was added.

Anna looked at me, a silent question in her eyes.
“Do you think… he had a family there?”
I only shrugged.
“Maybe. Or maybe they were the ones whose lives he once saved. But one thing is clear—he wanted us to know.”
Family games

Chapter 8

In the spring we went to Paris. The French notary confirmed: yes, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov was indeed an owner of a share in the company “Maison Duret.” We were received in an old stone building where archives from the 1940s were still kept.

The senior manager, a silver-haired, elegant man named Jean Duret, turned out to be the very child from the photograph.

He couldn’t hold back tears when we told him who we were.
“Your father-in-law saved my father’s life,” he said, his voice trembling. “And he refused to take any money. He left only one note: ‘If your business ever prospers, help those who truly deserve it.’ And we did. All these years.”

He led us to his office and showed us a wall where an old black-and-white photograph of Ivan Grigoryevich hung with a simple, eloquent caption: “The man who gave us life.”

Chapter 9

On the way home I thought about how true greatness sometimes lies not in loud words or in deeds that everyone sees.

It lies in quiet, daily patience. In the readiness to live modestly and unnoticed so that one day other people’s lives might be better and brighter.

Anna and I began a new life. We opened a small shelter for elderly people left alone. A modest plaque hung on the door: “Ivan’s Home.”

Every time I pass by, I catch myself thinking that somewhere, just beyond our understanding, he is sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea, looking out the window. Calm. Having finally found his peace.

Five years have passed. Our fund has helped many people. Not long ago one of our beneficiaries, a gray-haired veteran, said to me: “Your father-in-law was a very wise man. He understood that a person doesn’t live to hoard wealth, but to leave at least a little light behind.”

And that evening, for the first time in a long while, I set two cups of tea on the kitchen table.
One for me.
And one for him.

Sometimes the most precious gifts are given to us by those we considered the most unnoticeable.

And gratitude is not just a word. It is an entire life lived with the simple knowledge that you’ve already been given everything that truly matters.

Do you have any idea how I feel when I come home and see that everything’s been moved around?” Polina stood in the middle of the living room, looking at her husband. Her voice was tight with tension. “I’m the one paying the mortgage, and yet your mother has somehow decided that she owns part of this apartment.”

Pavel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. They’d already had this conversation more than once in the past few weeks.

“Polina, she just wanted to help. She thought it would feel cozier this way.”

“Without saying a single word to me?” Polina folded her arms across her chest. “Pasha, this isn’t help, it’s… it’s an invasion!”

It had all started two months ago. Olesya Mikhailovna, Pavel’s mother, had lost her job. The company where she had worked as an accountant for more than ten years suddenly closed. And instead of going to her elder daughter Margarita, she asked to stay with them. Temporarily, of course. Just for a couple of weeks, until she found a new job.

Polina had agreed without hesitation. After all, the apartment was small, but there was enough space for three. Besides, Olesya Mikhailovna had always been friendly with her. Until now.

“Darling, I understand you’re tired,” Pavel stepped closer and tried to hug his wife, but she pulled away. “Mom will find a job soon and move out. Just bear with it a little longer.”

 

“Two weeks turned into two months, Pasha. And she’s not even looking for a job! Instead, she’s acting like she runs my apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Pavel corrected gently.

Polina drew a deep breath, holding back her irritation.

“Legally – mine. The mortgage is in my name, because your salary wasn’t enough for the bank to approve the loan. And every month I give almost half my income to the bank. I’m not against us living here together, but your mother…”

The front door opened, and in walked Olesya Mikhailovna carrying bags of groceries.

“Oh, kids, you’re already home! I just popped into the store to get some stuff for dinner,” she said with a cheerful smile, as if she didn’t notice the tense atmosphere.

Polina forced a tight smile.

“Thank you, Olesya Mikhailovna, but I already ordered delivery. I had a hard day.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear! What delivery? Home-cooked food is always better,” Olesya Mikhailovna went into the kitchen and started unpacking the bags. “I’ll make my signature salad, Pavlik has loved it since childhood.”

Polina cast a helpless look at her husband, but he only shrugged and said quietly:

“Let’s not argue today, okay?”

The next morning, Polina woke up to the sound of voices in the living room. Women’s voices, laughter. The clock showed 7:30 – far too early for visitors.

Hastily getting dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom and froze in the doorway. At the coffee table sat Olesya Mikhailovna and two women about her age whom Polina had never seen before.

“Oh, and here’s Polinochka awake!” the mother-in-law exclaimed joyfully. “Let me introduce you, this is Valentina Petrovna and Irina Stepanovna, my friends from my old job.”

The women eyed Polina with open curiosity, while she felt awkward standing there in home clothes in front of strangers.

“Good morning,” Polina said with a strained smile. “Sorry, I didn’t know we had guests.”

“They just dropped by for a minute,” Olesya Mikhailovna waved her hand. “We haven’t seen each other in so long!”

“You have such a cozy little apartment,” one of the women remarked. “Olesya did such a good job arranging everything.”

Polina went rigid.

“Yes, I always said Olechka has great taste,” chimed in the second guest. “She told us how she helped you set everything up.”

Polina turned her gaze to her mother-in-law.

“Helped set everything up?”

“Well, I suggested a few things, gave some advice,” Olesya Mikhailovna brushed it off lightly, but something wary flickered in her eyes.

“Don’t be so modest, Olesya!” one of her friends exclaimed. “You said that without your help the youngsters wouldn’t have managed at all.”

Something snapped inside Polina. She was about to respond, but just then a sleepy Pavel walked out of the bedroom.

“Good morning, Mom,” he kissed his mother on the cheek, then nodded to her friends. “Hello.”

“Pash, we need to talk,” Polina said quietly. “Now.”

They stepped out onto the small balcony and closed the door tightly behind them.

“Your mom is telling her friends she helped us buy the apartment,” Polina tried to keep her voice low, but emotion spilled over. “They think she’s the one who arranged everything here!”

Pavel frowned.

“Well, maybe she exaggerated a little, just to feel important in front of her friends. What difference does it make?”

“The difference is that it’s a lie!” Polina raised her voice, then caught herself and continued in a whisper. “I saved up for six years for the down payment. I went from bank to bank begging for approval. I pay this loan every month. And your mother is taking credit for everything.”

“You’re overreacting. Mom just…”

“No, Pasha, I’m not overreacting. Be honest—what else is she telling them? That she put money into the purchase? That she owns a share here?”

From the look on Pavel’s face, she knew she’d hit the mark.

“Pash, this is not okay. You have to talk to her.”

Pavel stared past Polina for a long moment.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her,” he said at last. “Just not now, not in front of her friends. And… please, don’t turn this into a tragedy.”

At work, Polina got a surprise. The director called her into his office and offered her a promotion—to head a new department working with clients from other regions. It meant a thirty percent salary increase, but also frequent business trips.

“We need your answer within a week, Polina Andreevna,” he said. “Think it over. You’re our best candidate for this position.”

Under normal circumstances, Polina would have agreed without a second thought. She had always aimed for career growth. But right now, the idea of leaving the apartment in Pavel’s and his mother’s hands made her uneasy.

That evening she decided to discuss it with her husband. But when she came home, she found that Olesya wasnikhailovna once again wasn’t alone. This time, her elder daughter Margarita had come with her husband.

“Oh, here’s our Polinochka!” Olesya exclaimed. “Come on in, we were just about to have dinner.”

Polina noticed that the table was set in the living room instead of the kitchen where they usually ate. Their small dining table was covered with an unfamiliar tablecloth, and the dishes were arranged differently than she and Pavel were used to.

“Hi, everyone,” Polina nodded to the guests. “Pash, can I talk to you for a minute?”

They stepped out into the hallway.

 

“Why didn’t you warn me we’d have guests?” Polina asked.

“I only found out an hour ago,” Pavel replied. “Mom called Margarita and they decided to drop by.”

“To our apartment? Without checking with us?”

“Polin, it’s my sister, not strangers.”

“It’s not about that, Pash. It’s about your mother behaving as if this is her home. She invites guests, rearranges things, tells everyone she helped with the purchase…”

“I told you I’d talk to her,” Pavel cut in. “Just not today, okay? Rita and Sergey don’t visit us often.”

Polina gave in. After all, one evening wouldn’t change much.

Over dinner, the conversation turned to Margarita’s work. She worked at a travel agency and often went on business trips.

“Can you imagine, this month alone I’ve already been to St. Petersburg three times,” she said. “I spend less time at home than in hotels.”

“That must be hard,” Polina said sympathetically, thinking of the offer from her own boss.

“Yeah, but what can you do? That’s the job. Sergey is used to spending half the month alone.”

“I was offered a promotion too,” Polina blurted out unexpectedly. “Also with business trips.”

“Really?” Pavel looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I only found out today.”

“And will you have to travel a lot?” asked Olesya.

“About a week a month.”

“Oh, but what about Pavlik? He’ll be lost without you!” the mother-in-law exclaimed. “Men are so helpless in everyday life.”

“Well, as long as you’re living with us, he’ll have someone to help him,” Polina remarked, watching her mother-in-law’s reaction closely.

“Of course, of course! I’m always happy to help my boy.”

Polina noticed Margarita and her husband exchange glances.

“Mom, you still haven’t found a job?” Margarita asked.

“I’m looking, slowly but surely, dear,” Olesya answered. “But right now the youngsters need my help. Just look how tired Polinochka is from work. If not for me, they’d be eating nothing but convenience foods.”

