All Amazing Babies

“I don’t understand why you put up with this,” Natasha, Yulia’s colleague, said, shaking her head in surprise. “I would’ve put my foot down long ago.”

Yulia just sighed, stirring her coffee. The lunch break was almost over, and talking to her friend hadn’t brought any relief.

“You know, sometimes it feels like I live in a public thoroughfare,” Yulia pushed her cup aside. “Imagine: I come home after a meeting, barely able to stand. And there are my mother-in-law and her friend in the kitchen having tea—like it’s their place! And Andrey didn’t even warn me.”

“And what did you do?”

“What could I do? I smiled, of course. Put the kettle on, got out some cookies…”

Natasha shook her head.
“You trained them yourself. You’ve been tolerating this for five years.”

Yulia rubbed her temples automatically. The headache that had become her constant companion in recent months was back.

“Andrey thinks I should be happy—says his parents treat me like a daughter.”

“Do they show up often?”

“Three or four times a week at least. Especially my father-in-law—he loves dropping by unannounced. He’ll come in, sit in the armchair and start: ‘Back in our day…’ And he’ll be sure to ask what’s for dinner.”

Just then Yulia’s phone chimed. Andrey wrote that his parents would stop by in the evening—to discuss weekend plans.

“Here, have a look,” Yulia handed the phone to her friend. “He doesn’t ask; he states a fact.”

“And the apartment is yours, right?” Natasha squinted.

“Mine. I bought it before the marriage—took out a mortgage up to my ears. Three more years to pay. But I don’t take a penny from my husband. My dad nagged me to death: ‘What if you divorce, you’ll have to split the apartment.’ So I pay for it myself and even keep all the receipts.”

“And they know this?”

“Of course. It means nothing to them. Viktor Stepanovich said outright, ‘Now this is the family nest.’”

 

The workday dragged on endlessly. Yulia tried to focus on reports, but her thoughts kept returning to the coming evening. After talking with Natasha, something inside had cracked. Before, she’d managed to convince herself everything was fine, that this was how a family should be. But now…

At six o’clock, packing up, Yulia decided—tonight she wouldn’t cook dinner. Let them feel, just once, that she’s a living person and not the help.

At home, the first thing she did was shower and change into something comfortable. She didn’t even look into the kitchen. She sat in her favorite armchair with a book—something she’d been meaning to read for a long time.

The doorbell rang exactly at seven. On the threshold stood Viktor Stepanovich with a fresh newspaper under his arm, and behind him came her mother-in-law, Raisa Nikolaevna, with a bag of sunflower seeds.

“We’ve come to see you!” the mother-in-law announced cheerfully, heading straight for the kitchen.

Yulia nodded in silence. The father-in-law, without taking off his street shoes, went into the living room and settled into the armchair as usual.

“What’s for dinner today?” he inquired, unfolding the newspaper.

“Nothing,” Yulia answered curtly.

Viktor Stepanovich lowered the paper.
“How’s that—nothing? Don’t just stand there like a post! Go cook something!”

The front door banged—the sound of Andrey coming in.

“Hi, everyone!” he called from the hallway. “Oh, Mom, Dad, you’re already here!”

Raisa Nikolaevna poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Andryusha, here’s the thing… Yulia didn’t make anything.”

“Didn’t make anything?” Andrey frowned, looking at his wife. “You knew my parents were coming.”

“I knew,” Yulia replied calmly. “You told me at lunch.”

“So what? You could’ve thrown something together. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Yulia noticed her mother-in-law exchange a meaningful glance with her husband.

“Exactly—it wouldn’t be the first,” Yulia rose from the armchair. “Or the tenth. I’m tired of being a round-the-clock cafeteria.”

“Dear, what are you saying…” began Raisa Nikolaevna.

“I’m not your ‘dear’!” Yulia’s voice trembled. “I have a name. And my own life. And my own apartment, for that matter!”

“Yulia!” Andrey stepped toward his wife. “Stop the hysterics!”

“Hysterics?” Yulia let out a bitter laugh. “You call it hysterics when, for the first time in five years, I said ‘no’?”

Viktor Stepanovich ostentatiously folded his newspaper.
“You know, Andrey, I always said—you spoiled her. And here’s the result.”

“And you…” Yulia turned sharply to her father-in-law, then fell silent. A lump rose in her throat; her hands were shaking.

“What—me?” he raised an eyebrow. “Go on, finish what you started.”

Yulia clenched her fists. Five years of pent-up resentment burst to the surface.

“You’re used to treating my home as your own. You come whenever you feel like it, you give orders, you constantly demand food… But this is my apartment! Mine! And I have the right to be alone in it once in a while!”

Raisa Nikolaevna threw up her hands.
“Andryusha, do you hear? She’s throwing us out!”

 

“Yulia, stop it right now,” Andrey grabbed her by the elbow. “Apologize to my parents.”

“I won’t,” Yulia pulled her arm free. “I’m done apologizing for wanting a normal life. Without daily visits and instructions on what to do in my own home. I don’t want to cook for others all the time! I’m exhausted!”

Her husband’s parents got ready to leave. The mother-in-law muttered that Yulia was mean and ungrateful. For a while, everything was quiet. Yulia even hoped things had settled.

But one evening Andrey announced that his parents would come and stay for a couple of days. Yulia had just returned from a three-day business trip—tired, drained by endless meetings.

“Andrey, I just got off the plane. I need to rest, to pull myself together…”

“You know how much they love coming here,” Andrey didn’t even look at his wife, his eyes glued to his phone.

“They just love eating for free,” flashed through Yulia’s mind, but she said nothing aloud.

The parents arrived in the evening with two huge suitcases. The sheer amount of stuff immediately put Yulia on alert.

Viktor Stepanovich went straight to the living room and turned the TV up to full volume. Raisa Nikolaevna, without even taking off her coat, headed for the kitchen.

“Yulia dear, our stomachs have cramped up from the road. Come on, make something quick.”

“I’m working,” Yulia nodded at her laptop. “My deadline’s burning.”

“Working, she says,” the mother-in-law snorted. “You could make an effort for your husband’s parents.”

From the living room came the father-in-law’s voice:
“By the way, about work! Yulia, could you help me with my phone? Something’s wrong with the internet…”

“I can’t right now, sorry.”

“She’s always like this,” the father-in-law said loudly to his son. “No respect for her elders.”

Andrey kept silent, pretending not to hear. Yulia clenched her teeth and went back to work. Half an hour later her mother-in-law’s voice rang out from the kitchen again:

“Yulia! How much longer are you going to pretend you’re busy? We’re sitting here hungry!”

“Order delivery,” Yulia snapped at last. “There’s a magnet on the fridge with a menu and number.”

“Ugh,” Raisa Nikolaevna grimaced. “We prefer homemade food. In my day, daughters-in-law…”

“I’m not your daughter-in-law from the last century!” Yulia slammed her laptop shut. “I have my own life, my own job, my own plans! Why should I drop everything every time you need something?”

Silence settled over the room. Even the TV seemed to grow quieter.

“Andrey,” Viktor Stepanovich said slowly, “do you hear how your wife is speaking to us?”

“Yulia’s just tired,” Andrey tried to smooth things over. “I’ll take care of dinner myself.”

“No, son,” the father-in-law rose from the armchair. “It’s not about being tired. Your wife has gotten conceited. She’s decided that since the apartment is hers, she can look down on us.”

“You know what?” Yulia stood up too. “Yes, it is my apartment. And I have the right to decide who lives here and when!”

“Yulia!” Andrey put a hand on her shoulder. “You could be a little more tolerant! They’re my family!”

“Let go of me,” Yulia said quietly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Enough!” the mother-in-law suddenly cut in. “Come on, start cooking if you have time to argue.”

Three pairs of eyes bored into Yulia. And she gave in.

A few days later, Andrey’s parents finally moved out. Yulia hoped peace would return to the home. Two months passed relatively calmly.

One day, coming back from work, Yulia dreamed of a hot bath and a cup of tea. The day had been especially hard—three meetings in a row, a difficult client, traffic jams. Unlocking the door with her key, Yulia froze on the threshold.

Voices and the clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. Viktor Stepanovich and Raisa Nikolaevna were already making themselves at home—groceries from the fridge spread out on the table, pots set out.

“Ah, there you are!” Viktor Stepanovich tore himself away from the newspaper. “Well, what are you making for dinner today?”

Yulia slowly set down her bag.
“Nothing.”

Andrey, who had been silently standing by the window, looked away. Viktor Stepanovich frowned:

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? We didn’t come here for you! We came for your food! Come on, get to the stove!”

Something snapped inside Yulia. Her suspicions were confirmed. Five years of humiliation, endless concessions, attempts to please—it had all been for nothing. No one thought of her as a person.

“I see,” Yulia straightened up. “So it’s for the food? And here I was thinking you came to see your son.”

“Yulia, don’t start,” Andrey tried to intervene.

“No, darling, I’m going to finish,” Yulia turned to her husband. “This isn’t a cafeteria. Not a hotel. This is my home! Mine! And I will no longer let anyone boss around here.”

Raisa Nikolaevna threw up her hands.
“Andryusha, do you hear what she’s saying?”

“You haven’t heard me for five years,” Yulia went on. “For five years I’ve cooked and put up with your visits. And you”—she looked at her husband—”have never once taken my side. Not once!”

“Because you’re wrong!” Andrey flared. “You’re acting like…”

 

“Like what?” Yulia cut him off. “Like someone who’s tired of being a servant in her own home?”

Viktor Stepanovich stood up.
“We’d better go. We won’t get in the way of your figuring things out.”

“Right,” Yulia nodded. “Go. And don’t come again without an invitation.”

“Yulia!” Andrey grabbed her hand. “Apologize. Now!”

“No,” Yulia pulled her hand free. “Enough. Choose, Andrey. Either you start respecting my boundaries or…” —she paused— “go to your parents. For good.”

A heavy silence fell. Yulia watched Andrey shift his gaze from her to his parents and back again. At last he lowered his head.

“Sorry, Yulia. But they’re my family.”

“And me?” Yulia asked quietly. “What am I?”

For several minutes Andrey stared intently at his wife’s face, as if searching for answers there.
“You won’t change your decision?” he asked sullenly.

Yulia shook her head. She had found the strength to change the situation, to take it into her own hands. And she wasn’t about to give up her freedom.

Andrey silently took his jacket and followed his parents out. The front door slammed, and the apartment grew unusually quiet. It was the end of the marriage.

Yulia sank onto a chair. For some reason, the tears didn’t come. Instead of bitterness and despair, she felt a strange relief, as if she had dropped a heavy backpack she’d been lugging around all these years.

Her phone vibrated—a message from Natasha: “How are you?”

Yulia smiled and began to type: “Can you imagine, I finally…”

Tatyana was pouring the evening tea into cups when a sharp ring at the door made her start. The clock showed half past ten. Who would come to the dacha at this hour?

