All Amazing Babies

When my ex-husband suddenly said that he wanted to reconnect with our daughter, I thought that maybe he was finally ready to be the father she deserved. I never imagined the real reason for his sudden interest. The truth made my blood boil.

Being a single mother of a five-year-old girl is not as easy as it seems. I’ve been doing it alone since the day my ex-husband, Leo, decided he wanted to live with the woman he had had an affair with.

Leo left me almost three years ago, when Lily was only two years old and I needed a partner who could be by my side while I took care of our little one.

But no, the man I trusted the most decided to abandon me and go live with another woman just a few blocks away.

Honestly, I didn’t stop him or begged him not to leave me. My pride didn’t allow me. But when Lily grew up, she started asking questions that broke my heart.

Questions like “Why doesn’t dad come to see me?” And “Dad doesn’t love me anymore?” Every time I asked, I felt like they were tearing out a piece of my heart.

I did everything I could to give Lily everything she needed. I worked double shifts at the hospital where I am a nurse, to make sure I had nice clothes and could go to a good daycare.

 

But seeing other children at school talking about their parents made her feel excluded. He got home and told me that he would like Dad to be present at the school works or to read him stories before going to sleep.

That’s when I swallowed my pride and decided to call him.

I told him about his feelings, how he cried sometimes at night, asking about his dad. I begged him to be present for our girl and to at least try to be the father she deserved.

“Leo, he misses you,” I told him during that call. “Ask for you every day. Can’t you visit it from time to time?”

“I’m busy, Stacey,” he replied coldly. “Now I’m building a new life. You’ll manage.”

He did not appear on their birthdays or at special events. Not even when he was given his first bicycle or when he lost his first tooth. I guess he was too busy with the new woman in his life, planning their perfect future together.

That’s how everything was until last week.

It was any Friday morning when I saw his name blink on my phone screen. I almost didn’t answer.

But something made me answer the call.

“Stacey, I’ve been thinking a lot,” he told me. “I’m ashamed of myself. I want to reconnect with our daughter.”

My heart turned upside down. After three years of silence, would you like to come back?

“Can I take it to you on the weekend? Just us,” he continued. “I want to show you how much it means to me. I want to show him that he still has his father. I… made a mistake and I want to fix it.”
b

Lily had been very quiet lately.

He had stopped asking about his father, which in a way seemed worse to me than when he used to cry for him. I thought maybe this could be good for her.

“Are you going to take this seriously, Leo?” I asked him. “Because if you hurt him again, I swear…”

 

“I’m serious,” he interrupted me. “I promise you. It’s about her, not us.”

I said yes. Because as much as he hated what he had done to me, I would never get in the way of his relationship with his father.

All children deserve to know that their father loves them.

So I made her unicorn backpack with pajamas, snacks, her favorite teddy bear and a pink dress that she loved.

I gave her the strongest hug and told her that Dad was going to spend the whole weekend with her, just as he had promised.

“Really, little one,” I said, kissing her forehead.

We agreed that he would bring her back on Sunday at five o’clock in the afternoon.

As I watched them walk away, I hoped I had made the right decision. I hoped I didn’t have to regret having sent her with him.

On Saturday he sent photos of Lily in the park, laughing on a carousel and applauding in a children’s theater. He smiled in each and every one of the photos, and it seemed that everything he had said he would do was really happening.

I was happy. I thought that maybe he had finally realized what he had lost when he walked away from us.

I was waiting at home, cleaning and getting ready for Lily’s return, when my sister called me.

“Stacey, how could you allow this?” he asked me. “Did you see what your ex did to Lily?”

“Allow what?” I asked, confused. “He promised her father-daughter time at an amusement park, ice cream, all those things. Lily misses him a lot and I thought…”

“My God, he lied to you,” he said, his voice softened by the shock. “Oh God. I thought you knew. I just saw it on Instagram.”

My heart began to beat hard. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sending you a photo right now,” he told me.

My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot of an Instagram account that I didn’t recognize. But I immediately recognized the people who appeared in it.

There they were. Leo and his lover turned bride, Rachel, fully dressed as a bride and groom for a wedding.

And right between them, with a small bouquet in her hand and a white dress with ruffles that I had never seen before, was my daughter.

My innocent Lily, who seemed completely lost and confused.

That’s why Leo wanted to take Lily with him on the weekend. He was going to marry Rachel and they wanted Lily to be their florist. How could they do it without telling me?

The captions were all hashtags and false sweetness. “#OurDay #CompleteFamily #MyPrincess #FlowerGirl #BlessingFamily”.

Boiling with rage, I immediately called Leo, but the voicemail jumped directly.

I called again, but he didn’t answer.

 

I looked at the photos again and recognized the place in the background.

It was a local farm with a huge glass gazebo that I had passed by car hundreds of times. They were probably still there, celebrating their perfect day with my daughter as an involuntary prop.

So I took the keys and drove straight there.

My heart was racing at a thousand per hour while a million questions crowded into my mind.

How could he do this to him? How could he lie to both of us like that?

The twenty-minute journey seemed like hours to me.

Lily’s confused face kept coming to my mind. My little girl had no idea they were using her. I just thought that Dad wanted to spend time with her.

When I arrived at the place, I found them on the edge of the reception area. The bride laughed with her friends, showed her ring and posed for more photos.

Meanwhile, Leo sipped champagne as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t finished betraying his daughter.

I made my way through the crowd of guests, leaving behind the faces of amazement and the conversations in a low voice. I didn’t mind setting up a scene.

I only cared about finding Lily.

She was sitting on a bench in the corner, still in her flower girl dress, hugging her teddy bear and looking like she wanted to disappear. When he saw me, his whole face lit up with relief.

“Mommy, can we go home now?” he whispered, extending his arms towards me.

I immediately lifted her in my arms and held her against my chest. “Yes, honey. We’re going home right now.”

That’s when Rachel ran over, still with her fake smile.

“Wait!” he said. “We haven’t taken the family photo yet!”

Family photo, I thought. Yes, of course.

I looked her straight in the eyes.

“They used my daughter as a prop for her Instagram wedding,” I said, with a trembling voice with rage. “She’s not your flower girl. She’s my girl. And she had no idea why she was here.”

“Well, she looks pretty,” he said. “I needed a little girl as a florist for the photos. And it’s not that we have our own… yet.”

It was about to explode. I wanted to say things that I would regret later, but that moment never came.