Polina almost choked. She cooked no worse than her mother-in-law; it was just that lately, because of the tension at home, she preferred staying late at the office.

“By the way, Polina,” continued Olesya, “I ran into the neighbor from the first floor. She says there are pipe problems in the basement again. You should call the management company.”

“Why me?” Polina asked in surprise.

“Well, the apartment is in your name,” the mother-in-law replied innocently. “Although of course we all helped with the purchase, each in our own way.”

There it was. Polina glanced at Pavel, but he quickly looked away.

“Helped?” Margarita repeated. “Mom, you never said you contributed to their apartment.”

“Well, I… helped with advice and support…” Olesya waved vaguely. “Without me they’d never have dared to take such a step.”

Polina felt anger boiling inside her. It was an outright lie, but calling out her mother-in-law in front of guests didn’t feel right.

After dinner, when Margarita and her husband had left, Polina decided she couldn’t put off the conversation any longer.

“Olesya Mikhailovna,” she began when the three of them were in the living room, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding between us.”

“What do you mean, dear?” the mother-in-law looked genuinely surprised.

“About the apartment. You tell people you helped us buy it, but that’s not true.”

“I never told anyone that!” Olesya cried. “I just mentioned that I supported you morally.”

“Mom,” Pavel cut in, “your friends this morning said outright you’d told them you helped financially.”

Olesya flushed.

“They misunderstood! I said I would’ve helped if I could. You know my financial situation.”

“It’s not just that,” Polina went on. “You invite guests without asking us, you rearrange our things…”

“I only wanted to make it cozy!” Olesya interrupted. “Is it so bad that I care about you?”

“Caring means asking permission,” Polina said firmly. “It means respecting someone else’s space.”

“Someone else’s?” Olesya raised her voice. “So you think I’m a stranger here? In my son’s apartment?”

“Mom, that’s not what Polina meant,” Pavel tried to intervene.

“That’s exactly what she meant!” Olesya stood up, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “She’s always seen me as a stranger. To her I’m just a guest who’s overstayed her welcome! And all I’ve ever done is try to help you!”

“Olesya Mikhailovna,” Polina tried to keep her tone even, “when you moved in, we talked about two weeks. It’s been two months. You’re not even looking for work.”

“How am I not looking? I check the listings every day! But at my age it’s not so easy to find a position.”

“I understand, but…”

“No, you don’t!” Olesya turned to her son. “Pavlik, tell her! Tell her I have a right to be in your apartment! In your family!”
Family games

Pavel looked lost.

“Of course, Mom. No one is saying you have to leave right this second. It’s just… maybe we should talk about some ground rules?”

“Rules? In a family?” Olesya let out a bitter laugh. “I see she’s turned you against me. Fine, I won’t get in the way. I’ll go to my room.”

She went into the guest room, closing the door loudly behind her.

Polina and Pavel were left alone in the living room.

“What was that?” Polina asked quietly.

“She’s just upset,” Pavel sighed. “Losing her job, not knowing what’s next…”

“Pash, she’s manipulating you. Don’t you see that?”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that,” Pavel frowned. “She’s been through a lot since the divorce. It’s not easy for her.”

“And it’s easy for me? Every day I come home and have no idea what’s waiting for me. What guests, what new furniture layout, what stories she’s told the neighbors about ‘our family apartment.’”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No, Pasha. You just don’t want to see reality. Your mother has no plans to leave. And no plans to respect our… my boundaries.”

The next few days passed in strained silence. Olesya barely spoke to Polina, only when absolutely necessary, but she was conspicuously affectionate and caring with Pavel.

On Wednesday, the director called Polina:

“Polina Andreevna, we need your answer about the new position. There’s another candidate, but we’d prefer to have you.”

Polina hesitated only a moment.

“I agree, Viktor Sergeyevich. When do I start?”

“On Monday. And get ready for a business trip to Novosibirsk right away. For two weeks.”

Two weeks. Polina pictured what might happen in the apartment during that time, and shuddered inwardly. But it was too late to back out.

That evening, she told Pavel and Olesya the news.

“Two weeks?” Pavel looked worried. “That’s pretty long.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Olesya responded immediately. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll be fine.”

Polina caught a triumphant note in her voice.

“I’m sure you will,” she replied dryly. “I just ask that you don’t invite any guests while I’m away.”

“While you’re away,” Olesya repeated, putting emphasis on “you.” “Of course, dear. Everything will be just as you want.”

Polina didn’t believe a single word, but she had no choice. Work was work, and the promotion was too important for her career.

The business trip began on Monday. Polina called Pavel every evening, but his answers were brief: “Everything’s fine,” “All good,” “Don’t worry, we’re managing.”

On the tenth day, during one of their calls, Polina heard an unfamiliar female voice in the background.

“Pash, do you have guests?”

“No, it’s…” He hesitated. “It’s Kristina, Mom’s niece. She came to apply to university and is staying with us for a couple of days.”

Polina froze.

“Niece? In our apartment? Pash, we agreed—no guests!”

“Polin, she’s family. We couldn’t just turn her away. She’s only here for a few days, then she’ll move into the dorm.”
Family games

“And when were you going to tell me?”

“I… didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Polina felt the anger rising.

“Pash, that’s the last straw. I’m coming back tomorrow.”

“But your business trip is until Monday.”

“I’ll wrap up everything early. Expect me tomorrow evening.”

Polina didn’t wait for his objections and hung up. She really could finish her work sooner—only formalities remained, which could be handled remotely.

When Polina opened the door to her apartment the next day, she didn’t at first understand if she’d come to the right place. There were strangers’ things in the hallway, and voices and laughter drifted from the living room.

She walked further in and stopped in the doorway. At the table sat Olesya, a young girl of about eighteen, and an older woman Polina had never seen before.

“Polina?” Olesya looked surprised. “You weren’t supposed to be back until Monday!”

“I finished work early,” Polina said, sweeping her gaze over the room. The furniture had been rearranged, unfamiliar paintings hung on the walls, and her work corner had vanished. “What is going on here? And who are these people?”

“This is Kristina, my niece,” Olesya pointed to the girl. “And this is Nina Fyodorovna, an old friend of mine. She came to stay for a week.”

“To stay?” Polina looked at the big suitcase in the corner. “Here? With us?”

“Yes, with us,” Olesya emphasized the word. “What’s the problem? There’s plenty of space.”

“Plenty?” Polina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “In a two-room apartment? Where does your friend sleep?”

“In the living room, on the sofa. And Kristina is in my room with me. Everyone’s comfortable.”

“And who did you discuss this with? Me? Pavel?”

“Pavlik didn’t mind,” Olesya shrugged. “And you were on a business trip.”

“Where is Pavel?” Polina looked around.

“He’s at work. He has extra classes at school today.”

Polina took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm.

“Olesya Mikhailovna, we need to have a serious talk.”

“Of course, dear. Just not right now, we’re having lunch. Will you join us?”

“No,” Polina said sharply. “I’ll wait for Pavel in the bedroom.”

She turned and headed for the bedroom—the only place she hoped had been left untouched.

But there too a surprise was waiting. Clothes were spread out on the bed—clearly not hers or Pavel’s. Women’s clothing, a makeup bag…

“What is this?” Polina came back into the living room holding a strange sweater.

“Oh, those are Kristina’s things,” Olesya replied casually. “We were sorting them. We’ll put everything away in a minute.”

“You were sorting clothes in my bedroom?”

“Well yes, there’s more space in there. What’s the big deal?”

Polina felt herself losing control.

“This is beyond all bounds, Olesya Mikhailovna! You’ve moved strangers into my apartment. You’re doing whatever you want in my bedroom. You’ve rearranged all the furniture. What’s next?”

“Dear, you’re overreacting,” Olesya shook her head. “My son lives in this apartment, which means it’s partly mine too. I have the right to invite whomever I want.”

“What?” Polina couldn’t believe her ears. “Repeat what you just said.”

“I said that my son has a share in this apartment, which means I have a share too!” Olesya said firmly. “And I won’t let you tell me what to do!”

At that moment, the front door opened and Pavel walked in.

“Polina?” he froze in the doorway, surprised. “You’re already home?”

“Yes, I’m home,” Polina turned to her husband. “And do you know what I found? Your mother has turned our apartment into a hostel. And she’s claiming that she owns a share of it!”

Pavel looked from his wife to his mother, bewildered.

“Mom, what is she talking about?”

“Oh, Pavlik, your wife is exaggerating again,” Olesya threw up her hands. “I just invited Kristina and Nina Fyodorovna to stay. What’s the big deal? We’re one family!”
Family games

“No, we are not one!” Polina was on the verge of losing it. “And you do not have any share in this apartment!”

“How can I not?” Olesya snapped. “Pavlik lives here, so part of the apartment belongs to him!”

 

“Legally, it does not,” Polina cut her off. “The apartment is in my name only. I’m the one paying the mortgage. And I will not allow you to treat my property as your own!”

“Polina, calm down,” Pavel tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

“No, Pash, I won’t calm down. This has gone way too far. Your mother has to move out. Right now.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“I see how it is,” Olesya said at last. “So you’re throwing the mother of your husband out onto the street? Maybe you should kick Pavlik out too while you’re at it? Since the apartment is only yours?”