“Sergey, someone’s here,” she called to her husband, but he was already heading for the door.

A minute later familiar voices sounded in the entryway. Tatyana froze, teapot in hand. The in-laws. They’d arrived without calling, without warning, as if the dacha belonged to them alone.

“Sergey, my son!” cried Klavdia Petrovna, smothering him with kisses. “How we’ve missed you!”

Viktor Ivanovich gave his daughter-in-law a curt nod as he passed straight into the living room. Apparently greeting the lady of the house wasn’t necessary.

“Mom, Dad, what happened?” Sergey asked in surprise. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“Why warn you?” the mother-in-law snorted, tugging off her light sweater. “It’s our family dacha. We have the right to come whenever we like.”

Tatyana stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the scene. A family dacha? Interesting. And who had been paying the taxes for the last five years, fixing the roof, and tending the grounds?

“We came to see our son, not you, so keep quiet and make room!” snapped Klavdia Petrovna, having noticed her daughter-in-law.

Viktor Ivanovich was already inspecting the living room, appraising the sofa cushions with his hands.

“Why are you just standing there?” the mother-in-law continued. “Help carry the bags in. The traffic was awful—we barely made it.”

Sergey hurried out to the car for the suitcases. Tatyana watched him go, turning over what was happening. Did Klavdia Petrovna truly consider herself the mistress here?

“It was so hot on the road,” the mother-in-law complained, flopping onto the sofa. “The car’s air conditioner is acting up. Viktor Ivanovich is all sweaty.”

Viktor Ivanovich did look worn out. He sat in an armchair, dabbing his bald head with a handkerchief.

 

“Give me some water,” the father-in-law said shortly.

Tatyana silently went to the kitchen and poured a glass of cold water. When she came back, she found that Klavdia Petrovna had already started unpacking bags right on the floor.

“We’ll put the medicines here,” the mother-in-law narrated, setting vials on the coffee table. “And this is for Viktor Ivanovich’s back. The doctor prescribed rest.”

Sergey lugged in two big suitcases, breathing hard.

“Mom, maybe we should first decide where you’re going to sleep?” he suggested.

“Where to sleep?” Klavdia Petrovna was surprised. “In the bedroom, of course. Viktor Ivanovich’s back hurts—he needs a proper bed.”

Tatyana almost dropped the glass. Their bedroom? The only room where you could hide from the daytime heat?

“But Mom—” Sergey began.

“No buts!” the mother-in-law cut him off. “You’re young—you can make do on the sofa. At our age we need comfort.”

Viktor Ivanovich nodded approvingly, sipping his water.

“Exactly. Guests should have comforts.”

Guests? Tatyana bit her lip. So the owners of the dacha were now guests in their own house?

“Now show me what you have to eat,” ordered Klavdia Petrovna, getting up from the sofa. “We’re hungry—we only grabbed sandwiches on the road.”

Tatyana led her to the kitchen, mentally running through the contents of the fridge. There were cutlets left from lunch, potatoes, salad…

“Ugh, what is this?” the mother-in-law grimaced, peering into a pot. “You plan to feed us cold potatoes?”

“I can heat it up,” Tatyana offered.

“No need. I’ll cook something decent myself,” she waved her off. “Stay out of the kitchen tomorrow—I’ll do the cooking. Properly.”

Tatyana nodded silently. So now she was being stripped of the kitchen too?

“And really,” continued the mother-in-law, opening cupboards, “everything’s in the wrong place here. Dishes scattered, food put wherever. You can tell the hostess is inexperienced.”

Inexperienced? After five years of caring for the dacha? Tatyana clenched her teeth, holding back a sharp retort.

“And why is the fridge half empty?” the mother-in-law wouldn’t let up. “Tomorrow we’re going to the store and buying proper food.”

“We have everything we need,” Tatyana said quietly.

“‘Everything we need,’” sniffed Klavdia Petrovna. “Some yogurts and curd snacks. Where’s the meat? Where’s the fish? A man needs a hearty diet.”

From the living room came the father-in-law’s voice:

“Klava! When are we eating?”

“I’m cooking already!” she called back. “I’ll make some eggs.”

She set about taking over the kitchen as if Tatyana weren’t there at all: turned on the stove, took out a frying pan, began cracking eggs.

“Where do you keep proper oil?” she asked. “Is this sunflower? You should cook with olive oil.”

“There isn’t any olive oil,” Tatyana replied.

“You see?” Klavdia Petrovna shook her head reproachfully. “The most basic things are missing. Good we came— we’ll put things in order.”

Put things in order? In someone else’s house? Tatyana left the kitchen, feeling a boil of anger inside. In the living room Sergey was helping his father get comfortable.

“Dad, maybe put a pillow under your back?” he asked solicitously.

“Yes, my back aches,” the father-in-law complained. “The trip was rough. We need a proper rest.”

“Of course, Dad. Make yourselves at home.”

Make yourselves at home. That was exactly how they were acting. And the real owners were turning into the help.

 

“Sergey,” Tatyana called to her husband. “Can I have a minute?”

He came over, and she led him into the hallway.

“What is going on?” she asked quietly. “Why are they acting as if we’re the ones who don’t belong?”

“Come on, Tanya,” Sergey began in a soothing tone. “My parents are tired—they need to rest. We’ll put up with it.”

“Put up with it?” Tatyana couldn’t believe it. “For how long? A day? A week? A month?”

“I don’t know—however long they want to stay,” he shrugged. “They’ve nowhere else to go.”

Nowhere else? Klavdia Petrovna and Viktor Ivanovich had their own three-room apartment in the city. Air conditioning, all conveniences. Why were they here?

“Sergey, they’re throwing us out of our bedroom,” Tatyana reminded him.

“Dad’s back hurts,” her husband explained. “He can’t sleep on the sofa.”

But they could? Tatyana was about to argue, but the smell of burnt oil drifted in from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!” announced Klavdia Petrovna.

She set plates on the coffee table in the living room without bothering to call her daughter-in-law.

“Eat up, my men,” she said sweetly. “Get your strength back after the road.”

Tatyana watched the family tableau in silence. The in-laws ate, Sergey fussed over his parents, and she stood to the side, like a stranger. In her own house.

“And there weren’t enough eggs for you?” Viktor Ivanovich remarked, looking at Tatyana.

“Plenty,” she lied. “I’m not hungry.”

“Right,” the mother-in-law approved. “No need to stuff yourself at night. That’s how you get fat.”

After dinner, she began directing the cleanup.

“Sergey, help clear the dishes,” his mother asked. “I’m tired.”

Obediently, he gathered the plates and took them to the kitchen. Tatyana moved to help, but the mother-in-law stopped her with a gesture.

“You go rest,” she magnanimously allowed. “We’ll manage.”

Rest? Where? The in-laws had settled in the living room, and they’d taken the bedroom too. That left only the kitchen.

“Where do you keep your bed linens?” the mother-in-law asked her son.

“In the wardrobe in the bedroom,” Sergey replied.

“Bring clean ones,” she said. “And fresh towels.”

Tatyana followed her husband into the bedroom. He pulled out a set of sheets and some terry towels.

“Sergey,” she asked softly, “and where are we going to sleep?”

“On the living room sofa,” he answered, as if it were obvious.

“Together? On one sofa?”

“Well… or you can make do in the armchair.”

In the armchair? Tatyana stared at her husband, bewildered. Did he really not see how absurd this was?

“Sergei, dear!” the mother-in-law called from the living room. “Come help me make the bed.”

He hurried to his mother, leaving his wife alone. Tatyana sat on the edge of the bed, looking out at the summer garden. Yesterday this had been their bedroom, their dacha, their life. And today everything was turned upside down.

Voices drifted in from the next room. The mother-in-law was laying out plans for tomorrow.

“In the morning we’ll go shopping, buy proper supplies,” she said. “Then we’ll take a look at the garden—see what you’ve got growing. Viktor Ivanovich loves tomatoes.”

The garden was theirs now too? Tatyana remembered her springtime labor—planting seedlings, watering, weeding. And now the fruits of her work would go to uninvited guests.

“And one more thing, son,” the mother-in-law continued, “we need to rest after the trip. So don’t make noise in the morning—we’ll sleep in.”

Don’t make noise. In their own house. Tatyana gave a bitter smile. What next? A ban on walking around during the day? Breathing more quietly?

Evening drew to a close, and the sleeping arrangements were still unresolved. Tatyana took a pillow and blanket and went to the living room. The sofa was short and uncomfortable. How were two people supposed to fit?

Sergey appeared half an hour later, once his parents had settled in the bedroom.

“So—do we fit?” he asked, eyeing the sofa.

“Sergey, this is impossible,” Tatyana sighed. “It’s a twin-and-a-half at best.”

“It’s fine—we’ll manage somehow,” he said breezily.

Somehow. For Sergey, everything was simple. His parents had come—so they had to put up with it. Never mind that the owners of the house had been turned into the homeless.

The night was miserable. The sofa creaked with every movement, the blanket kept slipping off, and by morning Tatyana’s back ached all over. Sergey snored, sprawling over half the sofa.

 

At six a.m. Viktor Ivanovich woke up. He turned the bedroom TV up to full volume, started hacking and blowing his nose loudly. Sleeping any longer was impossible.

Tatyana got up and stretched her stiff neck. The mirror showed a crumpled face with dark circles under the eyes. A lovely start to vacation.

In the kitchen, the mother-in-law was already in charge, brewing coffee and frying sausages.

“Ah, you’re up already,” she noted. “Good. Go to the neighbors and find out where the nearest store is. We need to buy groceries.”

Tatyana nodded without a word, pouring herself some water. Inside, something clicked over—like an invisible switch flipping. She no longer wanted to argue, prove, or explain. She wanted to observe.

“Of course,” Tatyana said calmly. “I’ll go.”

The mother-in-law nodded in satisfaction, turning the sausages in the skillet.

“And buy good meat and fish. Viktor Ivanovich can’t go without meat. You’ve only got porridge and salads.”

“All right,” Tatyana agreed.

Sergey wandered into the kitchen, rumpled, in a wrinkled T-shirt.

“Mom, what are you making?” he yawned.

“Breakfast for the men,” the mother-in-law cooed. “And your wife will go to the store and buy food.”

Sergey glanced at Tatyana, but she only shrugged. Let him see what his indulgence had led to.

“Tan, maybe I’ll go with you?” he offered.

“No need,” his wife said. “Rest with your parents.”

Tatyana stepped out into the yard and drew a deep breath of morning air. A neighbor’s rooster greeted the dawn; somewhere a lawnmower buzzed. An ordinary country morning—if not for the circus in her own home.

She didn’t go to the neighbors. Instead she sat on the bench beneath the apple tree and thought things through. The in-laws were acting like conquerors. Sergey was indulging them. And she had been turned into the help.