One of Rachel’s bridesmaids, Sarah, stepped forward. I didn’t know that woman, but she seemed very upset by what she had just heard.

“She planned all this,” Sarah announced. “Rachel told us that she needed a flower girl for the photos, and that she would ask Leo to ‘lend her daughter’ and make it happen. He literally said, ‘Your mother will believe it. Tell him it’s a father-daughter weekend.”

That’s when all eyes turned to Rachel.

“Oh, Sarah is just jealous,” he said with a fake laugh. “He just wants to ruin my day.”

But it was already too late. People were already looking at Rachel and Leo with judgment in their eyes.

One of the godparents, Leo’s cousin, turned to me and said, “I’m very sorry, Stacey. I had no idea they were lying to you.”

I nodded, too exhausted to speak. What was left for me to say?

I had seen enough. Those people didn’t deserve a second more of my time, and of course my daughter didn’t deserve to be in the middle of that.

Without saying a word, I held Lily in my arms and left that place. I didn’t look back.

On Monday morning, half of the bride’s guests had stopped following her on social media. He had even removed the wedding photos from Instagram.

Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. This is what happens when you use someone else’s child as props for your wedding photos.

Looking back, I’m grateful that my sister called me that day. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have known the truth until it was too late.

Thanks to her, I was able to bring Lily home safe and sound.

And Leo? She won’t have the opportunity to be near my daughter in the near future. Not until I learn what it means to be a father.

This work is inspired by real facts and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters and details have been changed to protect intimacy and improve narration. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to real facts is pure coincidence and is not the author’s intention.

The author and the editor do not guarantee the accuracy of the events or the representation of the characters, and are not responsible for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is”, and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or the editor.

I vividly recall the fragrance of the fresh flowers at the wedding. The pristine white linens, the clinking of crystal glasses, the murmur of laughter—none of it could obscure the insignificance I experienced that day.My name is Isabelle Hart. I have never originated from wealth. During college, I had two jobs, frequently forgoing meals to afford rent. My mother was employed as a housekeeper, while my father worked as a handyman. While we were never devoid of love, we consistently lacked an alternative—stability. Subsequently, I encountered Daniel Weston. For demonstration purposes exclusively He exhibited kindness, intelligence, and humility in ways I had not anticipated from an individual born into substantial affluence. The media referred to him as “The Billionaire with a Backpack,” as he preferred sneakers over Italian loafers. We encountered each other in an unexpected location—a bookshop situated in a tranquil Boston neighbourhood. I was employed part-time while pursuing my master’s degree in education. He entered in search of a book about architecture, and we subsequently engaged in a two-hour discussion about classic literature. It was not a fairy tale. We possessed significant distinctions. I was unaware of the term wine sommelier, and he was oblivious to the concept of living pay cheque to pay cheque. We succeeded via love, patience, and much humour. Upon his proposal, his parents exhibited cordiality; yet, their eyes revealed that I did not align with their expectations. To them, I was the charitable beneficiary who had “captivated” their son. His mother, Vivian, would smile at me during brunches but then recommend that I don “something modest” for family gatherings, as if I had something to validate. His sister, Charlotte, was in a more dire condition. She feigned ignorance of my existence for a significant portion of the time. Nevertheless, I reassured myself that they would eventually change their perspective. That love would close the divide. Subsequently, Charlotte’s nuptials occurred. She was marrying an investment banker—an individual who vacationed in the Maldives and owned a yacht named Ambrosia. The guest list comprised prominent figures of East Coast society. Daniel and I had just returned from an overseas volunteering trip and flew directly to the home hosting the wedding.

 

For demonstration purposes exclusively The difficulties arose almost instantaneously. “Isabelle, could you assist us with the table arrangements?” Charlotte gently offered me a clipboard before I had even set down my suitcase. I closed and opened my eyes rapidly. “Certainly.” Isn’t that the responsibility of the wedding planner? “Oh, she is overwhelmed.” Your organisational skills are exceptional. It will require merely a minute. That minute extended into hours. I folded napkins, transported boxes, and organised the seating chart, since Charlotte asserted I possessed the ability to maintain neutrality. Other bridesmaids observed me as if I were a servant. No one enquired if I required water, sustenance, or a respite. During the rehearsal dinner, Charlotte’s mother ensured that I was seated three tables away from Daniel—adjacent to the valet staff. I attempted to dismiss it with laughter. I wished to avoid creating a disturbance. The following morning, when I donned my blush-hued gown—modest, naturally—I reassured myself, It’s merely one day. Allow her to possess it. You are uniting in matrimony with your soulmate, and that is what is significant. However, the ultimate tipping point arrived. At the wedding reception, I approached the head table to sit by Daniel when Charlotte obstructed my path. “Oh, dear,” she remarked, resting her manicured palm on mine, “the photographers require symmetry.” The table has been filled. Could you assist the servers in presenting the desserts? I gazed at her. “Do you wish for me to serve the cake?” She radiated joy. “Merely for a few photographs.” Subsequently, you may take a seat, I assure you. For demonstration purposes exclusively At that moment, I observed Daniel on the opposite side of the room. He had been approached by a family acquaintance. He was unaware. He had not observed. However, I was unable to move. I experienced a surge of heat in my chest, with humiliation enveloping me like cold rain. For a brief moment, I nearly acquiesced. Long-standing habits are difficult to relinquish. However, an individual collided with me, causing champagne to cascade down my dress—and Charlotte remained utterly unfazed. She only presented me with a serviette. At that moment, Daniel emerged behind her. “What is occurring?” He enquired with composure, although his tone conveyed firmness. Charlotte pivoted, beaming with joy. “Oh, Daniel!” We requested Isabelle’s assistance in serving the cake. Her practical approach is well-suited to her. Daniel glanced at me, then at the serviette I held, and subsequently at the subtle stain on my dress. Subsequently, all activity ceased. He approached the microphone adjacent to the band. It was tapped twice. The hall became silent. Numerous gazes were directed at him. “I trust you are all appreciating this splendid wedding,” he commenced. “Congratulations, Charlotte and Marcus.” The venue is exquisite, and the cuisine is exceptional. “Before we proceed with cutting the cake, I must express a few words.” My heart sank. “Many of you recognise me as Daniel Weston—associated with the Weston Group, the Fortune list, and various other accolades that individuals often mention.” However, none of those factors are as significant as the lady I adore. The woman positioned directly here. For demonstration purposes solely, he extended his hand towards mine. This is Isabelle. She is my fiancée. She is exceptionally intelligent, empathetic, and exhibits an unparalleled work ethic. However, today she was regarded as an afterthought. Desire assistance.