“Mom, stop,” Pavel looked exhausted. “No one is throwing anyone out. Let’s all calm down and talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Olesya got to her feet. “I can see I’m not wanted here. Come on, Kristina, let’s pack your things. You too, Nina Fyodorovna. They don’t want us here!”

Kristina looked confused, first at her aunt, then at Polina.

“Maybe I should just go to the dorm? They promised me a room from next week, but I can ask if they can move me in earlier…”

“No!” Olesya grabbed her niece by the hand. “We’ll go to Margarita’s. She’ll definitely take us in, unlike some people!”

Pavel helplessly glanced from his mother to his wife.

“Mom, don’t get carried away. No one said you have to leave right this minute.”

“I did,” Polina said firmly. “Pavel, your mother stayed with us for two months instead of the promised two weeks. She didn’t look for a job. She treated my apartment as her own. She invited strangers without our permission. And now she claims she owns a share of the apartment for which I alone pay the mortgage!”

“Polina, I understand you’re upset, but…”

“No, Pash, you don’t understand!” Polina no longer held back her emotions. “I work from morning to night. I just got a promotion that I earned with years of hard work. I’m paying off a loan for our apartment. And I have the right to come home and feel comfortable there, not like a guest in a hotel taken over by strangers!”

Olesya began to demonstratively scoop things off the table.

“Everything’s clear. We’re leaving. Let’s go, Nina Fyodorovna, Kristina. We won’t disturb the young couple. Pavlik, call me when your wife cools off.”

“Mom, wait,” Pavel tried to stop her. “Let’s talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to discuss! She’s kicking me out!” Olesya shook her head indignantly. “All I wanted was to help. To make it feel homey. And she… she…” The mother-in-law sniffed theatrically. “That’s how you find out who your real friends are and who’s just a stranger!”

Polina watched this performance in silence. Everything became crystal clear—Olesya would never admit she’d done anything wrong and would seize any chance to paint her daughter-in-law as the villain.

“I’m going to pack my things,” Polina said to her husband. “Let me know when your mother and her guests are gone.”

“What?” Pavel looked at her in shock. “Where are you going?”

“To Lena’s,” she meant her best friend. “I need time to think everything over. And so do you.”

She went into the bedroom, packed what she needed, and, ignoring Olesya’s laments, walked out of the apartment.

The next week was the hardest in their relationship. Polina stayed with her friend; Pavel called every day, but their conversations were short and tense.

On the third day he told her that his mother had moved in with Margarita, taking Kristina and her friend with her.

“I want you to come back,” he said. “I miss you.”

“And I miss respect, Pasha,” Polina replied. “Your mother crossed every line there is, and you let her.”

“I know. I talked to her. I explained she was wrong.”

“And what did she say?”

Pavel hesitated.

“She… doesn’t exactly agree. But she promised not to do that again.”

Polina gave a bitter little laugh.

“So she doesn’t admit she was wrong, but promises not to repeat what, in her view, isn’t wrong at all? Sorry, but I don’t believe that.”

“Polin, let’s give her a chance. She’s still my mother.”

“That’s not the point, Pash. The point is that she doesn’t respect me or my rights. And apparently, you don’t either.”

“That’s not fair! I’m always on your side!”

“Really? It seems to me you’re always looking for a compromise where there shouldn’t be one. This is my apartment, Pash. I pay for it. And I have the right to decide who lives in it.”

“So we’re back to this?” Pavel’s voice turned cold. “‘My apartment.’ Maybe I should move out too then?”

Polina sighed.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’ve always seen this as our home. But your mother decided she could run it as she pleased, and you let her.”

After that call, there was silence for a few days. Polina threw herself into work, trying not to think about home.

On the fifth day, Margarita called.

“Polina, can we meet? We need to talk.”

They met at a café not far from Polina’s office.

“I wanted to apologize,” Margarita began, which surprised Polina. “I didn’t know Mom behaved like that in your apartment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean inviting strangers without asking you, rearranging things, telling everyone she helped with the purchase… Now that she’s living with me, I see how she tries to remake everything to her liking.”

Polina looked at her carefully.

“And how do you react?”

“I shut it down immediately,” Margarita smiled wryly. “I told her this is my home and my rules. Mom was offended, of course, but she backed off. We sorted things out with Kristina too—she moved into the dorm, just as planned.”

“And Nina Fyodorovna?”

“She went home. She, by the way, was shocked by the whole situation. She said Mom invited her by assuring her that everything was agreed with you.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“You know,” Margarita continued, “I think I understand what’s going on. Mom has always been the boss in the family. Dad indulged her in everything. When he left, she shifted that way of behaving onto me and Pavel. I got married early and moved out, and Pavel stayed with her. He got used to giving in, to pleasing her.”
Family games

“I’ve noticed,” Polina said dryly.

“Don’t be too hard on him. It’s not easy for him to stand up to Mom. But I can see how miserable he is without you. He calls me every day, asking for advice.”

“Do you advise him to take my side?” Polina asked with a hint of irony.

“No,” Margarita answered seriously. “I advise him to find his own. Not Mom’s, not yours—his own. To finally become an adult and independent.”

After that conversation, Polina did a lot of thinking. About Pavel, about their relationship, about what had happened. She understood she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to quarrel with his mother. But she also wasn’t going to blame herself—she had every right to defend her boundaries.

On the seventh day Pavel showed up at her work with a bouquet of flowers.

“We need to talk. Not here. At home.”

Polina hesitated.

“Is your mother there?”

“No. And she won’t be, unless you say so. This is your home, Polina. Our home. And I want you to feel happy in it.”

There was such sincerity in his eyes that Polina agreed.

At home, the table was set—Pavel had clearly prepared for this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” he began when they sat down. “And I realized I was wrong. I should have defended you, not run back and forth between you and Mom.”

“I’m not asking you to choose between us,” Polina said quietly. “I just want your mother to respect me and my boundaries.”

“I know. And I talked to her. Really talked, probably for the first time in my life. I explained that her behavior was unacceptable. That she has no right to run our apartment or tell people she helped buy it.”

“And how did she react?”

“As usual—she was offended, said I was an ungrateful son for choosing my wife over my mother…” Pavel smiled sadly. “But then, when she saw I wasn’t backing down, she became… more flexible. Admitted she went too far.”

“She apologized?”

“Not exactly. She said that ‘maybe she was too active in trying to help.’ For her, that’s almost the same as admitting she was wrong.”

Polina nodded. She hadn’t expected a full apology from Olesya.

“So what now?”

“Now she’s living with Margarita. And the most surprising thing—she found a job. She’s going to work as an accountant at a small company near their house. She starts next week.”

“That’s good,” Polina said sincerely. “I’m glad for her.”

“I want you to know,” Pavel squeezed her hand, “that I’m on your side. Always. And I promise I’ll never put you in that position again.”

Polina looked at him for a long time, then squeezed his hand in return.

 

“I believe you. And I’ll come back. But I have one condition—we have to clearly set rules for your mother if she wants to visit us.”

“Of course,” Pavel agreed immediately. “What rules?”

“No unannounced visits. No rearranging things in the apartment. No guests without our permission. And most importantly—no more talk about her having a share in our apartment.”

“I agree with everything. I’ll tell her. And I’ll make sure she sticks to it.”

A month later, Polina and Pavel hosted a family dinner. They invited Polina’s parents, Margarita and her husband, and of course, Olesya.
Family games

The atmosphere was tense, but everyone tried to be polite. Olesya was unusually quiet, only occasionally remarking on her new job.

After dinner, when everyone moved to the living room, Olesya suddenly turned to Polina.

“I’d like to say something,” she began, looking more serious than usual. “I didn’t behave very well when I lived here. It was hard for me to accept that my son is already an adult, an independent man with his own family. That he has a wife who has the right to set her own rules in the house.”

Polina looked at her in surprise—she hadn’t expected such a speech.

“Margarita talked to me a lot,” Olesya went on. “She explained that I was crossing boundaries. That I can’t boss people around in someone else’s home.”

She paused.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness, because I really did want what I thought was best. But I admit that I was wrong. And I want us to be able to communicate normally. For Pavlik’s sake.”

It wasn’t a full apology, but for Olesya this was a huge step.

“I want that too,” Polina replied. “For Pavel’s sake and for our own. We don’t have to be best friends, but we can respect each other.”

Olesya nodded.

“I agree. And… I won’t say anymore that I have a share in your apartment. I understand that’s not true.”

Polina glanced at Margarita—she discreetly winked. Clearly, she had done a lot of work with their mother.

“Thank you,” Polina said sincerely. “That means a lot to me.”

The evening went on in a more relaxed atmosphere. There was no real reconciliation between Polina and Olesya—the hurt on both sides ran too deep. But they’d reached a truce based on mutual respect.

When the guests had left, Pavel hugged Polina.

“Thank you. I know how hard this was for you.”

“It was hard for both of us,” she answered. “But we got through it. Together.”

“Do you think Mom has really changed?”

Polina thought for a moment.

“I’m not sure she’s changed. But she’s understood the rules of the game. And that’s already a lot.”

They stood by the window, looking out at the night city. Their apartment had once again become their fortress, their shared space where both of them felt safe.

“I love you,” Pavel said quietly. “And I promise I’ll never put anyone’s interests above yours again. Not even my mother’s.”

Polina leaned into him.

“And I promise to always remember that even though the apartment is in my name, this is our home. But only ours—yours and mine.”

She knew that her relationship with her mother-in-law would never be perfect. Olesya would always try to push her boundaries, always want to be the main woman in her son’s life. But now they had clear rules. And most importantly, Pavel had finally found the strength to stand up for their family, their home, their future.