Well then, time to show the in-laws the difference between guests and usurpers.

Half an hour later Tatyana came back inside. The mother-in-law was washing dishes, the father-in-law reading a newspaper, Sergey sitting beside him.

“So, did you find out about the store?” the mother-in-law asked.

“I did,” Tatyana said. “It’s far. So you’ll go there yourselves.”

The raised eyebrows said she’d been understood.

“How’s that—yourselves? You’re the hostess—you should do the shopping.”

“I am the hostess,” Tatyana agreed. “Which is why I decide who buys what in my house.”

A tense silence fell. The father-in-law looked up from his paper; Sergey shifted uneasily.

“Tan…” her husband began.

“And now I’m going to rest,” Tatyana interrupted. “In my bedroom.”

“But our things are in there!” the mother-in-law protested.

“Then take them,” Tatyana advised. “Move them into the living room.”

“You’ve got some nerve!” the mother-in-law flared up. “Driving out your elders?”

“I’m not driving anyone out,” Tatyana replied evenly. “I’m just putting everything back where it belongs.”

The whole day passed under a cloud of tension. The in-laws bickered with each other; Sergey dashed between his wife and his parents; Tatyana calmly went about her business. She watered the garden, read a book, cooked lunch only for herself and her husband.

“We’re hungry!” the mother-in-law protested. “Where’s our lunch?”

“At the store,” Tatyana answered serenely. “Go buy it.”

By evening, the in-laws’ patience snapped. Viktor Ivanovich announced he was going back to the city, and Klavdia Petrovna began packing, loudly voicing her outrage.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” she lamented. “A daughter-in-law driving out her husband’s parents!”

“I’m not driving you out,” Tatyana corrected her. “I’m explaining the difference between guests and invaders.”

That night, once the in-laws had quieted down in the living room, Tatyana couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Her plan had fully taken shape. Tomorrow it would all be settled.

In the morning Tatyana got up before everyone. She dressed quietly, made coffee, and sat by the window with a cup. Soon the in-laws stirred.

“Well, have you come to your senses?” the mother-in-law asked, appearing in the kitchen. “Are you going to behave properly?”

“I will,” Tatyana nodded. “As befits the mistress of the house.”

While the in-laws had breakfast in the living room, Tatyana quietly carried their suitcases into the entryway. Then she returned to the kitchen as calmly as before.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the father-in-law demanded when he found the luggage by the door.

“It means it’s time to get ready to go,” Tatyana explained.

“Get ready how?” the mother-in-law didn’t understand. “We only just arrived!”

“You barged in without an invitation,” Tatyana said patiently. “Took over someone else’s bedroom, forbade the hostess to use her own kitchen, demanded to be waited on. That isn’t being guests— that’s being usurpers.”

“How dare you!” the mother-in-law exploded.

“Guests are invited,” Tatyana said firmly. “I don’t tolerate usurpers.”

Sergey burst out of the bedroom, staring at the scene in confusion.

“What’s going on here?”

“Your wife is throwing us out!” his mother complained.

“I’m not,” Tatyana corrected her. “I’m explaining the rules for behavior in someone else’s home. Even if it’s a relative’s.”

“Tan, you’re going too far,” Sergey tried to intervene.

“I’m setting boundaries,” his wife replied. “What you failed to do yesterday.”

Tatyana turned to the in-laws:

“You want to visit? Fine. Call ahead and ask permission. Come with a small gift, not demands. Say thank you for the hospitality instead of bossing the owners around.”

“We’re his parents!” the mother-in-law objected.

“Sergey’s parents,” Tatyana specified. “And what are you to me? Strangers who burst in at night and declared themselves the owners.”

Viktor Ivanovich silently put on his cap and took up a suitcase.

“Let’s go, Klava. We’re not welcome here.”

“What you did yesterday isn’t welcome,” Tatyana agreed. “Polite guests always are.”

Klavdia Petrovna noisily stuffed the remaining things into a bag, muttering curses under her breath. Sergey hovered between his wife and his mother, not knowing whom to support.

 

“Son, you do understand your wife is wrong?” his mother implored.

Sergey stood on the porch, staring grimly at the ground.

“Mom, I don’t know…”

“You do,” Tatyana interjected. “You’re just afraid to admit it.”

The car pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Sergey and Tatyana were alone in the yard again.

“Why did you do that?” her husband asked.

“Because you didn’t,” she answered. “Yesterday you needed to tell your parents this is our dacha. That we are the owners here. That guests should ask permission.”

“But they’re my parents!”

“Exactly,” she nodded. “Parents should set an example of good manners, not throw their weight around.”

Sergey was silent, thinking it over.

“Sergey,” Tatyana said gently, “I’m not against your parents. I’m against their behavior. If they want to come as proper guests— they’re welcome. But I won’t let anyone boss us around in our home.”

He nodded slowly, beginning to understand.

“You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Tatyana smiled. “Now let’s have breakfast. In our kitchen, in our house, by our rules.”

The dacha was their home again. Quiet, calm, and welcoming to those who knew how to be guests.

After my husband’s funeral, my son drove me to the edge of town and said, “This is where you get off, Mom. We can’t support you anymore.”

I said nothing. I had been guarding a secret for years—one my ungrateful son would one day come to regret.

It drizzled the morning we buried Ramón.
My little black umbrella couldn’t cover the hollowness in my chest. I trembled, incense burning between my fingers, staring at the raw, damp earth. My companion of nearly forty years—my beloved Ramón—had become a handful of cold soil.

There was no time to grieve.

Jun, my eldest—the one Ramón trusted without question—took the house keys before the mourners had even finished their coffee.

Years earlier, while he was still healthy, Ramón had said, “We’re getting old. Put the title in Jun’s name so he’ll be responsible.”
What mother argues with love? We transferred the house and the land to our son.

On the seventh day after the burial, Jun invited me for a drive “to clear my head.” I didn’t know I was headed for a knife in the back.

He stopped near an abandoned jeepney stop on the outskirts and said, flat and final, “Get out here. My wife and I can’t keep you. From now on, you’re on your own.”

My ears rang. The world tilted. But his eyes were hard; he would have pushed me out if I’d hesitated.

I ended up on a low stool outside a small shop, clutching a cloth bag with a few clothes. The house where I had nursed my husband and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed had Jun’s name on it. I had no right to return.

They say a widow still has her children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.

Jun had cornered me. But I wasn’t empty-handed.

In the pocket of my blouse I kept a bank passbook—our life’s savings, the money Ramón and I had put away peso by peso, amounting to tens of millions. We told no one. Not our children. Not our friends. No one.

“People behave when they think you have nothing to give,” Ramón once told me. I chose silence that day. I wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t reveal a thing. I wanted to see what life—and Jun—would do next.

The first evening, the shop owner, Aling Nena, took pity and brought me hot tea. When I told her my husband had died and my children had left me, she sighed. “There’s plenty of that now, hija. Children count money better than love.”

I rented a tiny room, paying from the interest the savings earned. I kept my head down. Old clothes. Cheap food. No attention.

At night, curled on a wobbly bamboo bed, I missed the creak of our ceiling fan and the smell of Ramón’s ginger salad. The missing hurt, but I told myself: as long as I breathe, I move forward.

I learned the rhythm of this new life.

By day I worked at the market—washing greens, hauling sacks, wrapping produce. The pay was small. It didn’t matter. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not on anyone’s pity. Vendors began to call me “Mama Teresa.” None of them knew that each evening I opened my passbook for a heartbeat, then tucked it away again. That was my quiet insurance.

One afternoon I met an old friend, Aling Rosa, from my girlhood. I told her only that Ramón had passed and times were difficult. She gave me a place in their family carindería—food and a cot in the back, in exchange for work. It was hard, honest, and it kept me fed. It gave me one more reason to keep my secret close.

News of Jun still found me. He and his wife lived in a big house, drove a new car—and he gambled. “I think he’s pawned the title already,” an acquaintance whispered. My chest tightened, but I did not call. He had left his mother at a roadside; what more was there to say?

A man in a crisp shirt came to the carindería one day—Jun’s drinking companion. He looked at me a long time and asked, “You Jun’s mother?” I nodded.

 

“He owes us millions,” the man said. “He’s hiding. If you still want him, save him.” He gave a bitter smile. “I’m tapped out.” Then he left.

I stood where he’d left me, dish rag in hand, thinking of my son—the boy I’d rocked to sleep, the man who’d pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Was it punishment? I didn’t know.

Months passed. Jun finally appeared—thin, hollow-eyed, unshaven. He fell to his knees as soon as he saw me.

“Mom, I was wrong,” he choked. “I was rotten. Please, save me this once. If you don’t, my family is finished.”

Memories rose like tidewater: my nights alone, the empty road, the ache. Then Ramón’s last words whispered through me: “Whatever he becomes, he is still our son.”

I said nothing for a long while. Then I went to my room, took out the passbook—our lifetime savings—and set it on the table between us.

“This is the money your father and I saved,” I said evenly. “I hid it because I feared you wouldn’t value it. I’m giving it to you now. But listen to me: if you grind your mother’s love under your heel again, no fortune will ever lift your head high.”

Jun’s hands shook as he took the passbook. He cried like a boy in the rain.

Maybe he will change. Maybe he won’t. But I have done what I could as a mother.

And the secret, at last, was told—exactly when it was needed.

— What is it with you and this Sofa? Why do you even need a wife like that? She gave birth, spread out, now she waddles around like a blimp. You think she’ll lose weight? Sure, keep waiting—it’s only going to get worse!

— But she’s calm. And I actually like that she’s filled out. She used to be skinny as a stick—now she’s got curves!

 

The man said this about his wife and couldn’t help smiling. But his best friend, Arseny, immediately thumped him on the shoulder.

— Hey, don’t get carried away, alright? Who cares what you like. You’ll show up with her at the New Year’s office party and you’ll be ashamed to look your buddies in the eye. You’re a tall, broad, handsome guy. A woman’s prime is short, but us men? We’re eligible bachelors at any age!

Fedya only shook his head. Still, the thought crept in that maybe he really had sat in this marriage too long. Once upon a time he’d been quite a womanizer—until Sofia changed him. Calm, beautiful, kind, caring. And she cooks so well you can’t tear yourself away from the plate. Fedya himself had put on about ten kilos during the marriage. And they’d just had a baby.

— You’ve got to swap out a wife regularly, like old tires! — Arseny roared with laughter. — I divorced mine and now I’m hanging out with Lenka. Young, sturdy. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll trade her in for another!

After that conversation, Fedya thought more and more about his friend’s words. Arseny wound him up, and Fedya suddenly started taking those thoughts as his own. Maybe he really had lingered in this marriage?

— Sofia, you’ve, uh, put on…

He had barely started when his wife, clutching their just-asleep infant to her chest, widened her eyes.