As if one were an outsider. A profound quiet. “That,” he added, “is intolerable.” Not solely due to her status as my partner, but because it is morally incorrect. No one should be made to feel insignificant in the presence of others who profess to understand love. If my presence here implies my endorsement of that behaviour, let me clarify—I do not. Charlotte’s jaw clenched. Vivian appeared pallid. Daniel faced me. “Isabelle, you merit more than this.” “Accompany me.” We exited. In that manner. He relinquished the remainder of the evening without hesitation. We entered his vehicle and departed, still attired in our bridal garments. No one pursued. We halted at a small diner along the highway, got pancakes, and split a milkshake. He removed his blazer, placed it over my shoulders, and remarked, “I apologise for not noticing it earlier.” “I wished to avoid spoiling her day,” I murmured. “You did not.” You have just preserved my life. That evening, he arranged a journey to the mountains, and we clandestinely married two days thereafter beneath a starry sky. Absence of seating charts. Prohibition of champagne towers. Only we, a local clergyman, and the wind as our testimony. For demonstration purposes exclusively In the subsequent months, we received unsolicited calls from relatives. Charlotte issued a perfunctory apology, primarily concerned about her reputation rather than genuine contrition. Vivian extended an invitation for breakfast “to resolve misunderstandings.” Daniel rejected all of them. “I do not wish for you to ever feel compelled to diminish yourself to conform to my existence,” he stated. “Let us construct one of our own.” And we accomplished that. I returned to academia and established a charity organisation for disadvantaged children. He contributed the initial funding and never claimed recognition. We relocated to a quaint house with a view of the lake, rather than a mansion, and populated it with laughing, literature, and pets we rescued collectively. Individuals frequently presume that affluence facilitates comfort. However, I have discovered that it is love that genuinely uplifts you.

I was treated as a servant at a wedding. However, I departed with a spouse who recognised my value. Consequently, I became the most fortunate woman present. Lesson of the Narrative: Occasionally, the most impactful declarations are conveyed not through elevated tones, but through silent departures. Do not permit someone to diminish your brilliance for their own comfort. When you encounter an individual who recognises your value in the absence of acknowledgement from others, grasp onto them firmly.This work is influenced by narratives from the daily experiences of our audience and composed by a skilled author. Any similarity to real names or locales is entirely accidental. All photos are solely for illustrative purposes.

The boom of a crimson Ferrari engine shattered the tranquilly of the suburban street. Onlookers stared as the opulent vehicle raced by, the maid’s white apron billowing dramatically while she clutched the steering wheel, her hands still encased in yellow cleaning gloves.

A little girl in the passenger seat lay asleep, her pallid face against the seatbelt. Household cleaning robots Jasmine Clarke, a live-in maid for the influential real estate tycoon Charles Davenport, had never operated a vehicle more luxurious than her cousin’s antiquated Toyota. Upon seeing twelve-year-old Emily Davenport fallen in her bedroom, struggling for breath and unresponsive, she had little time for contemplation. Her phone lacked signal. The closest ambulance would require a minimum of twenty minutes to arrive. In the driveway rested the sole vehicle capable of transporting Emily to the hospital in under five minutes. The Ferrari automobile. Her hands trembled as she seized the keys from the kitchen counter. Each second felt like an offence, yet Emily’s laboured breaths dictated her choice. Jasmine secured the girl in the passenger seat and hoped she recalled sufficient knowledge from her driver’s education course years prior. Household cleaning robots As she sped down the main road, horns sounded as traffic manoeuvred to evade her unpredictable driving. Jasmine’s heart raced. If she damaged the car, she would forfeit more than her employment—she may face imprisonment. However, if she did not make an effort, Emily’s survival could be jeopardised.

As the hospital approached, Jasmine murmured through tears, “Hold on, baby girl.” Do not abandon me. Upon her abrupt halt at the emergency entrance, physicians hurried outside. Jasmine lifted Emily into her arms and exclaimed, “She’s not breathing properly!” “Kindly assist her!” In just seconds, the girl vanished into the emergency room. Jasmine sank into the curb, her apron marked by sweat and tears, as the Ferrari’s engine idled. She scarcely acknowledged the astonished gazes of onlookers—she had just jeopardised everything. Unbeknownst to her, Charles Davenport had been notified on the unauthorised departure of his Ferrari from the estate. Upon his arrival at the hospital, seething with anger, he was prepared to contact the authorities. However, the vision that before him would alter everything. Charles Davenport entered the hospital lobby with fervour, his fancy suit attracting as much notice as the anger displayed on his countenance. “Where is she located?” He shouted at the receptionist. “My maid stole my Ferrari!” Household cleaning robots Before the woman could respond, Charles’s gaze fixated on Jasmine, who was slumped in a chair, her gloves still donned and her face marked by tears. “You,” he spat, advancing towards her.

 