And that meant they could handle any difficulties that lay ahead

 

“Larisa, just a little more… Come on, dear, you can do it!”

She barely moved her legs. Every step was taken with tremendous effort, as if heavy weights were strapped to her feet.

“I want to take a shower…” Larisa whispered, feeling her strength finally leaving her. “Gleb, I can’t anymore. Honestly, I can’t!”

Her husband looked at her with feigned concern, but there was a strange coldness in his eyes. How had she not noticed that icy gleam before?

“You can, darling, you’ll manage! Look, there’s our goal — the little house!”

Larisa followed his gaze. In front of them stood a building that looked like a mix between an old shed and a fairy-tale hut on chicken legs.

“Are you… really sure the healer lives here?” Her voice betrayed her exhaustion and fear.

“Of course, dear! Come on, just a bit more!”

Larisa climbed onto the crooked porch almost mechanically, as if in a dream. Gleb laid her down on a wooden bench and suddenly smirked smugly. That smile cut through her heart.

“Now you can rest… for a long time.”

She surveyed the gloomy room: cobwebs, dust, dampness. She looked at her husband fearfully.

“Gleb… Nobody lives here!”

“That’s right!” He laughed. “Nobody has lived here for about twenty years. And no one’s been here for a long time. If you’re lucky — you’ll die your natural death. If not…” — he paused — “wild animals will find you.”

“Gleb! What are you saying?! Snap out of it!”

He straightened up, and the mask of a loving husband vanished forever.

Discover more

Family games

Gift baskets

“I asked you — register the business under my name! But you were stubborn as a mule!” He spat. “Do you even realize what it cost me to put up with you? To sleep with you? You disgust me!”

“And my money doesn’t disgust you?” Larisa whispered.

“Those are MY money!” He growled. “They’re mine, just need to finish the paperwork. Everyone knows how obsessed you are with all this witchcraft nonsense. I tell everyone you’re crazy and ran off to some quack in the sticks. I tried to convince you, but…” He theatrically threw up his hands, “you’re stubborn! Like my plan? I don’t even need to buy a coffin!”

His laughter sounded like a dog’s bark. Larisa closed her eyes — this was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

But the door slam was all too real.

She tried to get up — she needed to run, this must be a joke! But her body wouldn’t obey. Lately, she grew tired quickly, as if someone was draining the life out of her.

“Now I know who…” flashed through her mind.

She had no strength left. Larisa gave up and sank into a restless sleep.

Five years ago they got married. Gleb appeared out of nowhere — penniless, but with charm that made her lose her head. Tired of loneliness and work, Larisa fell madly in love.
Gift baskets

But they had warned her… Everyone around said he only wanted money, that he spent her funds on other women. She found out the truth a year ago. After that, health problems began — sometimes her heart, sometimes her stomach, sometimes everything at once. Doctors blamed nervous breakdowns.

She tried not to worry. Really tried! But how not to worry when you love someone who betrayed you?

 

And now she was a wealthy, successful woman, but so sick she couldn’t get out of that ruin in the woods. Her death would remain a secret.

Half-asleep, Larisa heard a rustle. Someone was standing nearby. Her heart stopped — could it really be wild animals?

“Don’t be afraid!”

She startled.

“A girl?! Where did you come from here?”

In front of her sat a child about seven or eight years old. The girl crouched beside her.

“I was here before. When he brought you here, I hid.”

Larisa lifted herself up.

“You’re alive? How did you end up here?”

“I come by myself. When I fight with Dad — I hide here. Let him worry!”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Nope! He just makes me help. But I don’t want to. Why should kids work? If I don’t listen — he makes me wash the dishes. A whole mountain!” The girl spread her arms.

Larisa weakly smiled.

“Maybe he’s just tired. Trying to give you manageable chores. I would do anything for my dad if he were alive.”

“Your dad died?”

“Yes, long ago.”

“Everyone will die,” the girl stated with childlike philosophy.

“Are you saying your dad will die too?!” The girl perked up.

“People die when they get old. That’s how it is.”

The girl thought.

“Mom was sick… She went to the angels. I often cry because I miss her. I’ll help Dad so he won’t die!” She looked at Larisa. “Did they bring you here to die too?”

“Looks like it…”

“Why not in a hospital?”

A tear slid down Larisa’s cheek.

“He decided so himself… So they wouldn’t cure me.”

“Bastard!” The girl was outraged. “I’ll run to Dad! You know what he is? He heals everyone in the village! Except Mom… ” Her voice trembled.

“How come?”

The girl went to the door, then turned and whispered:

“My dad is a wizard!”

Larisa involuntarily smiled.

“Sweetie, there’s no such thing…”

“But there is! Your husband said you believe in that. Okay, don’t be sad, I’ll be back soon!”

“What’s your name?”

“Dasha!”

“Dasha, aren’t you afraid to stay here? What if animals come?”

“What animals?!” The girl snorted. “No one visits this forest except hedgehogs!”

And with those words she slipped out the door as if she had wings on her shoulders.

“Counting on a child — stupid beyond reason,” Larisa thought, closing her eyes. “She’ll run around the forest, meet a squirrel or the same hedgehog — and forget about me…”

She began to drift off when a whisper woke her:

“Dad, is she dead?”

“No, sunshine. She’s just sleeping.”

Larisa snapped her eyes open.

“Dasha! You’re back!”

The hut was dimly lit, and she couldn’t make out the man’s face.

“Hello. Sorry things turned out this way…”

“It’s okay. Can you stand? Go outside?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

The man touched her forehead with his palm, and warmth spread through her body like spring sun after a long winter.

“You can. I promise.”

And she really could! With his help, she stood up, took a few unsteady steps. Outside the hut was a… motorcycle with a sidecar? Her vision blurred, legs wobbled, but strong hands supported her and gently laid her in the sidecar.

Where they were going and how long it took — Larisa didn’t remember. She came to only on the bumps, saw stars above — and fell back into darkness.

She didn’t care. What difference did it make where to die?

But then it got warm. Cozy. And even… hungry!

She opened her eyes. High ceilings, bright log walls — nothing like that ruin. On the wall… a TV?!

“Some kind of strange afterlife,” crossed her mind.

“Awake? Great! Dinner’s ready. Today’s special — Dasha volunteered to help for the first time! I don’t know what you told her, but I’m very grateful.”

Larisa smiled. She would never tell what exactly had moved the girl. Shameful — an adult woman saying such things…

The man helped her sit up, placed pillows behind her. On the table — potatoes with gravy, fresh salad, milk… And bread. But what bread! Loaves like fluffy clouds, with big holes inside.

“This… bread?” Larisa was surprised.

“Eat up!” The man laughed. “I bake it myself. Can’t eat store bread. Maybe you’ll try someday.”

Larisa smiled sadly — “someday” seemed too far away. But the potatoes were so tasty, it felt like the best dinner of her life.

She didn’t finish — drowsiness overtook her. Before sleep, she whispered:

“What’s your name?”

“Aleksei.”

Day by day it got better. Appetite returned, strength, desire to live. Larisa rejoiced but understood nothing: no medicines, no treatments, no IV drips…

Once, when Dasha ran off to play, she asked directly:

“Are you the one treating me?”

Aleksei looked at her with clear blue eyes:

“Me?”

“Yes! I feel better. Much better! And I was supposed to die… Dasha said you’re a wizard.”

He laughed — so sincerely that Larisa couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Oh, Dasha the dreamer! Our granny was one who knew herbs. She passed a little to me. But I’m as far from a wizard as China is on foot!”

Days passed. And then — she walked outside on her own, without support.

“Larisa! Well done!”

Aleksei picked her up in his arms and spun her around. She clung to him and cried — from happiness, relief, and the fact she was alive…

Half a year later

 

Gleb was pacing the office like a wounded beast:

“I need all rights! Without me, the company can’t work!”

“The company works like clockwork,” someone cautiously noted. “Larisa Sergeevna kept everything in perfect order.”

“Stop calling her ‘Larisa’! She’s gone! Ran off to the woods to quacks, got eaten there! I’m the rightful husband!”

“Gleb Sergeevich,” one of the attendees said softly but firmly, “the body hasn’t been found. And your behavior… raises certain questions.”

“What difference does it make?!” He exploded. “I’m a man who lost his beloved wife!”

An elderly employee stood up:

“I won’t work under your leadership.”

“Who else?” Gleb looked around. “All of you can leave!”

But at that moment the door flew open.

“I wouldn’t rush to hire a new team.”

Gleb collapsed into a chair. Larisa stood before him — alive, blooming, eyes shining. Beside her — a tall man, and behind them — police officers.

“You… how… you were supposed to…”

“To die?” She finished calmly. “Your plan failed again. As usual.”

As they led Gleb away, yelling and cursing the world, Larisa turned to the staff:

“Hello! I’m back. I have many ideas. Let me introduce my husband — Aleksei. And I invite you all for a barbecue this weekend — get to know nature and the new family!”
Family games

Everyone smiled. Everyone was happy.

“And a heads up: now I have a daughter. Dasha was with us, but Svetochka lured her away with her makeup suitcase.”

Everyone laughed heartily — Larisa’s secretary did always carry a suitcase full of jars and tubes.

“Semyon Arkadyevich,” she addressed the lawyer, “please take care of the divorce and adoption.”

“Of course, Larisa Sergeevna. Welcome back!”