— And what of it? God, I’ve gained five kilos—is that a tragedy? I’m the one taking care of the baby, sleep-deprived, working remotely. The whole household is on me, all the problems, all the logistics! Watch the baby, finish work, sort out the finances, pay the utilities, go buy groceries, cook everything! And you’re going to torment me over five measly kilos?!

It was like a pipe burst in Sofia’s soul. She wanted to burst into tears from the hurt that her husband didn’t value any of it. And if she left, he’d be alone with all these problems and drown in them.

— Why do you keep harping on those kilos? I brought an entire human into the world, and you’re on about kilos!

Sofia sniffled and went to the nursery with the baby in her arms. Fedya stayed sitting in the chair. If he had another wife, maybe she wouldn’t be yelling.

And with each passing day, Fedya sank deeper into the thoughts his friend had planted. More and more it seemed to him that Arseny was right. He wouldn’t abandon his child—he’d help—but lining up a fallback option never hurt.

— Look how Lyudka from the second department looks at you! She devours you with her eyes! She’s single, I checked. Beautiful, athletic. Just look at her—she belongs on a canvas! Next to her, your Sofia doesn’t even compare! — Arseny said, walking up to the table.

And sure enough, Lyudmila stood by the water cooler. A pretty young woman, she glanced over at her colleague now and then. Fedya hadn’t seen that “fire in her eyes” Arseny talked about. But Arseny was more experienced—he must know better!

 

— You’ll come home and a woman like that will be waiting! Just imagine—heels, lingerie, everything to make a man happy! And yours? Probably in a robe with baby spit-up stains! You’re getting older—soon it’ll be harder to find a girl.

Arseny patted Fedor on the shoulder, then went back to his department, tossing a couple of dirty jokes to that very Lyudmila. Fedya felt a pang of envy toward his best friend. Arseny could always find common ground with women, strike up a conversation with any of them, and the next day brag about a phone number or photos from a successful night.

Fedya went to see his mother and started talking about how his wife, sort of—since he hadn’t decided—no longer suited him. But Liliya Nikolaevna, who had always been on her son’s side, didn’t back him this time.

— You little wretch, your wife gave you a child, she works, runs the whole house, she’s a beauty—and you turn up your nose?! You men are all the same, Fedya. You don’t know how to value what you have—always eyeing the woods like wolves. Then you end up old and alone, howling at the moon!

Her words seemed to fly right past his ears. He kept ogling Lyudmila at work, catching her glances, thinking maybe his friend was right. Time marches on—he’d never get someone that young later, you didn’t need a fortune-teller to see it. One day Fedor came home so thoroughly wound up that he couldn’t think or talk about anything except his friend’s words.

Fedya sat across from his wife, who was rocking the baby after yet another sleepless night. Dark circles under her eyes, her skin not the same as before. She didn’t have the athletic shape she once had. He understood that he loved her, but it terrified him to realize he might be missing all his “male chances.”

— You know, Sofia, I think we should break up. You’ve changed after giving birth. I’ve realized a lot, and maybe it really is time.

There was nothing concrete in Fedya’s words. He hemmed and hawed, trying to pick gentler phrasing, and felt like an idiot—as if he’d fallen for phone scammers and now shyly averted his eyes whenever anyone asked about it.

At first, Sofia didn’t answer him at all. She just looked into his light eyes, and in hers there was only weariness—no anger or disappointment. She laid the baby in the bassinet, packed two suitcases, took the child, and went into the hall. She hadn’t said anything to him until then, but now she clearly was going to.

 

Fedya wanted to shout, to stop her, to fall to his knees and apologize. But the moment he imagined humiliating himself in front of his friend by retelling it all, those urges let him go.

— You know what, Fedya… Maybe you should live on your own for a while—without me, without your son. When you had that accident and were bedridden, I nursed you for a whole year. I worked at the same time, emptied your bedpans, made you do your exercises, found the best doctors, took out loans and paid them off. I didn’t say a word then—didn’t hint at divorce or at our relationship being “not quite right.” And you threw me out with a baby in my arms over five miserable kilos.

Sofia turned and left, not waiting for realization to dawn on her husband’s bewildered face. Fedya stood in the doorway, listening to his wife’s footsteps fade, and felt nothing but a crushing sense of having made an irreversible mistake.

Fedya came to work the next day with no mood for anything. Everything fell from his hands. Arseny hopped around him, congratulating him, grabbing his hand like boys do in the yard.

— Well, that’s that—go start hitting on Lyudka. What a stunner—otherwise I’ll steal her from you.

Arseny laughed, but his friend wasn’t amused. Fedya looked up, and Senya seemed to get it.

 

— Here’s what I’ll tell you, Senya. I was an idiot to believe you. I had a wife any man here would die of envy over! I have a son, a good family! I don’t need your young chicks!

— You’re talking like a henpecked husband, not a man!

— And a “man,” in your book, is someone who dumps his wife and his own child? Or a man who can’t keep it in his pants and jumps from girl to girl? Or is a “man,” to you, someone who can’t be faithful to one woman and bolts like a stray dog the second a skirt swishes by?

Arseny took offense at the way Fedya treated his advice—and at the sore spot those words hit. The best friends had a blazing row. Fedya decided that if nothing changed, he wouldn’t be friends with Arseny anymore. With a “best friend” like that, you don’t need enemies.

That very day Fedor went to his wife with a huge bouquet of flowers. He got down on his knees and begged forgiveness, honestly admitting he’d fallen for his friend’s tall tales. He blamed only himself and pleaded for pardon. Sofia forgave him; they moved back into their apartment and began living in harmony. It even seemed to Fedya that he loved his wife more than ever. He no longer saw her as something that simply came with the package.

To him, Sofia was the most beautiful, the very best. To hell with the kilos, with the tired look. Fedor started helping his wife actively, taking on more responsibility with the baby. He’d sit with the child, get up at night, put him to sleep. He took over the laundry and the cooking when needed. And meanwhile his wife began to blossom—she even signed up for the gym.

And little by little, in tiny steps, their relationship returned to its old course. Fedor promised himself he would never do anything like that again. For him, the whole situation became an important lesson: you must always use your own head.

Their daughter, Lena, vanished in 1990 — on the very night of her graduation.

It was a warm June evening. Stars scattered across the sky, the house filled with the scent of lilacs and freshly baked vanilla cake — her favorite. Lena spun in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, while her father, Nikolay, watched with quiet joy. “This is happiness,” he thought.

No one could have imagined it would be their last evening together.

After the graduation party, Lena never returned. Not that night, not the next day, not ever. The search dragged on for months, but every trail went cold. The police offered only shrugs, witnesses contradicted each other, and the single lead — whispers of a girl seen hitchhiking on the highway — proved false.

Years blurred into decades. Olga, her mother, withdrew from the world. Nikolay grew old before his time. Hope, like the flame of an oil lamp, dwindled to a faint, flickering glow.

Then came 2012.

One rainy October day, while tidying the attic, Nikolay stumbled across an old photo album. Dust swirled around him as he opened it. Familiar snapshots stared back: Lena in her school uniform, Lena with friends, Lena on family trips. But then his heart skipped a beat — one picture he had never seen before.

It showed Lena as a grown woman, about thirty, standing beside a wooden house against a backdrop of mountains. On the back, in her handwriting: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me.”

His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

When he carried the album downstairs and handed it to Olga, her trembling fingers traced the faded image. Slowly, a fragile light flickered in her eyes.

“It’s her… It’s Lena…”

They stared at the photo for hours, drinking in every detail. Behind Lena, a sign read: “Gostinica ‘Zvezda’ — Hotel Star.”

“She was alive,” Nikolay whispered. “Alive for twelve years… and silent all this time. Why?”

The very next morning, he began searching. Online, he found a hotel by that name — in Kyrgyzstan, deep in the mountains. Without hesitation, he packed a bag, withdrew his savings, and set off.

The journey was long: train, transfers, buses, and finally an old minibus climbing into the thin, cold air of the mountains. When at last the hotel appeared before him, his heart thundered. The sign was the same.

Inside, the wooden walls smelled of time and memory. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman.

 

“Excuse me,” Nikolay asked, his voice trembling, “Do you know a woman named Lena? Lena Nikolayeva. She may have stayed here… ten years ago.”

The woman studied him closely.

“Wait,” she said softly. “You’re her father, aren’t you?”

He froze. “Yes…”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a worn envelope. On the front: “To Dad. Only if he comes himself.”

Nikolay tore it open with shaking hands.

Dad,
If you’re reading this, it means I was wrong. I ran away in 1990 — not from you, but from fear. I fell in with the wrong people, and then it became too late to return. Shame kept me away.
I am alive. I have a son, Artyom. He has never known you.
So many times I wanted to write, but I couldn’t. If you came here, it means you still care. Find me. I’m not far.
Forgive me. — L.

Tears blurred the words as they dripped onto the paper.

“She lives in a nearby village,” the woman said gently. “I can take you.”

Soon, Nikolay stood at the gate of a small house. A boy of about ten played in the yard. Then a tall, dark-haired woman stepped outside. Their eyes met.

Lena.

They froze.

“Dad?” she whispered.

He couldn’t speak. He only nodded — and in the next heartbeat, they were in each other’s arms.

“Forgive me,” she cried against his shoulder. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”

Years passed again, but this time differently. The house rang with laughter once more. Artyom called Nikolay “grandpa.” Olga planted flowers by the porch, her hands steady with purpose again.

The past still hurt, but the photo album on their shelf no longer ended with emptiness. On the last page was a new picture — Lena, Artyom, Nikolay, and Olga, together at last.
Caption:
“Family is when you find each other. Even after twenty-two years.”

The autumn of 2013 came unusually warm. Leaves floated lazily to the ground, the air rich with the scent of apples, dry grass, and something fragile but new—hope.

Olga sat on the veranda peeling potatoes, an old knitted blanket across her lap. From inside, the cheerful voice of her grandson carried through the open window:

“Grandpa, did you really drive a tractor?”

“Of course!” Nikolay chuckled. “And not just drove—your grandpa was the best driver in the whole district!”

Artyom, a lively boy with bright eyes, adored these stories. Tales of a time without smartphones, when life seemed simpler, almost like a film.

Lena stepped onto the porch.
“Lunch!” she called. “Artyom, fetch grandpa.”

Nikolay walked closer, his gaze fixed on his daughter.
“You know… every day I fear waking up and finding you gone again.”

Lena lowered her eyes.
“I was afraid too. That you wouldn’t forgive me. That you wouldn’t want me back.”

“Silly girl,” Nikolay said softly. “How could I ever not forgive my own daughter?”

One day, while digging out winter clothes in the attic, Olga stumbled upon an old box. Inside lay a worn leather diary in Lena’s handwriting.

For a moment she wanted to close it. But curiosity—and longing—made her open it at random.