“Are you aware of your actions?” The value of that car exceeds the entirety of your existence. Jasmine gazed at him, fatigued yet resolute. “I am indifferent to your automobile,” she stated hoarsely. Emily was unable to breathe. I needed to bring her here. Time was insufficient for waiting. Charles became immobile. “Is Emily present?” As if prompted, a physician emerged from the emergency department. “Mr. Davenport?” Your daughter experienced a critical asthma attack. She is currently stable; but, an additional delay may have been lethal. The individual who admitted her preserved her life. The words lingered in the atmosphere with the force of a hammer strike. Charles gradually faced Jasmine, his fury abruptly intersecting with incredulity. “You…” His voice wavered. “I did not appropriate your vehicle,” Jasmine said. “I rescued your daughter.” For the first time in years, Charles Davenport—billionaire, mogul, a man who believed all things had a price—experienced profound helplessness. The sight of his cherished Ferrari accelerating away had incited his fury. However, the sight of his daughter, comatose and brought into the emergency room by the maid he scarcely acknowledged, resonated more profoundly than any monetary setback. Household cleaning robots Nevertheless, pride gnawed at him. You ought to have summoned an ambulance. “That is the behaviour exhibited by typical individuals.” Jasmine’s eyes gleamed. “And wait twenty minutes as she perished?” You were absent. I was. Her words rendered him mute. The doctor remarked, “Honestly, Mr. Davenport, she responded more swiftly than the majority would.” Your daughter survives due to her. Charles remained unresponsive. His eyes fell to his shoes, his jaw clenched. For a guy habituated to dominance, he abruptly possessed none. After several hours, while Emily rested quietly, Charles emerged to find Jasmine seated alone on a bench. The Ferrari was parked nearby, its formerly immaculate paint now marred by dust and filth. Jasmine rose abruptly. “I comprehend if you wish to terminate my employment,” she stated softly. “However, I would repeat the action.” Each and every occasion. Charles scrutinised her. For the first time, he perceived not “the maid,” but a woman who had jeopardised her freedom, her means of subsistence, and potentially her life for his child. Household cleaning robots “He conceded gradually that he had considered Emily’s safety more than I had.” I was concerned about a vehicle. You expressed concern for my daughter. Jasmine swallowed, uncertain of how to respond. Charles exhaled audibly, then astonished her with unexpected remarks. You are not terminated. Indeed… I am indebted to you beyond my capacity to repay. “Had you not intervened, I would currently be arranging a funeral.” Tears accumulated in Jasmine’s eyes, yet she compelled a faint smile. “She is a commendable child.” She was undeserving of that treatment. After years, Charles extended his hand and placed it on another’s shoulder with sincere appreciation. “You did not either.” From this point forth, you are no longer merely my subordinate. You are considered family. Family holiday packages Jasmine blinked, astonished. Although the Ferrari’s engine had long since cooled, the narrative of the maid who “stole” it to rescue her employer’s daughter disseminated well beyond the confines of the hospital. To the astonishment of all, including herself, the billionaire’s response was not one of retribution. It was appreciation. At that time, Charles Davenport learnt a lesson that his affluence had never imparted: automobiles are replaceable. The family is incapable.

IDivorced, my husband threw an old pillow at me with a sneer. When I unzipped it to wash it, I was stunned by what was inside…

Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and indifferent glances. Héctor was never violent or loud, but his apathy drained me, little by little, until my heart felt hollow.

After our wedding, we moved into his parents’ house in a neighborhood in Mexico City.

Every morning, I woke up early to cook, do the laundry, and clean.

Every evening, I sat waiting for him to come home, only to hear the same dismissive words:

“Yeah, I already ate.”

I often wondered if this marriage was any different from simply being a tenant. I tried to build, I tried to love, but all I received in return was an empty silence I could never fill.

For illustrative purposes only.
One day, Héctor came home with his usual blank expression.

He sat across from me, placed a stack of papers on the table, and said in a flat voice:

“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”

I froze. Deep down, I wasn’t surprised. With tears stinging my eyes, I picked up the pen with trembling hands. Memories came rushing back—nights waiting at the dinner table, the lonely hours enduring stomachaches in the dark, the endless ache of being unseen. Each one felt like a wound reopening.

After signing, I began to pack my things.

There was nothing in that house that was truly mine, except for a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.

As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me, his voice dripping with mockery:

“Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.”

I caught the pillow, my heart tightening. It was indeed old—the pillowcase was faded, yellowed in places, and torn at the seams.

That pillow had followed me from my mother’s home in a small town in Oaxaca, where I grew up, to university in the city. Later, it came with me into marriage. I couldn’t sleep without it. Héctor used to complain about it often, but I never gave it up.

I left his house in silence.

Back in my rented room, I sat staring at the pillow, still hearing his sarcastic words. Wanting to at least rest peacefully that night, I decided to remove the pillowcase and wash it.

But as I unzipped it, I felt something strange. There was a hard lump hidden inside the soft cotton filling. My hand froze. Carefully, I reached in and pulled out a small bundle, neatly wrapped in a nylon bag.

For illustrative purposes only.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside was a thick stack of 500-peso bills and a folded piece of paper.I unfolded the note. The handwriting was instantly familiar—shaky, but unmistakably my mother’s:

“My daughter, this is the money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I feared you’d be too proud to accept it. No matter what, don’t suffer for a man, my dear. I love you.”

Tears fell freely, blotting the yellowed paper. My mind flashed back to my wedding day. My mother had handed me the pillow, smiling as she said it was very soft and would help me sleep well.

I laughed and replied, “You’re getting old, Mom. What a funny thing to think. Héctor and I will be happy.”

She had only smiled again, though her eyes held a distant sadness I didn’t recognize back then.

Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as though my mother was right beside me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort.

She had always known. She had always understood how much her daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong man. And she had quietly prepared a safety net for me—not riches, but enough to keep me from despair.

That night, I lay on the hard bed of my rented room, clutching the pillow close as tears soaked the fabric.

But this time, I wasn’t crying for Héctor.

I was crying because I loved my mother.

Because I felt grateful. Because I realized I still had somewhere to return to, someone who loved me, and a whole wide world still waiting to welcome me.

For illustrative purposes only.
The next morning, I carefully folded the pillow and placed it in my suitcase. I told myself I would rent a smaller room, closer to my job. I would send more money to my mother. And I would live a life where I no longer trembled at a man’s cold words.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled faintly.

This woman, with swollen eyes, would now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for all the dreams she had left unfinished.

That marriage, that old pillow, that sneer—it was all just the end of one sad chapter.

My life still had many pages left to be written, and I would write them with my own resilient hands.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.

Natalya was hauling bags up to the fourth floor, cursing the broken elevator. The October rain had soaked through her jacket, and all she wanted was a hot shower and some peace. Working as an architect in a design bureau was draining—especially when clients changed plans at the last minute.

The key turned in the lock with difficulty—the lock was aging along with the building. Natalya pushed the door open and froze. In the narrow hallway stood two huge blue suitcases, taking up almost all the free space.

 

“Seryozha?” Natalya called, tugging off her wet boots.

Her husband stepped out of the living room. Sergey looked unusually tense for someone who usually greeted his wife with a smile and questions about her day.

“Oh, you’re back. Listen, here’s the thing…” Sergey rubbed the back of his head and nodded at the luggage. “This is my son—he’s going to live with us now.”

Natalya slowly hung her jacket on the hook, processing what she’d heard. Gleb, Sergey’s fifteen-year-old son from his first marriage, lived with his mother in another district. In the three years they’d been together, the boy had shown up at their place at most on weekends, and even then rarely.