“Thank you,” she replied, squeezing Aleksei’s hand tightly.

Sometimes, to find true happiness, you have to lose everything. And meet a little girl in the forest who believes in miracles…

 

Vera was wiping dust off the windowsill when Maksim walked into the room and handed her a sheet torn from a notepad.

“Here, sweetheart—these are my mother’s bank details. Take them to payroll so your salary will go to her.”

She froze, rag still in her hand.

“What?”

“Send your salary to Mom. She’ll manage it better. You’re young—silly. You’ll waste it on nonsense.”

Vera slowly lowered the rag. They’d been married three weeks. They’d furnished the apartment with wedding money—bought a couch, a table, a refrigerator. She thought they were going to live together now. The two of them.

“Maksim… are you serious?”

“Of course. I already transferred my salary to her on Thursday. She put it in a savings account. Says it’ll come in handy for our future.”

Vera didn’t yell. She didn’t slam doors. She just stood there and looked at her husband—who was already taking off his shoes and heading to the shower as if nothing had happened.

The sheet with the bank details stayed on the windowsill. Vera picked it up, folded it in half, and tore it into tiny pieces.

The next day she came home from work and went straight to the kitchen. Maksim was already sitting at the table, scrolling on his phone. When she set a plate of buckwheat and a boiled egg in front of him, he looked up.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“And where’s the meat?”

Vera sat across from him and served herself the same.

“There’s no money. I was counting on you helping with groceries. But since you gave everything to your mom, this is all we can afford.”

Maksim frowned.

“Vera, what’s gotten into you? You have a salary.”

“I’ll take mine to my mom. You said it yourself—older people know better.”

He froze with his spoon in midair. His face flushed.

“Are you mocking me?!”

 

“No. I’m just doing the same thing you did.”

Maksim shoved his chair back with a screech and stood up.

“Vera, enough! Do you even understand what you’re doing?! Tomorrow you go and get the money back!”

“You get yours back first. I’ll follow you.”

He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. Vera finished her buckwheat, washed the dishes, and went to bed. Maksim came back after midnight, lay down beside her, and turned to the wall.

That’s how four days passed. He ate at Raisa’s, she ate at her parents’. At home—silence. Maksim was angry, slammed doors, came home late. Vera stayed calm, though at night she kept thinking: what if he never understands?

On the fifth evening he came home earlier. He sat in the kitchen, staring at the table. Vera was washing dishes. He was quiet for a long time, then cleared his throat.

“My coworkers asked today why I eat lunch at my mom’s. They laughed. Said I’m a mama’s boy.”

He lifted his eyes.

“Vera… let’s make a deal. I’ll take my salary back from Mom. You keep yours. We’ll manage our budget ourselves.”

She nodded.

Maksim took out his phone and dialed. Raisa answered quickly.

“Mom, I need to take the money back. Vera and I decided to handle the budget ourselves.”

A pause. Raisa’s voice turned sharp—Vera could hear her shouting something.

“Mom, I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

Another pause. The voice in the receiver got louder.

“That’s it, Mom. I’ll come tomorrow and pick it up.”

He set the phone on the table and exhaled.

“She said you’ll bleed me dry.”

Vera wiped her hands and came closer.

“I won’t.”

Maksim covered her hand with his—the first time in a week.

For three weeks it was quiet. They kept a joint budget, saved a little. Raisa called less; her voice was cold, but she didn’t meddle. Maksim relaxed. Vera didn’t.

One evening he came home and put a bag of groceries on the table—expensive stuff they never bought.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Mom gave it to me. Said they had extra.”

Vera looked at the bag, then at her husband.

“Maksim, we had an agreement.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s groceries. Not money.”

She didn’t argue. Put everything in the fridge. But something lodged inside her: here we go again.

A week later Maksim showed up in new sneakers. Expensive ones.

“Where’d those come from?”

“Mom gave them to me. For my birthday.”

“Your birthday is in two months.”

“She bought them in advance.”

Vera said nothing. Went to bed. Lay there thinking: he’s taking from Raisa again—he’s just calling it “gifts” now.

The next day she opened a second bank account and transferred part of her salary into it. She didn’t tell Maksim.

A month and a half went by. Vera saved every time—little by little, but regularly. Maksim didn’t notice. He kept bringing things from Raisa: groceries, socks, once even a frying pan. Vera stayed quiet.

One evening he said the car needed repairs—serious repairs. They sat down to do the math. They were short.

“We’ll have to borrow from Mom.”

Vera pulled out her phone and showed him the screen.

“We won’t. I have it.”

He stared at the numbers.

“Where did you get this?!”

“I set it aside.”

Maksim went pale.

“So you’re hiding money from me?!”

“And you’re hiding what you take from Raisa.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Stood up abruptly and paced the room.

“It’s small stuff! Groceries! What’s the difference?!”

“The difference is that you’re depending on her again. And I decided to protect us.”

Maksim stopped by the window with his back to her. Silent. Then he turned around.

“I really didn’t want to… She offered, and it seemed stupid to refuse.”

Vera stood.

“And it seemed to me that if I don’t protect us, we’ll end up back in her pocket.”

Maksim took out his phone and dialed. Raisa answered cheerfully:

“Maksimushka, hi!”

“Mom, don’t bring anything anymore. No groceries, no gifts. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

Something loud and offended burst from the receiver.

“Mom, I’m serious. Thank you, but we don’t need it.”

He ended the call and looked at Vera.

“Better now?”

She nodded.

Raisa didn’t call for two weeks. Then she called Vera—herself. For the first time.

“Vera, dear, can I have a minute?”

Her voice was syrupy. Vera tensed.

“I’m listening.”

“I was thinking… Maksim works so hard, he puts in so much effort. And you’re probably tired too? Maybe pay him a bit more attention? He complained you’re always busy.”

Vera went still. Maksim had never complained to her about anything.

“Raisa… he told you that?”

 

“Not directly. But I’m his mother—I can see. He’s tense. Try harder, dear.”

Vera hung up without saying goodbye. Sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Raisa was planting doubt: “He complained.” “You’re busy.” “Try harder.”

When Maksim came home, she met him with a question:

“Did you complain about me to your mother?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“What? No. What are you talking about?”

Vera repeated the conversation. Maksim listened, his face turning to stone.

“She said that?”

Vera nodded. He took out his phone and called. Raisa answered brightly:

“Maksimushka!”

“Mom, did you call Vera?”

“Well, yes, I wanted to see how things were…”

“And you said I’m complaining about her?”

A pause. Then her voice turned wounded.

“I wanted to help! You said you were tired…”

“I said I’m tired from work! Not from my wife!”

Raisa started making excuses, but Maksim cut her off.

“Mom, enough. Don’t meddle in our relationship. I’ll call when I think it’s necessary.”

He hung up. Sat next to Vera and hugged her.

“I’m sorry. I thought she’d calmed down.”

Vera leaned into him.

“She won’t calm down. Not while we listen to her.”

“Then we won’t.”

Raisa sent a long message—how hurt she was, how she tried, how ungrateful they were. Maksim read it and showed Vera.

“Are you going to reply?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No. Let her cool off.”

A week later Raisa called again. Maksim answered briefly:

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

Her voice was strained-cheerful. They talked five minutes—about the weather, about work. Not a word about Vera. When he hung up, Vera asked:

“Well?”

“Seems fine. But I told her we won’t be visiting anytime soon. We’re busy.”

Vera smiled.

“Good job.”

That evening they sat on the couch. Maksim scrolled on his phone; Vera read. Quiet. Calm. The phone rang—Raisa. Maksim looked at the screen and tapped “decline.”

“I’ll call back later.”

He put the phone away. Vera looked up. He caught her gaze and smirked.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… that’s the first time you’ve done that.”

He shrugged and wrapped an arm around her.

“I’m learning.”

She leaned into him. Outside, it was getting dark. Inside the apartment, it was quiet—for the first time in a long time, truly quiet.

The phone rang in the middle of dinner. The whole family was at the table—Katya with her husband Denis, his parents, and his younger sister Angela.
Family games

“Don’t answer,” the father-in-law grunted. “It’s rude to be on the phone at the table.”

But it rang again. Katya gave the relatives an apologetic look and picked up.

“Hello?”

“Good evening. This is Romanov & Partners, a law firm. Am I speaking with Ekaterina Vladimirovna?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We have a very important matter regarding an inheritance case. Would you be able to come to our office tomorrow?”

“What happened?”

“We don’t discuss this over the phone. I’ll only say this: it concerns a large sum.”

Katya set an appointment and hung up. Everyone stared at her with curiosity.

“Who was that?” her husband asked.

“Some lawyers. They’re talking about an inheritance.”

Her mother-in-law snorted.

“Inheritance! From whom, I wonder? Her parents weren’t wealthy.”

“Maybe some distant relatives,” Angela suggested.

“Yeah,” the father-in-law muttered. “Probably left her a tiny one-room apartment. Or some old dacha.”

Denis shrugged indifferently.

 

“Any money helps. Even ten thousand.”

Katya said nothing. For three years she hadn’t worked—she took care of the house and the household. The family didn’t have much money; they lived paycheck to paycheck.

After dinner, the father-in-law called his son into the kitchen. Katya was clearing the dishes and couldn’t help overhearing.

“Denis, you need to do something about your wife.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Third year she’s sitting at home. Not earning a penny, but she eats like everyone else.”