*“I worked as a cleaner, then in a kitchen. Slept in a corner of a room with an old woman and her cats. Some days it felt like I was already dead. I wanted to return. But I didn’t have the strength…

When Artyom was born, I felt needed again. I swore: if fate gave me a chance, I would come back. Explain everything. Even if twenty years had passed.”*

Olga sat with the diary for a long time, then went to the kitchen, made tea, and silently wrapped her arms around her daughter.
“Don’t disappear again. Promise me.”

Lena nodded, unable to speak.

A few months later, a tall man appeared at their doorstep. His hair had grayed, his eyes heavy with memories. Nikolay opened the door, and at once he knew—this man was part of their pain.

“Hello. My name is Stanislav. I… knew Lena. Back in 1990. I… came to apologize.”

They sat outside on the bench. When Lena came out and saw him, her face went pale.

Stanislav told how he had been the boy she fell in love with after graduation. How he promised her freedom, only to abandon her when life grew difficult. Years later, he learned she had a son.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know—I never forgot.”

Lena was silent for a long time. Then finally said:
“I forgave long ago. But not for you. For myself. To live on.”

Stanislav left, and with him seemed to fade the last shadow of the past.

That New Year, the house was filled with laughter. The family album grew again—Artyom glued in photos himself: school snapshots, walks, fishing trips with grandpa.

On the last page he wrote:
“Family isn’t those who are always near. It’s those who return.”

Seven years passed. Artyom turned fifteen. Taller than his mother now, wearing glasses, he carried a camera everywhere. He loved wandering through the woods, capturing “traces of life”—abandoned houses, rusty swings, fading campfire circles.

Nikolay could no longer keep up with him. His heart was weak, his legs tired. But every morning he still sat by the window with tea, watching his grandson leave with a backpack and camera.
“We’ve got an artist growing up,” he’d say proudly. “Only his brush is a camera.”

Olga softened with time. Her smile was unchanged, but her eyes carried calmness, as if she had finally found balance.

Lena became a literature teacher at the local school. Her students respected her. Life had settled into rhythm, meaning, and permanence.

But time kept moving. And with it—what no one could escape.

One spring morning, Nikolay didn’t wake up.

He left as quietly as he had lived. On his bedside table lay an old photo: Lena in her graduation dress, Olga beside her, both young and laughing.

In the garden, Artyom held his grandfather’s album for a long time. Finally, he opened it to the last page and added a new photograph—Nikolay in his chair, holding his grandson on his lap.

The caption read:
“You taught me to remember. Thank you, grandpa.”

Five more years slipped by. Artyom entered a university in Moscow, studying photography and journalism. He often wrote home, and every letter began the same way:
“Hi Mom. I miss you. I remember.”

A year after Nikolay’s passing, Olga followed him. Lena remained in the house, but not lonely. She had her books, her memories, and a son who came every holiday, bringing new stories and photos from around the world.

One spring, she took out the photograph from 2002—the one by the mountain house with the words “I am alive. Forgive me.”

On the back, she wrote:
“Now I truly live. And at last, I think I’ve forgiven myself.”

The year was 2025.
Artyom, now an adult, returned to the house where his childhood lived on. He carried with him a camera, a notebook, and one clear purpose — to write a book. A book about family, about memory, and about the girl who, after twenty-two long years, finally came home.

He opened an old family album. On the first page — little Lena. On the last — himself with his mother, standing beneath a blooming apple tree.

 

On that final spread, he wrote:

“A story doesn’t end as long as someone remembers it. This is our story. A story of return.”

Artyom often came back to the village house. He never stayed for good — city life, work, festivals always pulled him back. Yet every time he crossed the threshold, he felt he was entering something sacred, something that belonged only to him.

The house stood unchanged. Each spring the apple tree blossomed as faithfully as before. Artyom tended it with care — trimming, whitewashing, protecting. He called it “the tree of memory.”

Inside, everything remained as it had been: Lena’s books, Nikolay’s thermos, Olga’s jars of herbs. One day, while sorting through old things, he found an unsigned envelope. Only a date: 1990.

Inside was a letter. Lena’s farewell, written the very day she disappeared.

“If you are reading this, it means I’ve gone. Don’t look for me. I need another life. Forgive me, if you can. I will return when I am worthy of forgiveness.”

Artyom held the letter for a long time. Later, he placed it next to another one — Lena’s letter from 2002. Together they looked like a mirror — one of fear and flight, the other of regret and return.

He photographed them both, then carefully tucked them away again.

Lena had aged beautifully. Without bitterness, with dignity. Her eyes carried something deep — the kind of depth that comes only to those who have been broken and yet survived. She no longer blamed herself. She had forgiven — slowly, but fully. To her son she gave everything she had; the rest she left for time to take away.

They often sat quietly on the porch. Artyom would ask about the past — about school, about his grandmother, about the boy Lena had run away with back in 1990.

She didn’t always answer at once.

“I thought I was running to freedom,” she confessed one evening. “But later I realized — I was just running from myself. And yet… if I hadn’t left, you wouldn’t exist. And without you, I wouldn’t have survived. That’s all.”

Artyom listened in silence. Sometimes he turned on a voice recorder. Those conversations would later become part of his book.

In 2026, his book was published. Simply titled “Photo Album.”

It held photographs, Lena’s letters, Olga’s diary entries, Nikolay’s stories. Nothing was embellished. It was raw truth — pain, regret, love, forgiveness. A family — imperfect, but alive.

Unexpectedly, the book touched thousands. Readers said it felt real.

Lena was once invited to a presentation. She was terrified of public speaking, but when she finally stood before the audience, she managed only one sentence:

“Thank you for remembering us. Because when we are remembered — we are alive.”

Autumn, 2030.

Lena left quietly, as her father once had. Artyom found her in a chair by the window, a book on her lap, the first photograph in her hands.

He buried her beside her parents, beneath the apple tree.

Afterward, he sat there for a long time. No tears, only silence. Then he lifted his camera and took one final photo — the tree glowing in autumn light, the inscription carved into the tombstone:

“Nikolay, Olga, Lena. The Nikolayev Family.”

And beneath it, Artyom added:

“They found each other. And I — found them.”

Then he rose, and walked away. With memory in his heart, a camera in his hands, and a story that now belonged only to him.

Years drifted by.

Artyom lived in St. Petersburg. He had his own studio, students, exhibitions. Yet he never called himself a photographer. He would only say:

“I catch the breath of time.”

In a corner of his studio stood a locked cabinet. Inside were treasures: the album, the letters, his grandmother’s herbs wrapped in old paper, a recorder with his mother’s voice. He rarely opened it — only when he missed them unbearably.

One spring day, he returned to the village once more.

The house had changed — a new roof, a veranda. But the garden remained the same. And the apple tree — still blooming, still alive.

Artyom walked barefoot across the cool earth. He stopped beneath the tree, raised his camera, and pressed the shutter. Not for an exhibition, not for a book — just for himself.

The photo stayed in his camera. He no longer printed such pictures.

Because he knew: the most important had already been captured. Everything that needed to be said — was said. Everything that needed to be found — was found.

He sat on the bench and closed his eyes.

And then it came — the sound of light footsteps. As if his mother had just stepped out of the house. As if his grandmother were carrying tea. As if his grandfather was laughing near the shed.

In that moment, Artyom understood:

No one truly leaves. They simply become silence, wind, light between the leaves.

And as long as you remember — they are with you. Always.

Snowflakes slowly swirled in the light of the streetlamps, like ballerinas dancing in white dresses. Maria Andreevna, standing at the window of her fourth–floor apartment, was lost in the February darkness. Each time the headlights of passing cars lit up the courtyard, her heart began to beat faster. She knew that soon Andrei would return from another business trip.

Memories of their first meeting, ten years ago in the university library, flooded her mind: she was then a philology student, and he a promising economist. Their passionate romance led to an early marriage and the birth of a son, and at the time it seemed that happiness would last forever. But in the last two years everything had changed.

 

“Mommy, is it true that Daddy is coming home today?” six–year–old Kostya asked in a cheerful little voice, pulling Maria out of her thoughts.

“Yes, darling,” Maria tried to smile, though anxiety still tightened her heart.

“Let’s bake his favorite cabbage pie?”

“Hooray!” the boy shouted joyfully, and soon the kitchen was filled with the aroma of fresh pastry. Maria remembered how Andrei used to rush home, lured by that very smell. “A house must smell of pies,” his mother, Nina Vasilievna, had told Maria when she taught her her culinary secrets.

For three years now, Nina Vasilievna had been living with them after a stroke, still exerting some influence over her son’s life. Yet even her authority was fading.

Suddenly, the click of a turning key made Maria flinch. On the threshold stood her husband—worn–out, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, and carrying a faint trace of someone else’s perfume.

“Is dinner ready?” he barked, ignoring Kostya, who rushed toward him.

“Daddy!” the boy cried happily, trying to hug his legs.

“Leave me alone, I’m tired,” Andrei pushed him aside and muttered, “Why are you baking those pies again? Stop wasting money.”

Maria stayed silent, as she had learned to do whenever her husband came home like this. Wordlessly, she set the table and carefully placed the most appetizing slice of pie before him.

A heavy silence hung over the table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and Nina Vasilievna’s soft stories of her youth.

“How was your trip?” Maria asked cautiously once Andrei had finished eating.

“Fine,” he answered curtly, pushing away his plate. “Stop interrogating me.”

“I just wanted to—”

“Just what?” he snapped, as if exhausted by her concern. “I’m sick of your endless questions! All you do is spy on me!”

Kostya pressed himself fearfully against his grandmother, sighing quietly. Nina Vasilievna shook her head and tried to calm her son:

“Andryusha, stop it, Masha is only concerned—”

“Enough!” Andrei’s voice cut through the room. He suddenly grabbed his bag. “Take your brat and get out!”

“Andrei!” Nina Vasilievna cried, trying to reason with him. “Come to your senses!”

“Be quiet, Mother! I’ve had enough of all of you!”

He seized Maria by the hand and dragged her to the door, while Kostya, sobbing, ran after them.
“You can spend the winter in the communal flat!” he growled, shoving them out into the snowstorm.

Outside, in the whirling snow, Maria clutched trembling little Kostya close, shielding him with her coat. There was no taxi in sight, all their bank cards remained with Andrei, and her phone had died earlier that day.

“Mommy, I’m cold,” Kostya whispered.

“Hold on, darling, we’ll think of something,” Maria soothed him, when suddenly an old Moskvich with a dented fender pulled up.

“Get in quickly,” came a gentle but firm voice from the car. “In this weather you can’t stay out with a child. My name is Mikhail Petrovich. I used to be a mechanic, now I’m retired.”