“What do you mean, ‘going to live with us’?” Natalya frowned and tilted her head, trying to make sense of it.

“Just like that. Get used to it—and you’ll be the one feeding him. You’re the homemaker,” Sergey shrugged, as if he were announcing he’d bought a loaf of bread.

Natalya felt the blood rush to her face. Three years ago, when she married Sergey, she understood that a teenager came with the package. But occasional visits were one thing; living together permanently was something else entirely—especially when the decision was made without the slightest discussion.

“You decided it—so you handle it,” Natalya said evenly, suppressing the urge to raise her voice.

Sergey blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.

“What do you mean? We live together, so—”

“So you inform me about your decisions instead of presenting me with a fait accompli,” Natalya cut him off. “Where’s my child?”

“Lena’s at a friend’s, doing homework. She’ll be home for dinner.”

Natalya nodded and went to the kitchen. Her daughter was in seventh grade and often stayed over at her classmate Sveta’s— the girls had been friends since first grade, and their parents kept warm relations.

Muffled voices sounded from the living room. Sergey was saying something to his son, but the words were indistinct. Natalya took food from the fridge for dinner. She usually cooked with leftovers in mind—Sergey liked to eat his fill, and Lena, at thirteen, could pack away an adult-sized portion.

Today she boiled exactly enough pasta for two. She fried two cutlets. She made a small bowl of salad.

“Dinner!” Natalya called.

All three came to the table. Gleb looked uncertain, glancing from his father to his stepmother. He’d grown since their last meeting, taller and broader in the shoulders, but he still held himself stiffly.

Natalya set out plates—for herself and for Lena. In front of Sergey and Gleb, the places at the table remained empty.

“And for them?” Sergey looked in surprise at the bare spots.

“You brought him—so you provide for him,” Natalya replied calmly, serving pasta to her daughter.

Lena raised her eyebrows but kept quiet. The girl had inherited from her mother the ability not to wade into adult conflicts unless absolutely necessary.

Gleb sat silently, staring at his empty plate. The atmosphere at the table thickened until it could be cut with a knife.

“Natalya, what are you doing?” Sergey spoke more quietly than usual, but tension vibrated in every word.

“Me? I’m having dinner. What are you doing?”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. I feed my daughter; you feed your son.”

Natalya put a piece of cutlet into her mouth and began to chew, not taking her eyes off her husband. Sergey sat red-faced, his fists clenched on the table.

“Mom, can I go to Sveta’s?” Lena asked softly.

“Of course, sunshine. Just be home by ten.”

Her daughter quickly finished eating and disappeared into the hall. The front door slammed.

“Dad, I’m not really hungry,” Gleb mumbled.

“Sit,” Sergey snapped. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Natalya finished her cutlet and moved on to the salad. The silence stretched. Finally Sergey couldn’t stand it.

“Explain to me what’s going on!”

“What’s there to explain? You made a decision on your own—now handle it on your own.”

“We live in the same apartment!”

“In my apartment,” Natalya corrected him. “Which I bought before I met you. In my apartment, I set the rules.”

Sergey stood up sharply, knocking over his chair.

“Have you lost your mind? Gleb’s been left without a mother!”

“What do you mean, ‘without a mother’?” Natalya looked up. “Did something happen to his mother?”

“No, but… she’s getting married. To an American. She’s moving to the States. Gleb refused to fly—he wants to stay in Russia.”

“I see. And you decided to shift responsibility for raising your son onto me?”

“I thought you’d understand!”

“I do understand. I understand that you don’t think you need to consult me about matters that concern our family.”

Natalya stood and began clearing the table. The clatter of plates rang louder than usual.

“Gleb, go to your room,” the woman said without turning around.

“He doesn’t have his own room!” Sergey exploded.

“Then let him settle in yours. Or buy a bigger apartment.”

“With what money? I’m not an architect!”

Natalya stopped, dishes in her hands. Sergey worked as a metalworker at a factory, earning little and not overexerting himself. She made several times more, and he knew it perfectly well.

“Exactly. You’re not an architect. You didn’t buy this apartment. And you don’t get to decide who lives in it.”

Gleb rose from the table and slowly shuffled toward his parents’ bedroom. The boy was hunched, as if trying to make himself invisible.

“Natalya, think with your head!” Sergey lowered his voice. “Where am I supposed to put my son?”

“With his mother. Let her take him with her.”

“He doesn’t want to go!”

“Then to his grandmother’s. Rent him a room. There are plenty of options.”

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

Natalya put the dishes in the sink and turned to her husband.

“Sergey, I’m not against Gleb. I’m against you making decisions for me. If you want your son to live with us—let’s discuss the terms. Like adults.”

“What terms?” Sergey looked bewildered.

“Elementary ones. Who buys groceries, who cooks, who does the laundry, who cleans. Who pays the utilities, which will go up with a third resident. Who buys furniture—the boy needs somewhere to sleep, not the couch in the living room. Who goes to parent-teacher meetings, who handles doctors and tutors.”

Sergey stood silent, shifting from foot to foot.

“Did you think about any of that when you dragged in those suitcases?” Natalya continued. “Or were you counting on me taking everything on while you come home from work to a hot dinner and ironed shirts?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Well… we’re one family now…”

Natalya sat down on a stool and looked closely at her husband.

“Sergey, in three years you’ve never once asked my opinion about raising Gleb. You’ve never asked how I feel about the boy coming here and behaving like it’s a hotel. He shows up, eats, sleeps, leaves. He’s never once said thank you.”

“He’s just shy…”

“Maybe. But that’s not my problem. That’s your problem as his father.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Natalya stood and opened the fridge. She took out eggs, bread, and sausage.

“I suggest you feed your child. And tomorrow morning we’ll calmly talk about the conditions under which Gleb can stay here.”

 

Sergey took the eggs and cracked them into the pan without a word. Natalya went into the bedroom. Gleb was sitting on the edge of the marital bed, staring at his sneakers.

“Gleb,” the woman called.

The boy looked up. His eyes were red.

“I have nothing against you,” Natalya said gently. “But decisions that affect everyone should be made by everyone. Do you understand?”

Gleb nodded.

“Good. Then tomorrow we’ll discuss how we can best live together.”

Natalya grabbed her pajamas and went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the tired face of a thirty-six-year-old woman who had suddenly realized that family life could serve up surprises worse than a broken elevator.