“Dad, she runs the house, cooks—”

“Anyone can cook and clean. Bringing money into the family—not everyone can.”

“There aren’t many jobs right now…”

“It’s not that there aren’t jobs—she just doesn’t want to! She’s gotten used to hanging off your neck!”

Denis sighed.

“I’ll talk to her.”

That evening he really did.

“Katya, maybe you should finally get a job?”

“You want me to work?”

“The family budget isn’t endless. Dad’s right—extra money wouldn’t hurt.”

“So I’m a burden?”

“Not a burden. But you’re not the breadwinner either.”

Those words stung, but Katya didn’t argue. In her husband’s family she already felt like an outsider.
Family games

The next day she went to the lawyers. At the office she was met by an elderly man in an expensive suit.

“Ekaterina Vladimirovna, have a seat. I have news for you that will change your life completely.”

“I’m listening.”

“Three days ago, businessman Alexei Romanov died in a car accident. Your uncle.”

“Uncle Alexei?” Katya was stunned. “But we haven’t spoken for fifteen years…”

“Nevertheless, he left a will. He bequeaths his entire estate to you.”

The lawyer opened a folder and took out documents.

“A retail chain, warehouse complexes, real estate, securities. The total value of the assets is eighty million rubles.”

Katya’s vision dimmed. Eighty million? It was impossible to imagine.

“Are you sure? Could it be a mistake?”

“No mistake. Here is the will, notarized. The only condition is that the money passes to you only after the testator’s death—which means now.”

“But why me? He had friends, business partners…”

The lawyer nodded to the text.

“The will says: ‘To my niece Ekaterina, the only one who never asked me for money and never fawned over me because of my wealth.’”

He handed her the documents.

“The money has already been transferred to your account. Tomorrow you may dispose of it as you see fit.”

Katya rode home as if in a fog. In her purse were the inheritance certificates; in her head there was only one thought—she was rich. Very rich.

At home the family was eating dinner. Everyone looked at Katya as she came in.

“Well? What kind of inheritance is it?” her mother-in-law asked.

“Uncle Alexei died. He left me his business.”

“What business?” Denis asked.

“A retail chain. And real estate.”

The father-in-law smirked.

“A retail chain! Probably a stall at the market. Or some little shop.”

“Not a stall,” Katya said quietly.

“Then what?”

“A chain of supermarkets.”

“How many stores?” Angela asked.

“Twenty-seven.”

Silence fell over the kitchen. The father-in-law was the first to recover.

“Twenty-seven stores? Are you out of your mind, girl—telling fairy tales!”

“Not fairy tales. Here are the documents.”

Katya laid the inheritance papers on the table. Denis picked them up, scanned them, and went pale.

“Eighty million rubles,” he read aloud.

The mother-in-law gasped and clutched her chest. Angela’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

And the father-in-law jumped up and shouted:

“You’re lying! Our freeloader can’t have that kind of money!”

“Dad, quiet,” Denis tried to calm him down.

“Quiet? No! She’s been hanging on my neck for three years, eating my bread, and now she’s making up stories about millions!”

“You can see the documents…”

“Forgery!” the father-in-law barked, grabbing a frying pan from the table. “Cursed parasite!”

He swung it and struck Katya on the head with all his strength. She collapsed; blood ran from her split eyebrow.

“Dad, what are you doing?!” Denis rushed to his wife.

“I’m doing what should’ve been done a long time ago! Kicking the loafer out of the house!”

The mother-in-law stared silently at her bleeding daughter-in-law. Angela backed toward the door. The father-in-law kept raging:

“How long are we supposed to tolerate this burden? Three years we feed her, clothe her, and she tells us fairy tales about millions!”

Denis helped Katya up and pressed a towel to her wound.

“Dad, calm down. Let’s sort this out peacefully.”

“Nothing to sort out! Tomorrow she packs her bags!”

“Where will I go?” Katya asked quietly.

“I don’t care! To the street, to friends, to your parents—just out of my house!”

At last the mother-in-law spoke:

“Maybe the documents are real? What if she really did inherit something?”

“Are you out of your mind?” the father-in-law snapped. “Look at her! A regular housewife! What kind of millionaire relatives do people like that have?”

 

“But the papers—”

“Fake! She probably borrowed money to get them made so she could stay in the family!”
Family games

Katya dabbed at the blood and stood up.

“Fine. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Good,” the father-in-law grumbled. “Sick of you.”

That night Katya didn’t sleep. Her head hurt from the blow, but her soul hurt more. For three years she’d lived with these people, trying to be a good daughter-in-law—and they’d seen her as a moocher.

Denis shifted beside her.

“Katya… what if it’s true? About the inheritance?”

“It’s true.”

“Then why did Dad get so angry?”

“Because he’s been building up anger for three years. And now he poured it out.”

“He’s not mean. He’s just… tired of being broke.”

“And am I to blame there’s no money?”

“You’re not to blame. But you weren’t helping to earn either.”

Katya said nothing. In the morning she would call the bank and check the account. And then everyone would understand.

At seven a.m. the phone rang. It was the bank.

“Ekaterina Vladimirovna? A large transfer was deposited into your account yesterday. We wanted to confirm that everything is in order.”

“Yes, everything is fine. What amount was deposited?”

“Eighty million rubles. We are required to inform you about the tax obligations…”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Katya hung up. In the kitchen, the whole family was having breakfast.

“Who called?” Denis asked.

“The bank. They confirmed the money was deposited.”

The father-in-law snorted.

“Yeah, sure. And how much came in?”

“Eighty million.”

“Stop lying!” he roared.

“I’m not. If you want, call the bank yourself.”

Denis took his phone and found the bank’s number. After five minutes speaking with the operator, he slowly lowered the phone.

“Dad… it really is eighty million.”

“What?”

“The money is real. It came yesterday.”

The father-in-law grabbed the table to keep from falling. The mother-in-law opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak.

Angela was the first to react.

“Katya! Katyusha! Forgive us, idiots! We didn’t know!”

“Now you do.”

“Dad was just nervous! He’s exhausted from work!”

“I see.”

The father-in-law tried to say something, but Katya cut him off.

“I’ve already packed my bags. Like you demanded.”

“Katya, that’s nonsense!” the mother-in-law burst into tears. “Where will you go? This is your home!”

“Yesterday you said the opposite.”

“We just didn’t know about the money!”

“And if there was no money? Then it was okay to throw me out?”

The family fell silent. Her logic was ironclad.
Family games

Denis tried to hug her.

“Katya, forgive me. I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About not standing up for you. About letting Dad hit you.”

“You did let him,” Katya agreed.

“But now everything will change! We’ll live differently!”

“Differently?”

“Well, yes! We have money now!”

Katya gave a bitter smile.

“I have money. And you still have your debts.”

“How is that?” the father-in-law didn’t understand.

“Like this. The inheritance is mine. None of it is yours.”

“But we’re family!”

“Yesterday we were family. Today I’m rich, so suddenly everything changes.”
Family games

The mother-in-law rushed toward her.

“My dear girl, don’t say that! We love you!”
Gift baskets

“You loved me yesterday, when you thought I was poor?”

“We loved you! We just… we just didn’t show it!”

“You didn’t show it. But you showed what you really think.”

Katya took her suitcases.

“Goodbye. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Katya, stop!” the father-in-law shouted. “I apologize! Forgive me, old fool!”

“It’s too late to apologize.”

“Not too late! I’ll crawl on my knees!”
Gift baskets

“Don’t. Just live the way you lived before.”

“Like before?”

“Without the freeloader who eats your bread.”

She left the apartment to the screams and pleas of her relatives. Denis caught up to her by the elevator.

“Katya, don’t go! Think about our marriage!”

“I’ve been thinking for three years.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About why I need a husband who can’t protect his wife.”

“I will protect you! No one will touch you again!”

“Yesterday you didn’t.”

“I froze…”

“And I got disappointed.”

The elevator arrived. Katya stepped in. Denis tried to follow.

“Katya, wait! Let’s talk calmly!”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Yesterday you said everything.”

The elevator doors closed. Downstairs, a taxi was waiting.

A month later Katya bought herself a house in an elite gated cottage community. She built a new life without reproaches, humiliation, and frying-pan blows.

And her former family beat their heads against the wall. Eighty million rubles were gone forever—all because of one uncontrolled outburst of rage and an unwillingness to believe in the success of someone close.

For another six months Denis tried to reconcile—he wrote, called, came by. Useless. Katya was polite but unyielding.

“But there was love!” he shouted.

“There was,” Katya agreed. “On my side. On your side there was a habit.”

“What habit?”

“The habit of thinking of me as a failure. A burden. A parasite.”

“We didn’t think that!”

“Your father said it outright yesterday. And you stayed silent.”

Denis fell quiet. There was nothing to argue.

A year later Katya finalized the divorce. She left her ex-husband their old apartment—let him keep living with his parents.

And she opened a charitable foundation to help women who had suffered domestic violence. From her own experience, she knew how painful and humiliating it was.

The foundation quickly became well known. Katya didn’t skimp on help—she paid for housing for survivors, covered medical treatment, helped with employment.

Journalists often asked why she chose that direction.

“Because I know what it feels like to get hit in the head with a frying pan by the people closest to you,” she answered calmly.

“But your offenders have understood their mistake…”

 

“They understood only after they learned about the money. And if there had been no money?”

That question left people speechless.