Maria didn’t hesitate long; freezing seemed worse than risk. She and Kostya climbed in. Mikhail Petrovich drove them to his modest apartment, where his wife, Anna Grigorievna, immediately began wrapping them in warm blankets, pouring hot tea, and finding old but cozy clothes for Kostya.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Anna Grigorievna asked after Kostya finally fell asleep.

“There’s a room in a communal flat left from my grandmother,” Maria said quietly. “But I haven’t been there in years…”

“In the morning Misha will drive you there,” she declared firmly. “For now, rest.”

The communal apartment on the outskirts of Lipovsk greeted them with suspicious stares from neighbors: five families sharing one kitchen and one bathroom was always a trial. But there was no other choice.

The room was small but neat: yellowed wallpaper, a creaky sofa, a wobbly wardrobe. Kostya climbed onto the windowsill at once, peering curiously into the snowy courtyard.

“Mom, are we going to live here?” he asked, gazing into the emptiness.

“Just for now, darling. Until we find something better,” Maria replied.

Over time, Mikhail Petrovich often visited them, helping with small repairs: thanks to him new shelves appeared in the room, and the dripping faucet in the shared kitchen was finally fixed. Gradually even the neighbors warmed up, especially after Maria began baking her signature pies and sharing them with everyone.

 

Mikhail Petrovich, who had spent his life working at a car factory, couldn’t sit idle even in retirement: he had built his Moskvich from old spare parts, which locals nicknamed “Frankenstein.” He and his wife Anna Grigorievna had been married for forty years, raised three children, and now tried to pass their kindness on to others.

“You know, Masha,” Anna Grigorievna said one evening, tucking Kostya into bed, “we too have been through a lot. In the nineties the plant was idle, there was no work. But people helped each other, shared what little they had. Now it’s our turn to give back.”

Meanwhile, Andrei had started a new life with Alyona, enjoying his freedom and bringing her into the house, ignoring his mother’s protests. But happiness was fleeting: Alyona soon realized living with a tyrant was impossible and ran off with a young fitness trainer.

Back in the communal flat, Maria met Dmitry, a programmer renting the next room. After losing his job at a major company, he was trying to launch a startup while tutoring on the side. Dmitry not only helped Kostya with math but also spent long evenings with Maria, telling stories about computers and robots.

Having endured a painful divorce, Dmitry had preserved his faith in people and always showed empathy. Seeing Maria crying with little Kostya had touched him deeply—perhaps he had recognized his own loneliness in her.

Life gradually began to improve. Maria found work as a waitress at the café “Lilac,” where her culinary talents were soon recognized, and she became assistant to the head chef. The café’s owner, Stepan Arkadyevich, began courting her: bringing flowers, giving compliments, and soon a tender, caring bond began to grow between them. At the same time Dmitry was always nearby, supporting Maria in difficult times and helping her with paperwork.

A year later Maria gave birth to a daughter, Nadya, and Kostya proudly took on the role of big brother, eagerly helping his mother with the baby. Dmitry became the father the boy had always dreamed of.

Sometimes Andrei, passing by “Lilac,” saw through the window a joyful Maria, a grown-up Kostya, and Dmitry working side by side. Once he even came in for coffee, but upon seeing his former wife, he silently left.

In little Lipovsk, people still say there’s no cozier place than the café “Lilac.” They say the winter storm that once crushed a family gave them a new beginning and real happiness.

Every year, when the first snowflakes fall, Maria stands at the café window and remembers that terrible night. Now she knows: sometimes you must lose everything to find love and happiness, and the storm only clears the path to a new life.

Olga sank onto the sofa, massaging her temples after a long workday. First eight hours at the office, then another four—moonlighting as an accountant for an acquaintance’s small business. It had been like this for three years straight. The apartment was quiet; only the refrigerator hummed monotonously in the kitchen.

The front door slammed—Sergey was back. Olga didn’t even raise her head, continuing to rub her temples. Her husband walked into the kitchen and clattered the dishes.

“Ol, are you going to have dinner?” Sergey called from the kitchen.

“No appetite,” Olga answered without opening her eyes.

They had been married for seven years. Seven years that had begun with hopes and promises and turned into an endless string of arguments and unspoken grievances. Olga remembered their wedding—how happy they had been then. Sergey had sworn he would be her rock and protector. Where were those vows now?

The apartment had come to Olga from her grandmother even before the wedding. Two rooms, a good neighborhood, a view of the park. Olga guarded this home like the apple of her eye—the one real anchor in her life. At the insurance company the pay was steady but not generous. That was why she had to work evenings as well.

Sergey came into the room with a plate of pasta.

“Worked late again?” he asked, settling into the armchair opposite her.

“What else can I do? You know we’re saving for renovations, and I’d like a proper vacation—not at your mother’s dacha.”

Sergey winced at the mention of his mother. Nina Ivanovna—another story entirely. Her mother-in-law showed up at their place with enviable regularity, always with complaints about her health and poverty. And those visits always ended the same way—Sergey gave his mother money.

“By the way, Mom’s coming tomorrow,” Sergey tossed out, as if in passing.

Olga’s eyes flew open.
“Again? She was here two weeks ago!”

“What can I do? Her blood pressure’s acting up; she wants to see a doctor.”

“She can see a doctor in her own town,” Olga muttered.

Sergey set his plate aside in irritation.
“Olya, that’s my mother! Is it really so hard to show a little understanding?”

Understanding. Olga gave a bitter smile. In seven years of marriage, Sergey had changed jobs five times. Either the boss was an idiot, or the team wasn’t right, or the salary was too small. Now he worked as a manager at a car dealership, but even there he had already started complaining.

Sergey’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and stepped into the hallway. Olga listened—it was Irina, her husband’s sister. That was another story, too. Thirty-two, two children by different fathers, constant debts and loans. And always one solution—a call to her brother.

 

Sergey came back into the room looking guilty. Olga understood at once.

“How much?” she asked wearily.

“Olga, why do you— Irina’s in a tough spot. The kids are getting ready for school, and her ex is late with alimony.”

“How much, Sergey?”

“Twenty thousand. But Irina promised to return it in a month!”

Olga sprang up from the sofa. Her hands trembled with anger.
“In a month? Like last time? And the time before that? Sergey, how much longer!”

“Olya, calm down. It’s family!”

“Family?” Olga’s voice broke. “And what am I? I work two jobs, pinch every penny, and your sister gets to sit around and live at our expense?”

“Irina works!” Sergey tried to defend his sister.

“Where? Doing what? Half-time as a sales clerk—is that work? Sergey, Irina has two healthy hands and feet. Let her go earn a living!”

Sergey scowled.
“You don’t understand. Irina has children…”

“Half the country has children! Should everyone live at someone else’s expense?”

Just then Olga remembered last month. That time Sergey had also “lent” fifteen thousand to his sister. And before that—ten to his mother. Olga started doing the math in her head—over the past year his relatives had “borrowed” more than two hundred thousand. Not a kopeck had been returned.

The next day, just as Sergey had promised, Nina Ivanovna arrived. For someone with high blood pressure, she looked rather spry—rosy-cheeked, in a new dress, with a professional blowout.

“Olechka, you’ve lost so much weight!” were her first words. “You don’t take care of yourself at all!”

Olga kept silent as she set the table. Her mother-in-law settled in comfortably and began her usual litany:

“Oh, life’s so hard now! Prices keep rising, my pension is tiny. I’m even thinking of finding a little side job…”

Sergey jumped right in.
“Mom, what side job at your age! We’ll help!”

Olga banged the kettle down on the table. Nina Ivanovna and Sergey looked at her in surprise.

“With what will we help, Sergey?” Olga asked coldly. “We barely have enough ourselves.”

“Olya!” her husband protested.

“What ‘Olya’? Nina Ivanovna, I’m sorry, but we can barely make ends meet. I work two jobs just to put a little aside.”

Her mother-in-law pursed her lips.
“In our day, women respected their husbands and put family first!”

“In your day, men supported their families,” Olga shot back. “They didn’t live off their wives!”

Sergey flushed crimson.
“Olya, watch your tone!”

“I’m telling the truth! Sergey, you changed jobs three times this past year! And each time by your own choice!”

“That’s not true!” he began to justify himself.

“Oh right, sorry. The last time you were fired for skipping work!”

Nina Ivanovna threw up her hands.
“Seryozhenka, what is she saying?”

“Mom, Olga is exaggerating…”

“Exaggerating?” Olga took a folder of receipts from the cabinet. “Here are the bills for the last six months. All paid from my card. Here’s the statement from our joint account—over the past year, Sergey deposited forty thousand. Forty! In a year!”

Her mother-in-law was silent, staring at the paperwork. Then she looked up at her daughter-in-law.
“But Sergey helps around the house…”

Olga laughed—sharp and bitter.
“Helps? Nina Ivanovna, when was the last time your son cooked dinner? Did the laundry? Cleaned?”

That evening, after her mother-in-law left, a heavy silence fell over the apartment. Sergey sat in an armchair, staring at the TV. Olga cleared the table, trying not to look at her husband.

“Why did you have to talk like that in front of my mother?” Sergey asked at last.

“And why does your mother meddle in our life?” Olga answered with a question.

“Olya, I get that you’re tired. But you can’t—”

“Can’t what? Tell the truth? Sergey, I can’t take it anymore! Every month it’s the same—either your mother needs something, or your sister!”

Sergey stood and came over to his wife.
“Olya, this is temporary. I’ll find a proper job…”

“When? When will you find this proper job? And how long will you keep it? A month? Two?”

Hurt flickered in his eyes.
“You don’t believe in me at all?”

Olga sank into a chair.
“I’m tired of believing, Sergey. Tired of hoping. Tired of carrying everything on my back.”

That night Olga couldn’t sleep. She lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about her life. Thirty-two years old. Seven of them married. What next? Another seven years working for two? For three, counting the constant ‘loans’ to her husband’s relatives?

In the morning Olga woke up with a firm decision. Over breakfast she said to her husband:

“Sergey, we need to have a serious talk.”

He looked at her warily.
“About what?”

“About money. About your family. About us.”

Olga pulled out a sheet of paper where she had written down all the “debts” owed by his relatives the night before.

“Look. Over the last two years your mother has ‘borrowed’ a hundred and twenty thousand. Irina—one hundred and eighty. Total—three hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand, Sergey! That’s a huge amount!”

Sergey studied the list, frowning deeper and deeper.
“Where did you get these numbers?”

“I keep records. I write down every penny. Do you know how much has been returned? Zero!”

“Olga, relatives have tough situations sometimes…”

 

“Everyone does! But why should I be the one paying for them? Why is it that my parents feel embarrassed to call for help, while yours demand money as if it’s their right?”

Sergey was silent. Olga went on:

“I’ve made a decision. No more—not a single kopeck for your family. If you take money from our budget again without my consent, I’m filing for divorce.”

He went pale.
“You… you’re joking?”

“I’ve never been more serious. Sergey, I love you. But I refuse to live as a cash cow for your family any longer.”