On the other side of the wall, the eggs were sizzling, and a father was saying something quietly to his son. Natalya turned on the tap and began washing her face with cold water, wondering what the next day would bring.

On Monday morning, Sergey woke earlier than usual. Natalya heard him fumbling in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. The sounds said it all—pans clanging, oil hissing, curses muttered through his teeth.

“Mom, what’s that smell?” Lena asked, appearing in the kitchen.

“Your stepfather is making breakfast for his son,” Natalya replied, pouring her daughter some juice.

“Smells burnt.”

“Then something’s burnt.”

Sergey came out of the kitchen red-faced and disheveled, holding a plate with a charred omelet.

“Gleb, breakfast is ready!” he shouted toward the bedroom.

The boy shuffled out, looked at the black mass on the plate, and grimaced.

“Dad, maybe just bread and butter?”

“Eat what you’re given,” Sergey snapped, though he knew himself the dish was inedible.

Silently, Natalya got her daughter ready for school, kissed her, and sent her off. Sergey left for the factory as well. Gleb stayed alone in the apartment—his classes at school wouldn’t start until the next day.

In the evening, her husband came home tired and hungry. As usual, Natalya cooked dinner for two—herself and Lena.

“Natalya, can you stop this mockery already?” Sergey sat across from his wife with an empty plate.

“I’m not mocking anyone. I’m eating.”

“Gleb was hungry all day!”

“And where were you all day?”

“At work!”

“Good. Then tomorrow leave him money for lunch or cook in the morning.”

Sergey was silent, realizing he had no argument. After dinner, he went to the store and bought convenience foods—dumplings, sausages, instant noodles.

On Tuesday morning, the story repeated itself. Sergey boiled the dumplings, but overcooked them until they turned to mush. Gleb poked at the soggy dough with his spoon and sighed.

“Dad, can I go to Grandma’s?”

“Why?”

“No reason… it’s just boring here.”

“Bear with it a bit. You’ll get used to it.”

But Gleb didn’t get used to it. He drifted around the apartment, watched TV, played on his phone. By midweek, the teenager started complaining that the place felt stuffy and uncomfortable.

“Dad, when is Mom coming back from America?”

“She’s not coming back, Gleb. She lives there now.”

“Maybe I should fly to her then?”

Sergey didn’t answer, but it was clear his patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t used to cooking, doing laundry, or keeping things tidy. By Thursday, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, laundry lay scattered across the bedroom, and the trash can overflowed with empty packaging from convenience foods.

“Everything’s on me!” Sergey exploded on Thursday evening. “I’m working, cooking, cleaning!”

“Welcome to the world of adults,” Natalya replied calmly, rinsing her plate.

“You can see I’m not managing!”

“I can. And?”

“Help me!”

“Why? This was your decision.”

Sergey grabbed his head and began pacing the kitchen.

“You’re cruel!”

“I’m consistent.”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. You’re his father. Cope with it.”

Natalya stood and went to her room. Half an hour later, her husband tried to start a scene in the bedroom, but each time the woman calmly repeated the same thing:

“That was your decision.”

 

On Friday evening, the landline rang. Sergey snatched up the receiver.

“Hello, Mom… Yeah, everything’s fine… How are you? Gleb? He’s fine, adjusting…”

The voice on the other end grew louder. Natalya caught fragments:

“He called me! He’s complaining! He’s going hungry!”

“Mom, come on…”

“Bring him over immediately! Today!”

Sergey tried to object, but his mother clearly wasn’t going to listen. The call lasted about ten minutes. He put down the phone and sighed heavily.

“Mom’s taking Gleb to her place.”

“Good,” Natalya nodded, not looking up from her book.

“Good? You don’t care?”

“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I feel relieved. The apartment will be in order again.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Saturday turned out rainy. Sergey packed his son’s things into the same blue suitcases he had brought a week earlier. Gleb helped his father, but it was obvious the boy was more relieved than anything to be moving to his grandmother’s.

“Anna Petrovna is a good woman,” Natalya told her husband. “She’ll handle it better than you.”

“She’s a pensioner! She’s seventy!”

“But experienced. She raised a son; she’ll raise a grandson.”

Sergey zipped the suitcase and straightened up.

“Maybe I was wrong… somewhere.”

“Not ‘somewhere’. Specifically. You made a decision without consulting me. And you shifted the responsibility onto my shoulders without even asking my consent.”

Sergey dragged the suitcases into the hall. Gleb put on his things and went to stand by the door.

“Natalya, thank you for letting me stay,” the boy said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Gleb. You can always come visit. But as a guest—when you’re invited.”

The boy nodded, catching the subtext.

The door closed behind father and son. Natalya was left alone in the quiet apartment. She walked through the rooms, assessing the damage. A major cleanup would be needed—the men had managed to make quite a mess.

But first, she sat in an armchair and opened the book she had set aside for a week. The home smelled of cleanliness and calm. No one had to be fed against her will. No one was shifting their responsibilities onto someone else.

Around eight, Lena came back. She’d spent the weekend at her friend’s, waiting out the family crisis.

“Mom, where is everyone?”

“Gleb moved to his grandmother’s; your stepfather took him.”

“Did he talk to us about it?”

“He does now,” Natalya smiled.

“So we’re having dinner for two?”

“For two.”

Mother and daughter set the table for two. Lena told stories about her weekend at Sveta’s, and Natalya listened, understanding that the week of standoff hadn’t been for nothing. Her husband had learned the main rule: in this house, decisions are made together, and no one takes on someone else’s responsibilities.

Around nine, Sergey returned. He looked tired and guilty.

“How are things?” Natalya asked.

“Fine. Mom cooked him soups for the week. She was happy to have her grandson.”

“That’s good. Anna Petrovna loves taking care of someone.”

“And you don’t?” Sergey asked quietly.

“I do. But those I choose myself. And when I’m asked, not forced.”

Sergey nodded and sat at the table. Natalya silently set a bowl of soup in front of him. He looked up in surprise.

“That’s for you. Because today you did the right thing—you found the child a suitable place without shifting the responsibility onto me.”

Sergey picked up the spoon and began to eat. Over the week, he had come to understand that being a parent is hard work—and forcing that work onto others is wrong and unfair.

“Natalya, I’m sorry,” he said between spoonfuls.

“For what?”

“For not thinking. For not asking. For deciding for you.”

“Good. The important thing is that it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t.”