Meanwhile, the ex-family lived in poverty. The father-in-law lost his job—management found out how he treated his rich daughter-in-law and decided they didn’t want to deal with someone like that.

Denis lost his position too. Colleagues stopped respecting him after the story about the eighty million spread.

The mother-in-law fell ill from the stress. There was no money for treatment—the family was barely making ends meet.
Family games

Angela was the only one who tried to find work and somehow improve their situation. But there was no easy money.

Two years later the father-in-law couldn’t take it anymore. He came to his former daughter-in-law to ask forgiveness.

Katya received him in her office. The elderly man looked pathetic—thin, in worn clothes, with dull eyes.

“Katya… Ekaterina Vladimirovna… forgive me, old fool.”

“What are you asking forgiveness for?”

“For everything. For hitting you. For throwing you out. For calling you a parasite.”

“And why did you call me a parasite?”

“Because… because you didn’t earn money.”

“And what’s changed now?”

“Now I understand—it’s not about money. It’s about the person.”

Katya looked at him carefully.

“You realized that rather late.”

“Late, yes. But maybe it’s not hopeless yet?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to forgive me. And for the family to be together again.”

“Family?”

“Yes. You’re Denis’s wife. My daughter-in-law.”

“Ex-wife. Ex-daughter-in-law.”

The father-in-law was silent for a moment, then asked:

“And you won’t give us any money? Things are really bad.”

Katya smirked.

“So that’s the truth. You didn’t come to make peace—you came to ask for money.”

“Not only money! I want reconciliation too!”

“Reconciliation for money?”

“Well… family, after all…”

“There is no family between us. And there won’t be.”

The father-in-law left empty-handed. A month later Katya learned he was telling everyone how greedy and spiteful she was.

“She’s got eighty million, and she won’t give her relatives a kopeck!” he complained to neighbors.

“What relatives?” people asked.

“What do you mean—what relatives? Father-in-law, mother-in-law, husband!”

“But she divorced you…”

“Formally divorced! But in essence—we’re family!”

People found such logic astonishing, but the father-in-law sincerely believed he was right.

Meanwhile, Katya met another man—Alexei, a doctor from a hospital her foundation sponsored.

He didn’t know about her wealth. They met in ordinary circumstances and fell in love without calculation.
Gift baskets

Only after six months together did Katya tell him the truth. Alexei listened and said:

“I understand why you hid it. After something like that it’s hard to trust anyone.”

“And how do you feel about money?”

“Calmly. If it’s there—great. If not—not a tragedy.”

“Really?”

“Really. What matters is the person beside you, not the size of their wallet.”

For the first time in a long time Katya felt she could relax. Not fear judgment, not expect a catch, not check every word for sincerity.

A year later they got married—quietly, without extravagance. Only their closest friends were at the wedding.

Her ex-husband learned about it from the newspapers. The article was titled: “Millionairess Marries a Simple Doctor.”

Denis stared at the photos of the happy couple for a long time, then said to his parents:

“That could have been us.”

“If it weren’t for Dad’s frying pan,” Angela added.

The father-in-law said nothing. He had nothing left to say.

And Katya built a new life—honest, open, based on mutual respect. For the first time in many years, she was truly happy.

Sometimes she remembered that evening and the blow from the frying pan—and thought how good it was that everything happened exactly like that. The удар (blow) opened her eyes to the true nature of the people she had called family.
Family games

And her real family turned out to be completely different. There no one kept score of who earned how much. There they didn’t love for money—they loved simply because.

 Anna dried her hands on a towel and stepped back to admire the bouquet of white roses she’d just finished for a loyal client. Outside, a thin October drizzle polished the street to a gray shine; inside, the air was crisp and alive—the complicated perfume of greens and petals she always called “the scent of life.” Three years ago she couldn’t have named half these varieties, let alone predict which stems drank greedily and which sulked at the wrong temperature. Now she could read them at a glance.

The bell over the door chimed. Not a customer—Mikhail. He rarely came in person; phone calls were his style.

“Hi. How are you?” He kissed her cheek, voice tight around the edges.

“Good. Fifth bouquet sold already. And Mrs. Kovalyova ordered another table arrangement—says only our flowers last more than a week.”

Mikhail nodded, distracted, eyes slipping past her work to nowhere. She knew that look. In twelve years she’d learned the small signs: the pressed lips, the shallow frown, the way he avoided her gaze when he was bracing for something unpleasant.

“Anya, we need to talk,” he said, lowering himself onto the chair near the counter. “About the shop.”

Her heart snagged. She set the scissors down, turned to face him. “What about the shop?”

“It’s not… unprofitable, exactly. But it isn’t making much either. Three years, and it still hasn’t broken even.”

“Misha, what are you saying?” Her voice wavered.

He exhaled and stared through the display glass at the rain. “Katya has problems. She divorced Igor, the apartment stays with him. She has nowhere to live. She’s with a friend for now, but that’s temporary.” A beat. “We’ll sell your shop and buy her an apartment.”

The floor seemed to tilt. He’d said it like he was asking her to pick up bread on the way home.

“What?” She stared at him. “How can you say we’ll sell my shop?”

“Anya, be reasonable. We’ve poured money in for three years with no real return. Katya needs help; she’s my sister.”

“And what about me?” The words tore out. “Am I not your wife? This is my work—my life.”

 

“But it doesn’t bring in money.”

“It didn’t. Now it does.” She gestured at the register. “Look around—more customers, more orders. I’m finally getting the hang of this.”

He rose, jaw set in a way that frightened her. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m informing you. The shop must be sold.”

“No.” Her fist struck the counter. A few white petals shook loose and fell. “I won’t allow it. It’s my shop.”

“The one I helped you open. With my money.”

That landed harder than a slap. Heat and hurt tightened through her chest. “So I’m just an employee you can fire when it suits you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. But family matters more than flowers. Katya needs us.”
Family games

“And I don’t?” Her voice trembled with unshed tears. “I don’t need my husband to believe in me?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I believed for three years. Isn’t that enough?”

She turned away, to the window where the rain threaded down the glass like invisible tears. “Leave,” she whispered. “Just… leave.”

“Anya—”

“Leave!” The force in her voice startled them both.

He hesitated, then went. The bell gave a mournful little ring. Anna sank onto the chair and cried—hot, helpless tears that tasted of confusion and disbelief. How could he sweep away three years of study, failure, persistence—of finally getting it right?

She remembered the beginning. He had supported her—warily. “Try,” he’d said. “And if it doesn’t work, don’t be upset.” She had tried. She’d read until midnight about conditioning water, spoke to growers, practiced spiral hand-ties until her fingers cramped. The first year was a disaster—flowers spoiled, customers didn’t come, she stored peonies like tulips and paid for it—but she kept going. Regulars trickled in. She learned to hear what the stems were saying.

And now, when the tide was finally turning, he wanted to smash it to pieces. For Katya.

She’d never warmed to his sister. Not open hostility, just a persistent undertone. Katya was glamorous, magnetic, always center-stage. “Annushka, you’re so lucky,” she’d purr. “Such a caring husband, gorgeous home—and now your own business!” Compliments that left a metallic aftertaste.

That evening at home Mikhail came in storm-cloud dark. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“I have. The answer is still no.”

“Anna, you’re being selfish.”

“Selfish?” She turned from the stove. “I poured my soul into this shop for three years, and I’m selfish for not wanting to sell it?”

“Katya has nowhere to go.”

“Why is that my problem? She can work, rent like everyone else.”

“She’s my sister.”

“And I’m your wife.” She caught herself. “Or was—”

He froze. The pan hissed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean a husband supports his wife. He doesn’t burn down her dream to satisfy his sister’s whims.”

“This isn’t whimsy. She has real problems.”

“So do I.” Anna shut off the flame and faced him. “My husband wants to take away the work of my life.”

“The work of your life?” He smirked. “You’ve sold flowers for three years. Don’t exaggerate.”

Something snapped. “Get out of the kitchen,” she said, calm and final. He understood and left.

Days slid into a cold war—bare necessities spoken, separate rooms, eyes that found other things to look at. She felt the hairline fractures running through their twelve-year marriage and had no idea how to seal them.

At the shop, she buried herself in stems and ribbon. Flowers don’t lie, don’t choose sides, don’t trade your future for someone else’s catastrophe. They live as they can and give what beauty they have.

On Thursday, Marina from the beauty salon next door stopped by for coffee. “Anya, you look wrung out.”

“Family mess,” Anna sighed.

“Want to talk?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Misha wants to sell the shop.”

“What?” Marina’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“To buy his sister an apartment. Divorce, no place to live.”

Marina shook her head. “And she can’t earn like everyone else?”

“Apparently it’s easier to lean on her brother.”

Marina leaned in, voice low. “Anya, doesn’t something feel off? Remember I told you I saw Mikhail with a woman at a café?”

Anna stiffened. “You did. And?”

“What if it wasn’t random? What if he and Katya are… strategizing? Dividing things in case of a divorce.”

“Marina, please—”

“Just think. Why your shop? You two have a dacha. A second car. Other assets.”

“We do.”

“Exactly. Why the one thing that is yours?”

Anna’s thoughts snagged. Why, indeed? The dacha outside Moscow they never used. The second car gathering dust. Why her business?

“Maybe Katya’s whispering in his ear,” Marina went on. “Maybe telling him you don’t appreciate him.”

“Why would she—”

“Envy is a poison.” Marina lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she can’t stand that you have a loving husband and a business.”