Sergey jumped up from the table.
“So it’s an ultimatum?”

“Call it what you want. But I won’t tolerate this anymore.”

He left the kitchen, slamming the front door. Olga remained sitting, gazing out the window. It had started to rain.

An hour later Irina called. Olga didn’t pick up. Then Nina Ivanovna called. Ignore. In the evening Sergey returned—angry and drunk.

“Happy now?” he threw from the doorway. “Mom’s in the hospital, my sister’s hysterical!”

“That’s their problem,” Olga replied calmly.

“You… you’re just selfish!”

“Maybe. But I’m a selfish person with my own money.”

Sergey stepped right up to her.
“You think I can’t manage without you? Think you’re irreplaceable?”

Olga met his gaze.
“Try. The apartment is mine, in case you forgot.”

The following days passed in a “cold war.” Sergey ostentatiously refused to speak to his wife and slept on the sofa. His relatives called several times a day, but Olga didn’t answer.

On Friday evening, Olga came home to find Nina Ivanovna and Irina in the apartment. The women were sitting in the kitchen; Sergey stood by the window.

“What an interesting gathering,” Olga noted. “Do you often get together in my apartment without an invitation?”

“Olga, we came to talk,” Nina Ivanovna began.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re destroying the family!” Irina blurted out. “Over some money!”

Olga laughed.
“Over ‘some’? Irina, in two years you’ve pulled almost two hundred thousand out of our budget! Those are my ‘some’ money!”

“But I’ll pay it back!”

“When? Name a date!”

Irina hesitated.
“Well… when I can…”

“Which means never. Irina, you’re thirty-two! Go get a job!”

“I have kids!”

“So what? Millions of women raise children and work! You’re the one sitting on your brother’s neck. Or rather, on mine!”

Nina Ivanovna stood up.
“How dare you talk like that! We are Sergey’s family!”

 

“And I’m Sergey’s wife!” Olga stood up as well. “And I will no longer support healthy, able-bodied adults!”

“Seryozha, say something!” his mother appealed to him.

Sergey was silent, looking out the window. Finally he turned around.
“Mom, Irina, go home. Olga and I need to talk.”

When the relatives left, Sergey sat down across from his wife.
“Olga, maybe you’re right. But they’re my family. I can’t abandon them.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon them. I’m asking you not to spend MY money on THEIR whims.”

“But I don’t have any money of my own!”

“Exactly. Sergey, find a proper job, hold onto it, earn your own money—and help them as much as you like!”

He lowered his head.
“You’re making me choose—between you and my family.”

“No. I’m giving you a choice—either you become a real man and the head of this family, or we part ways.”

That night Olga sat by the window, looking at the sleeping city. There was a strange emptiness inside her. No pain, no resentment—just emptiness. As if something important had ended.

In the morning Sergey packed his things.
“I’ll stay with my mother for now,” he said. “I need to think.”

Olga nodded. She no longer had the strength to argue, to persuade, to explain.

When the door closed behind her husband, Olga felt… relief. For the first time in many months. As if a heavy stone had fallen from her shoulders.

That evening Olga sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Silence. No one was calling, asking for money, throwing tantrums. Only silence and peace.

Olga understood there was a difficult conversation ahead, possibly a divorce. But right now, in this moment, she felt free. Free from other people’s debts, problems, and manipulations.

One thing she knew for sure—whatever Sergey decided, Olga would never again allow her life to be turned into a wallet for other people’s needs. Enough. It was time to live for herself.

 

They said no nanny lasted a full day with the billionaire’s triplets—not one. Ethan Carter’s mansion in Lagos glittered like a palace: marble that shone like still water, chandeliers that threw stars onto the floors, a garden trimmed with the precision of a military parade. But behind those gates lived three small tempests—Daniel, David, and Diana—six years old, relentless, and allergic to the word “no.”

 

In five months, Ethan had hired twelve nannies and lost twelve nannies. Some fled in tears, some in fury; one swore off big houses forever. The children screamed, scattered toys like shrapnel, and broke whatever dared to stand upright. Their mother had died when they were born, and Ethan—king of oil and boardrooms—had never managed to quiet the chaos in his own home.

Then Naomi Johnson arrived: thirty-two, a widow, dark skin luminous against a faded blouse, quiet eyes that held more weather than words, a nylon handbag tucked beneath her arm. She was there for one reason only. Her little girl, Deborah, lay in a hospital bed with a failing heart, and every hour cost money Naomi did not have.

The housekeeper, hoarse from breaking in women who never lasted, handed Naomi a uniform with a shrug. “Start in the playroom,” she said, already turning away. “You’ll see.”

Naomi saw. The playroom looked like a storm had walked through it on two feet and a dare: toys everywhere, juice streaking the wall in sticky rivulets, cushions upended, the triplets springing on the sofa like it was a trampoline. Daniel flung a toy truck toward her. Diana crossed her arms and shrieked, “We don’t like you!” David tipped a box of cereal onto the carpet and grinned.

Most newcomers pleaded or scolded or ran. Naomi did none of that. She tied her scarf tighter, picked up a mop, and began to clean. The triplets paused—bewildered. No yelling? No bargaining? Just… a mop?

“Hey! You’re supposed to stop us!” Daniel barked.

Naomi glanced over, steady as a metronome. “Children don’t quit a game because they’re told to,” she said. “They stop when no one is playing with them.” And she went on scrubbing.

From the upstairs balcony, Ethan watched, gray eyes narrowed. He’d seen that room break a dozen grown women. But this one moved as if her center of gravity was nailed to the floor.

She returned the next morning before dawn. She swept the stairs, straightened curtains, and set out a neat breakfast. The triplets stormed in like whirlwinds on small legs.

“Ice cream for breakfast!” Daniel declared, already climbing a chair.

Diana kicked a table leg and folded her arms like a drawbridge.

David lifted a glass of milk and tipped it—deliberately—onto the table.

Naomi didn’t flinch. “Ice cream’s not a breakfast food,” she said evenly. “Eat what’s here, and later we can make some together.”

She slid plates toward them and turned to her work as if the conversation were settled. Curiosity pried at them. Daniel poked his eggs. Diana chewed, rolling her eyes for form’s sake. Even David—professional contrarian—sat and nibbled.

By noon they rallied: paint on the wall, toys dumped like a landslide, Naomi’s shoes hidden in the garden. Each time, she restored order without raising her voice.

“You’re boring,” David muttered. “The others used to scream.”

Naomi’s mouth tilted. “They were trying to win against you,” she said. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to stay.”

The words landed like a key in a lock. The triplets didn’t have a name for the feeling, only that something in the room stopped rattling.

Ethan noticed too. One evening he came home early and found them cross-legged on the floor, drawing while Naomi hummed an old church tune. For the first time in years, the silence inside his house felt like peace rather than threat.

Later, he caught her in the hallway. “How are you doing this? They chased everyone else away.”

“Children push to find the edges,” Naomi said softly, eyes lowered. “When the edge doesn’t move, they can rest. They don’t want control. They want safety.”

Ethan, conqueror of oil fields and contracts, found himself disarmed by a woman whose only weapons were patience and a backbone.

The real test arrived on a wet Thursday, thunder stitching the sky. The triplets were used to Naomi by then, though they still prodded for weaknesses. An argument over a toy car flared; Diana screamed; a glass vase tipped and shattered. Shards skated across the floor.

“Stop.” Naomi’s voice cut clean through the crackle of thunder. She lunged, lifting Diana just as the little girl’s foot hovered over a jagged piece. Daniel froze. David’s mouth quivered. Blood beaded along Naomi’s palm.

 

She smiled anyway. “No one’s hurt. That’s what counts.”

They’d never seen anyone bleed for them who wasn’t required to love them. It undid something inside their small, bruised pride.

Ethan came home to find his terrors hushed, Diana clinging to Naomi’s side, Daniel whispering, “Are you okay?” and David—resolute rebel—quietly pressing a bandage into Naomi’s hand.

Later, in the kitchen, Ethan watched her rinse the cut beneath cool water. “You should have called the nurse.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Naomi said. “Cuts heal.”

“Why didn’t you quit?”

She dried her hands. “Because I know what being left feels like. My daughter is fighting for her life in a hospital bed. If I can stay for her, I can stay for them. Kids don’t need perfection, Mr. Carter. They need presence.”

For the first time, he truly looked at her.

After that, the tide turned. Daniel traded tantrums for story time. David became her shadow. Fierce Diana crept into Naomi’s room at night and whispered, “Can you stay till I fall asleep?”

Weeks later, Deborah was discharged after a successful operation—paid for quietly by Ethan once he learned the truth. When Naomi brought her to the mansion, the triplets barreled toward the little girl as if greeting a long-lost sister.

“Mommy, look!” Deborah beamed. “I have three new friends.”

Naomi’s throat tightened. Friends didn’t quite cover it. The house, for the first time, felt like a home.

As the triplets wrapped their arms around her and breathed, “Don’t leave us, Mommy Naomi,” she understood what she had done.

She hadn’t conquered three wild children.

She had given them back the simple, holy business of being children.

It was late when Liza finally slipped into the quiet kitchen. After tucking the children into bed, she boiled the kettle, poured tea into her favorite mug, and sat at the table to breathe for a moment. Roma still hadn’t come home. Lately, work had swallowed him whole; late nights were becoming routine. She felt sorry for him and did her best to keep his world soft—shielding him from chores, wrapping him in care and tenderness. He was the family’s only earner, after all.

 

From the very beginning, they’d agreed: he would provide; she would run the home and raise the children. And so it happened. Three little ones arrived, Roma kept the money coming, and Liza kept the house standing. Roma had rejoiced at each birth and talked about wanting more. Liza, though, was spent—every day was one long sprint between diapers stacked like snowdrifts in the bathroom and nighttime bottles when her milk ran short. She’d already decided: three was enough; it was time to stop.

He came in close to midnight, the faint sweet-sour scent of alcohol trailing him. When Liza asked, he said the team had blown off steam at a bar after another exhausting day.

“My poor dear,” she murmured, smoothing his sleeve. “Come eat.”

“I’m stuffed. We had plenty of snacks.” He yawned. “I’m going straight to sleep.”

International Women’s Day was almost here. Liza asked her mother to watch the kids so she could shop in peace. She wanted to buy groceries and set up a romantic evening—leave the children with Grandma, cook something wonderful. And after the food and gifts, she hoped to find herself a fresh outfit; her clothes were tired, and she had nothing festive to wear.

She checked her bags in the cloakroom and stepped into a popular boutique. She picked out a few dresses and went to the fitting rooms. As she shrugged off her thin nylon jacket, a man’s voice came through the partition—Roma’s, unmistakably close.

“I want to undress you right now.”

A laugh followed, light and syrupy. “Be patient. Why don’t you go buy something for your wife instead?”