Natalya poured herself tea and sat across from her husband. Peace and order reigned in the apartment once more. Most importantly, Sergey had learned his lesson. He now knew: his wife would not let anyone decide for her, and she would not take on someone else’s duties without her own consent.

The evening passed quietly. A family of three had dinner, watched TV, and planned the next day. No one had to be forced to eat. No one complained about discomfort. Harmony was restored in Natalya’s home—built on mutual respect and shared decisions.

Yana pushed open the apartment door and immediately caught the low hum of voices coming from the kitchen. Her husband, Igor, was in there with his mother—Valentina Stepanovna—who had shown up that morning and, as usual, made the kitchen her base camp.

“So what’s with the TV?” Igor was asking.

“It’s ancient,” his mother complained. “The picture is awful, the sound cuts out. It should’ve been replaced ages ago.”

Yana slipped off her shoes and stepped into the kitchen. Valentina sat at the table nursing a cup of tea; Igor was poking at his phone.

“Ah, Yana’s here,” Igor said, brightening. “We were just talking about Mom’s TV.”

“What happened to it?” Yana asked, already tired.

 

“It’s practically dead. We need a new one,” said Valentina Stepanovna.

Igor set his phone down and fixed his gaze on Yana.
“You always cover things like this. Buy Mom a TV. We don’t feel like dipping into our own money.”

Yana paused mid-motion, halfway out of her coat. He’d said it as casually as if he were asking her to pick up a loaf of bread.

“I don’t feel like it either. Do you?” she asked evenly.

“Well, you have a good job and make solid money,” Igor said. “My salary’s small.”

Yana frowned, studying him to see if he was serious. He was. His expression radiated the serene confidence of a man convinced he was right.

“Igor, I’m not a bank,” she said slowly.

“Oh, come on,” he waved it off. “It’s just one TV.”

Yana pulled out a chair and sat. Her mind ran through the last few months. Who covered the rent? Yana. Who bought groceries? Yana. Who paid the utilities? Yana again. Plus the medications for Valentina’s blood pressure and aching joints. And that renovation loan his mother had taken out—she’d stopped paying after three months, and Yana had picked up the installments.

“Remember something?” Igor prodded.

“I remembered who’s been paying for everything in this family for the past two years.”

Valentina inserted herself with a sigh.
“Yana, you’re the lady of the house; the responsibility is yours. Is it really so hard to buy Igor’s mother a TV? It’s a purchase for the family.”

“For the family?” Yana echoed. “Where is this ‘family’ whenever there’s a bill to pay?”

“It’s not like we do nothing,” Igor objected. “I work, and Mom helps around the house.”

“What help?” Yana blinked. “Valentina comes over for tea and to list her ailments.”

The mother-in-law bristled.
“What do you mean just to talk? I give you advice on how to run a family properly.”

“Advice on how I’m supposed to support everyone?”

“Well, who else would?” Igor asked, genuinely puzzled. “You’ve got steady work and a good income.”

Yana studied him. He truly believed it was normal for his wife to haul the entire household on her back.

“And what do you do with your paycheck?” she asked.

“I save it,” Igor said. “For a rainy day.”

“For what kind of rainy day?”

“You never know—crisis, layoffs. You need a safety cushion.”

“And where’s my safety cushion?”

“You have a reliable job; they won’t fire you.”

“Maybe it’s time you and your mother decide for yourselves what to buy—and with what money,” Yana said calmly.

Igor smirked. “Why talk like that? You manage money so well. We already try not to burden you with extras.”

“Not burden me?” Heat rose in Yana’s cheeks. “Igor, do you actually think you’re not a burden?”

“It’s not like we ask for something every day,” his mother jumped in. “Only when it’s truly necessary.”

“Is a TV truly necessary?”

“Of course! How can you live without one? The news, the programs.”

“You can watch everything online.”

“I don’t understand the internet,” Valentina cut her off. “I need a proper TV.”

The conversation was looping. To both Igor and his mother, it seemed self-evident that Yana must bankroll everything, while they pinched every last kopeck for themselves.

“All right,” Yana said. “How much is this TV you want?”

“You can get a good one for forty thousand,” Igor brightened. “A big screen, with internet.”

“Forty thousand rubles,” Yana repeated.

“Yeah. It’s not that much.”

“Igor, do you know how much I pour into our family each month?”

“Well… a lot, I guess.”

“About seventy thousand rubles. Rent, groceries, utilities, your mother’s medications, and her loan.”

Igor shrugged. “It’s family. That’s normal.”

“And how much do you contribute?”

“Well… sometimes I buy milk. Bread.”

“Igor, you spend at most five thousand a month on the household,” Yana said, doing the math. “And not even every month.”

“But I’m saving for a rainy day.”

“Whose rainy day? Yours?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Then why is the money in your personal account and not in a joint one?”

Igor said nothing. Valentina fell quiet too.

“Yana, you’re speaking out of turn,” the mother-in-law finally ventured. “My son provides for the family.”

“With what?” Yana asked, genuinely baffled. “Valentina, the last time Igor bought groceries was six months ago—and only because I was sick and asked him.”

“But he works!”

“And I work. Except my salary goes to everyone, while his goes only to himself.”

“That’s how it’s done,” Igor said, less sure now. “The woman manages the household.”

“Managing the household doesn’t mean carrying everyone,” Yana shot back.

“So what do you suggest?” Valentina asked.

“I suggest everyone carry their own weight.”

“How is that supposed to be ‘family’?” the mother-in-law cried.

“What about family? Family means everyone contributes, not one person dragging the rest.”

Igor stared at her, bewildered. “Yana, that’s a strange way to think. We’re husband and wife—we have a joint budget.”

“Joint?” Yana laughed once. “A joint budget is when both people put money into one pot and spend it together. What do we have? I put money in, and you hoard yours.”

“Not hoard—I’m saving.”

“For yourself. Because when money’s needed, you’ll spend yours on your own needs, not shared ones.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Right now your mother wants a TV. You’ve got forty thousand saved. Will you buy it for her?”

Igor hesitated. “Well… that’s my savings.”

“Exactly. Yours.”

Valentina tried to steer the conversation.
“Yana, you shouldn’t address your husband like that. A man should feel like the head of the family.”

“And the head of the family should support the family—not live off his wife.”

“Igor does not live off you!” she protested.

“He does. For two years I’ve paid the rent, food, utilities, your medications, and your loan. Igor has been stockpiling money for his personal needs.”