That night Anna couldn’t sleep. Marina’s words circled like birds around a spire. What if Katya was sharpening knives behind the scenes?

The next day she called Lena, a friend to both families. “Lena, hi. Quick question—has Katya said anything about me lately?”
Family games

A pause. “Did something happen?”

“Just curious.”

“Anya… better to ask her.”

“Please. It’s important.”

A sigh. “All right, but don’t spiral. She said you don’t value Mikhail. That you live at the shop and neglect the family.”

“And?”

“And she hinted—” another pause “—that you might have someone. That you’ve been staying late, going out evenings.”

“What?” Anna felt her pulse drum in her temples. “That’s a lie. Shop and home—that’s it.”

“I know. I told her so. She insisted. Said she wanted to open Misha’s eyes.”

“Open his eyes?”

“To the idea that you’re lying. That he should divorce you before you take everything.”

Anna closed her eyes and sank into the chair. There it was. Katya had drawn the blueprint: isolate, smear, strip.

“Thanks, Lena.”

“Just… be careful.”

That evening, when Mikhail came home, Anna met him in the hall. “We need to talk.”

“About the shop? Did you come to your senses?”

“No. About your sister.”

His face hardened. “What about her?”

“What she told you about me isn’t true.”

“How do you know what—”

“It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that it’s a lie. All of it. The ‘affair,’ the ‘ungrateful wife,’ the ‘bad partner.’”

He blinked, thrown. “Katya wouldn’t lie.”

“Katya is jealous,” Anna said evenly. “She sees a husband who loves me and a business I’m building, and she can’t stand it. She wants to wreck it.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“Then explain why you chose my shop to sell. We have a dacha. A second car. Your investments. Why my livelihood?”

He opened his mouth and found nothing to put there.

“Because she wants me stripped of everything,” Anna said softly. “If you divorce me after that, I’m nobody. And the apartment? Hers.”

“That’s—”

“True. And somewhere in you, you know it.”

Silence thickened. Doubt flickered across his face.

“Even if you’re right,” he said finally, “Katya still needs help.”

“Then help her some other way. Sell the dacha. Lend her money. But don’t touch my shop.”

“It isn’t profitable.”

“It is.” She pulled a notebook from her bag. “Last three months: net profit two hundred thousand. Climbing each month.”

He turned pages, eyes narrowing. “Where did these figures come from?”

“From me finally running this properly. Regulars. Corporate orders. I’m even eyeing a second location.”

“A second?”

“There’s a space opening on Sovetskaya Street. Better foot traffic. We could grow.”

He closed the notebook, slower this time. “Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”

“Because you’d stopped listening. You decided the shop was a failure and turned off the sound.”

 

He sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Not maybe,” she said. “You know it.”

The next day he went to see Katya. When he returned his face was gray and tight. He sat opposite her. “You were right. She fed me garbage.”

“And?”

“I told her I’m done bankrolling her. She’ll have to sort her own life out.”

Relief washed through Anna, trailed by a steady throb of anger. “And the shop?”

“It’s yours. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough. You almost ruined me.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “Let me make it right. I’ll help with the second shop—if you still want it.”

For the first time in days, Anna’s mouth remembered how to smile. “I do. Very much.”

A month later the new shop on Sovetskaya Street opened its doors. Mornings there, afternoons at the original store—she moved between the two like a current. Business was better than she’d dared hope. Mikhail helped for real this time—sending clients from his network, giving level-headed advice on margins and cash flow.

Katya stopped calling. Word had it she’d found a job and rented a place. Fine. Let everyone carry their own weight.

One evening, as Anna closed up, she lingered at the front window. White chrysanthemums and yellow roses glowed together—a pocket of sunlight on a dull day. Three years ago she couldn’t have told a chrysanthemum from an aster. Now she was sketching a chain.

Mikhail stepped in behind her and kissed her cheek. “How’s today?”

“Great. I sold more arrangements than all last week.”

“Perfect. I think I’ve found a spot for a third shop.”

“A third?” She laughed, startled. “I’m still learning to juggle two.”

“I’m already thinking franchising,” he said, grinning.

She actually laughed then—freely, for the first time in too long. “Let’s master two. Then we talk.”

“As you say, boss.”

They stepped outside. The rain had given up; a pale sun slid through the clouds. And Anna thought that life, like flowers, needs patience and faith. You keep tending, even when everything looks lost. Sometimes the fiercest storms precede the most beautiful bloom.

You won’t get anything in court!” my ex-husband cackled. But when my attorney walked into the hall, silence fell—and he started to cry.

His laughter echoed down the empty courthouse corridor—cloying, humiliating. He stood surrounded by his “entourage”: an expensive lawyer with a crocodile-skin briefcase and his mother, who looked at me with forced sympathy thinly veiling blatant judgment.

“We just want you to leave Dima alone,” she drawled sweetly, a poisonous spark flickering in her eyes. “He’s suffered enough.”

I looked at Dmitry—his well-groomed face wearing a mask of sham virtue. The man who had spent years methodically destroying my life was now playing the victim. And everyone believed him.

My public defender—a young guy who looked at the floor more than at me—fidgeted with his papers, as if he’d already accepted defeat. After our first meeting he’d advised me to “settle at any cost.”

“We have statements from the neighbors,” Dmitry went on, mocking me. “Everyone heard you screaming. How you couldn’t control yourself.”

He was a master at leaving things out. For example, that I screamed when he locked me in a room. Or when I found yet another flirtatious chat on his phone. In his version I was just a hysteric. And he was the poor martyr who’d endured “a woman like that” for years.

 

I glanced around the waiting area. People were watching us—at him with understanding and pity, at me with condemnation. I wanted to sink through the cold marble floor. I was ready to do anything just to end the humiliation. But somewhere inside a small flame still smoldered, refusing to let me give up completely.

That same evening, after the first meeting with his lawyers, I called an old university friend who worked at a law firm. I didn’t ask for help—just needed to vent. She listened silently and then said, “I know someone. He’s not simple, but cases like this are his specialty. I’ll pass him your number.” I expected nothing.

“Look at yourself, Lena. You’re alone. Who’s going to believe you?” Dmitry hissed, leaning closer. His expensive cologne mixed with the smell of my fear. “You’ll lose everything—your home, your money, your reputation. You’ll have nothing left.”

And at that moment, the doors at the end of the corridor opened. Everyone turned.

A tall man in an impeccable dark-gray suit walked in. He didn’t look like a lawyer—more like a surgeon or an architect; there was a cold precision in his eyes. His quick, penetrating gaze swept over everyone present, as though scanning them through.

Dmitry frowned; his confidence showed its first crack.

The man walked straight to me, ignoring everyone else.

“Elena Andreevna? Kirill Valeryevich,” he introduced himself calmly. His voice was even and assured. “Your friend called me. I’ve already reviewed the case materials. We can begin.”

The smile slid off Dmitry’s face. He glanced at his smug attorney, then at the newcomer, and in his eyes I saw something I had never seen before—fear.

His laughter died. His mother clutched his arm in a panic. And when Kirill opened his briefcase and set a thick folder of documents in front of my stunned public defender, Dmitry sank onto the bench. For the first time in many years I saw tears on his face—tears of rage and helplessness.

The hearing was only a preliminary one, but the tension in the courtroom was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Dmitry’s lawyer—slick and overconfident—started first. He spoke about my “emotional instability,” about my “attempts to manipulate his client.”

“Your Honor, the plaintiff’s side is trying to tarnish my client’s spotless name,” he declaimed, flourishing his hand. “This is a classic case of female vindictiveness after a breakup.”

My new counsel kept silent, jotting brief notes in his notebook. When his turn came, he stood. No grand words, no theatrics.

“Your Honor, we won’t deny my client’s emotionality,” he said evenly. Dmitry’s attorney smirked. “We’ll simply give those emotions context.”

Kirill laid a single sheet of paper before the judge.

“This is a statement from a bank account opened in the name of Dmitry Petrovich three days before he filed his petition.

“As you can see, a significant sum was transferred to that account from the company where he works—the very company whose financial troubles he lamented to my client while pressuring her to sell her inherited apartment.”

Dmitry looked as if he’d been jolted with electricity. His lawyer’s face darkened at once.

“This is irrelevant!” he shouted.

“On the contrary,” Kirill replied calmly. “It has direct bearing on systematic psychological and financial pressure. This isn’t revenge. It’s evidence.”

The judge studied the document thoughtfully. A recess was declared.

In the hallway Dmitry rushed up to me at once. The victim’s mask had returned to his face, but now it sat crooked.

“Lena, why are you doing this?” He tried to take my hand; I jerked away. “You know this is all a misunderstanding. We can settle everything peacefully.”

His voice slid back into that insinuating tone I’d heard a thousand times—the voice that made me doubt my own memories, believe that I was the one to blame.

“Let’s just talk. Without them. Remember how good we were together? Are you really going to ruin everything over some piece of paper?”

For a moment I almost gave in—the old habit of yielding to avoid a fight, the longing for the nightmare to end.

But Kirill appeared beside me. He didn’t even look at Dmitry. He addressed me.

“Elena Andreevna, you mentioned that your ex-husband often recorded your arguments on a voice recorder to use against you?”

I nodded, not understanding where he was going.

 

“Just clarifying,” he said calmly, then looked straight at Dmitry. “I hope you’re recording this ‘peaceful conversation’ too? For the record.”

Dmitry recoiled as if from a flame. His face twisted with rage. His whole act, everything…