“She doesn’t need anything. All she cares about are the kids. I’ll pick up some kitchen gadgets—she loves living in that room.”

For a moment Liza couldn’t breathe. It felt like a heavy object had struck the back of her head. Mechanically, she stepped into the dress, then stared at herself without seeing anything at all. She didn’t want it anymore. On the other side of the wall, they kept talking.

“What if your wife asks what you’ve spent so much on?”

“I don’t report to her. I give her money for the house. She has no idea what I actually make.”

Footsteps. The curtain rings rattled. Liza peered through a sliver of fabric and saw Roma at the register. A slim, pretty blonde stood beside him, his hand resting casually on her waist.

“Are you all right?”

Liza flinched. She’d been sitting on the little bench for too long. The saleswoman’s face showed worry, so whatever Liza felt must have been written plainly on her own. Liza bought every dress she’d chosen, walked out, and went home. She sent her mother off, put the children down for their nap, then lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe it was her fault. She had let herself go—no time for clothes, hair, makeup. But betrayal was betrayal, no matter how you cut it. She would never have imagined Roma cheating. And the way he’d spoken about her—as if she were furniture, or worse, hired help. Even his gift ideas were appliances, tools for a woman chained to a stove.

She wanted to divorce him—badly. But that would make things easy for them, wouldn’t it? He’d go to his mistress, and she’d be stuck scraping by on the smallest alimony he could get away with. Liza decided to say nothing for now. She would watch and plan.

He came home late again, blaming work. Liza looked at him with a cool, distant calm and let it pass. She felt as though a stranger had moved into her husband’s body. Whatever love she’d felt chilled in an instant.

The next morning she wrote a résumé and sent it everywhere she could think of. Days of silence followed. Every morning began with her checking her email. Most never answered; a few declined. Then one afternoon, an invitation arrived—an interview at a company. Roma’s company.

She hesitated, then went.

She made a strong impression. They liked her, and they offered a decent position. The starting pay was modest, but it would feed the children. Liza left the office buoyant, almost lightheaded with relief. At home, her mother met her at the door, firing questions.

“Roma has a mistress!” Liza announced, oddly triumphant.

Her mother blinked, convinced the girl was in shock. She sat Liza down, poured tea, and tried to calm her. “Sweetheart, what are you saying? He stays late for you and the kids, and you accuse him of—who knows what.”

“He’s with a young woman,” Liza said, half-laughing, then told her everything.

“Do you want a divorce?”

“Of course. But first I need to reorganize my life. I found a good job with flexible hours. I’ll get the kids into kindergarten, and then I can work full time.”

“Well, it’s your choice,” her mother said softly. “I won’t talk you out of it. A person who betrays once will do it again. Do what you think is right. I’m disappointed—I didn’t expect this—and to talk about the mother of his children like that with a stranger… I’ll help with the kids.”

“Mom, what would I do without you?” Liza hugged her hard and didn’t let go for a long time.

On the night before the holiday, Roma staggered in long after midnight. Liza didn’t question him. Her expression was pure indifference. He launched into his usual story about too much work and then a quick stop at the bar with friends. Liza cut him off and told him to sleep.

Morning. While she fed the children, he produced a shiny kitchen food processor.

“Look at your present,” he said, angling for a kiss. “To make the housework a little easier.”

She turned her cheek away and didn’t touch the box. Instead, she said she had a gift for him as well and asked him to come to the hallway. Two suitcases sat there, packed tight.

“These are your things,” she said. “I’m divorcing you. Now you won’t have to invent stories about late nights with friends and how you ‘poor thing’ need to unwind. Go unwind. Don’t keep your blonde waiting.”

“Who told you?” He looked genuinely stunned by the turn.

“I saw you. I watched you buy her a gift. And you can give her the processor, too—maybe she enjoys standing over a stove.”

Cornered, Roma lashed out. “Have you looked at yourself? She’s gorgeous—and in bed—” He smirked. “You don’t even dress properly anymore. You’ve let yourself go. You’re clumsy. And the best part? You live off my money. Or is it that you count it and don’t want me spending it on someone else? You have no right.”

“Your money, your money,” Liza snapped. “Is that your great life’s purpose—to wave a crust of bread in my face? You didn’t give me anything; you gave to the household. You ate it too.” Tired of the noise, she pushed him and his suitcases out the door. “Don’t you dare come back.”

 

To her surprise, she slept deeply that night. In the morning she woke feeling like a new person. That very day she filed for divorce and child support. A few days later, the bell rang and her mother-in-law swept in, voice already sharp.

“What are you doing? You threw my son out and now you want to bleed him for money? He doesn’t owe you a kopeck. Withdraw the alimony!”

“How interesting,” Liza said evenly. “Why do some men think they’re paying their ex-wives and not their children? Or is he worried there won’t be enough left for his mistress? Either way, not my problem anymore.”

“Oh, look at you—so businesslike now! You haven’t worked a day since the wedding. You lived off him and got comfortable. Don’t think you’ll get rich on alimony. He’ll have his boss pay him under the table and you’ll see pennies.”

“Get out,” Liza said, holding the door open. “Like mother, like son. I’m only sorry it took me this long to see it.” The woman spluttered, and Liza added, “One more word, and I’m calling the police.”

The door slammed. Silence. Liza let out a long breath she felt like she’d been holding for years.

Soon the children got spots in kindergarten, and they started going regularly. Liza moved to full-time at work. Roma already knew they were now colleagues. One afternoon they turned a corner at the same moment and nearly collided.

“Hello,” he said, trying for a smile. “Can we talk?”

“Don’t be offended,” she replied, eyes on her phone, “but I have work to do.”

“Then lunch? Together?”

“The word ‘together’ doesn’t apply to us anymore,” Liza said, and walked on.

She glanced back once. He looked thinner, older. Word had it the blonde left when she found out half his income would be going to his children.

The sun climbed over a sleepy town, a soft gold washing the rooftops, yet under that quiet a storm coiled, ready to break. On the marble steps of a rose-draped luxury hotel, a wedding machine hummed to life. The groom, Daniel—crisp tuxedo, polished shoes, a grin tuned to smug perfection—worked the crowd of magnates and socialites. Today wasn’t only about marrying Sophia, the heiress with a family name that opened doors. It was about staging a final, gleeful humiliation for a woman he’d left behind.

 

That woman was Emma, his ex-wife. Once, she had poured every breath into his ascent: double shifts at a diner, night cleaning in empty offices, skipped dinners so he could eat. She believed in him harder than he ever believed in himself. But wealth cooled his heart. When success finally arrived, he saw Emma as a relic of lean years—a weight he could cut loose. He filed for divorce with the same efficiency he used to close deals, and left her with a sputtering old car and a cramped apartment.

What he never learned was that weeks after he walked away, Emma learned she was pregnant—pregnant with triplets. Alone and gutted, she stood at the edge of despair and refused to fall. Three lives needed her. She picked up extra shifts, juggled bottles and schedules, and lived on the breath between one crying infant and the next. Sleep came in scraps; resolve did not. She took a junior role at a small design studio and funneled every spark of creativity into work. Years later, she opened a boutique—modest at first, then admired, then quietly essential to the town.

Daniel strutted through those same years burnishing his legend, retelling the story of how he escaped a “poor wife who held him back.” Engaged to Sophia, he sent Emma an invitation—not kindness but bait. He envisioned her shuffling in on a bus, wearing off-the-rack clothes, awestruck by the gleam of the life she’d “lost.” He wanted his victory photographed.

He miscalculated.

The morning glittered. Sleek cars whispered up the circular drive. Guests shimmered in couture; lenses popped as Sophia appeared, fitted gown hugging every line, her hand anchored in Daniel’s arm. Everything landed exactly on cue—until the soft purr of another limousine turned the hotel’s façade into a mirror of surprise.

A black car curved to a halt. The chauffeur rounded the door with studied grace. Out stepped three little girls in matching lemon-yellow dresses, fingers laced, curls bouncing as they found the red carpet with delighted caution. Then Emma emerged, an emerald-green gown flowing like a command. She didn’t blaze; she steadied. Her beauty was unmistakable, but it was the authority in her stillness that took the air from the courtyard.

A hush rippled, then whispers. “Is that… Daniel’s ex?” someone breathed. Daniel’s smirk stalled, then collapsed into a blink too slow to disguise. Sophia’s bright smile tightened; the bouquet tremored in her grip.

 

Emma didn’t falter. She advanced at an easy pace, her daughters’ hands secure in hers. The triplets’ laughter chimed across stone and roses, innocent and irresistible. Faces softened as guests took them in—three small reflections of one woman’s courage. For a breath, the diamonds on Sophia’s neck dimmed next to Emma’s unshowy dignity.

Pride flared in Daniel’s chest, but something else leaked in—guilt, pale and unfamiliar. “Why is she here?” he hissed to his best man, though he already knew. Emma wasn’t the broken figure he’d abandoned. She was composed, successful, and, unmistakably, respected.

During the vows and the toasts, Emma didn’t raise her voice or her chin. She didn’t needle, didn’t steal focus. She simply existed—gracious, watchful, present—and that was enough. The guests who had swallowed Daniel’s story felt it turn to dust on their tongues. They saw the way the girls looked at their mother, how Emma listened to them with full attention, how every gesture carried grace instead of grievance. Even Sophia shifted, as if some invisible scale had tipped and she could hear the weight of comparison landing in the wrong place.

Daniel’s spectacle betrayed him. The curtain he meant to pull from Emma revealed only the hollowness in himself.

By night’s end, no one was talking about the floral arch or the price of the champagne. They were replaying the arrival: the sleek limo door, three bright dresses on small legs, and a woman in green moving as if she owed no one an apology. Cameras caught Daniel’s stunned expression and Emma’s quiet composure; the images traveled like rumor, converting his arrogance into town-wide side-eye.

Admiration shifted. People who had applauded Daniel began to question him. What kind of man discards the woman who carried him up the mountain—and pretends not to see his own children? Meanwhile, business at Emma’s boutique swelled. Customers came for the designs and stayed for the story threaded through them: that integrity and perseverance outlast glitter.

Emma never spoke a bitter word about Daniel. She didn’t have to. The truth lived in her daughters’ eyes and in the way she kept her shoulders open to the world. Her life became its own lesson: the strongest answer isn’t revenge, but a steadied, flourishing existence.

Years unwound. The triplets grew into young women who understood their mother’s worth far more than their father’s failings. They carried her teachings forward—that love, courage, and self-respect are the only currencies that don’t devalue. Emma found peace there, recognizing that while pain had shaped some bends in the road, it had never chosen the destination.

Daniel remained, trailed by murmurs and polite smiles that never reached the eyes. The scene he orchestrated to shame his ex-wife had crowned her instead—and she never lifted a finger.

Because sometimes the loudest declaration a woman can make is simply to walk into the room with her head high and keep walking.