“It’s only temporary,” Igor said defensively. “There’s a crisis—times are tough.”

“Igor, we’ve been in a ‘crisis’ for three years. And every month you shift more onto me.”

“I’m not shifting; I’m asking for help.”

“Help?” Yana gave a short laugh. “Have you paid the rent even once in the last six months?”

“No, but—”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“Sometimes.”

“Igor, buying milk once a month doesn’t count.”

“Well, all right, I didn’t. But I work and bring money into the family.”

“You bring it in—and immediately stash it in your personal account.”

“I’m not hiding it; I’m saving it for the future.”

 

“For your future.”

The mother-in-law jumped right back in.

“Yana, what’s gotten into you? You never used to complain.”

“I used to think it was temporary. That my husband would soon start carrying his share of the family expenses.”

“And now?”

“Now I see I’ve been treated like a cash cow.”

“How can you say that!” Igor burst out.

“What else do you call it when one person bankrolls everyone and they still expect gifts?”

“What gifts? A TV is something Mom needs!”

“Igor, if your mother needs a TV, your mother can buy it. Or you can buy it—from your savings.”

“But her pension is tiny!”

“And my salary—does it stretch like rubber?”

“Well, you can afford it.”

“I can. I also don’t want to.”

Silence dropped between them. Igor and his mother exchanged a look.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to?” her husband asked, voice low.

“I mean I’m done being the only one supporting the entire family.”

“But we’re a family; we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Exactly—each other. Not one person propping up everyone else.”

Yana rose from the table. It hit her how they saw her: a card that should spit out cash on demand.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked.

“To take care of things.”

Without another word, Yana pulled out her phone and opened her banking app there at the table. Her fingers moved fast—she blocked the joint card Igor used. Then she switched to transfers and began moving all her savings to a new account she’d opened a month ago, just in case.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked, suddenly cautious.

“Handling my finances,” Yana said crisply.

He tried to glance at her screen, but she tilted it away. Five minutes later, every ruble had been moved to her personal account—one neither her husband nor his mother could touch.

“Yana, what’s happening?” Igor asked, alarmed.

“What should have happened long ago.”

She opened the card settings and revoked all access but her own. Igor stared, stunned, not yet grasping the scale of what she’d done.

Sensing danger, Valentina Stepanovna leapt up.

“What have you done? We’ll be left without money!”

“You’ll be left with the money you earn,” Yana replied evenly.

“What do you mean, ‘we earn’? What about family? What about a joint budget?” the mother-in-law shrieked.

“Valentina Stepanovna, we never had a joint budget. There was my budget—and everyone fed off it.”

“You’re out of your mind!” the older woman shouted. “We’re a family!”

Yana’s voice stayed steady and clear.

“From today, we live separately. I’m not obliged to fund your whims.”

“What whims?” Igor protested. “These are necessities!”

“A forty-thousand-ruble TV is a necessity?”

“For Mom—yes!”

“Then Mom can buy it with her pension. Or you can use your savings.”

The mother-in-law rushed to her son.

“Why are you standing there? Put her in her place! She’s your wife!”

Igor muttered something, eyes fixed on the table, avoiding Yana’s gaze. He knew she was right but wouldn’t say it.

“Igor,” Yana said quietly, “do you honestly think I should support your entire family?”

“Well… we’re husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife means partnership. Not one person carrying the rest.”

“But my salary is smaller!”

“Your salary is smaller, but your savings are bigger—because you spend them only on yourself.”

Igor went silent again. Seeing her son wouldn’t push, the mother-in-law lunged forward herself.

“Yana, return the money at once! I’m running out of medicine!”

“Buy it with your own money.”

“My pension is small!”

“Ask your son. He has savings.”

“Igor, give me money for medicine!” she demanded.

Her son hesitated. “Mom, I’m saving that for the family.”

“I am the family!” she snapped.

“But those are my savings.”

 

“You see?” Yana said. “When it’s time to spend, everyone’s money magically becomes personal.”

Realizing how serious this was, the mother-in-law changed tack.

“Yana, let’s talk calmly. You’re a kind woman; you’ve always helped.”

“I helped—until I realized I was being used.”

“You’re not being used—you’re appreciated!”

“Appreciated for what—paying every bill?”

“For supporting the family.”

“I’m not supporting a family. I’m supporting two able-bodied adults who can work and earn.”

The next morning, Yana went to the bank and opened a separate account in her name. She printed statements for the past two years showing where the money had gone: groceries, rent, utilities, medicine, and her mother-in-law’s loan. It was all on Yana.

When she got home, she pulled out a large suitcase and began packing Igor’s things—shirts, trousers, socks—folding everything neatly.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked when he came home from work.

“Packing your things.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live here anymore.”

“What do you mean I don’t? This is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name. I decide who lives here.”

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“For now, yes. Not for long.”

Yana rolled the suitcase into the hall and held out her palm.

“The keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. All sets.”

“Yana, are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Reluctantly, Igor handed them over. Yana checked—main set and spare.

“Does your mother have a set?”

“Yes, she drops by sometimes.”

“Call her. Tell her to return them.”

“Why?”

“Because Valentina Stepanovna no longer has the right to enter my home.”

An hour later, the mother-in-law arrived. She understood immediately when she saw the suitcase in the hallway.

“What does this mean?” she demanded.

“It means your son is moving out.”

“Moving where? This is his home!”

“This is my home. And I’m done supporting freeloaders.”

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

“I dare. Hand over the keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. I know you have a duplicate.”

“I won’t give them back!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

She raised a full-blown ruckus—screaming that Yana was tearing the family apart, that you don’t treat relatives like that, that she’d always thought her daughter-in-law was a good girl.

“The good girl is gone,” Yana said calmly, and dialed.

“Hello, we need assistance. Former relatives refuse to return my apartment keys and leave the premises.”

Half an hour later, two officers arrived. They reviewed the situation and checked the property documents.

“Ma’am,” they said to the mother-in-law, “return the keys and leave the apartment.”

“But my son lives here!”

“Your son isn’t the owner and has no right to dispose of the property.”

With witnesses present, the older woman fished the keys from her purse and flung them on the floor.

“You’ll regret this!” she shouted as she left. “You’ll end up alone!”

“I’ll be alone—with my own money,” Yana replied.

Igor silently picked up the suitcase and followed his mother out. At the door he turned.

“Yana, maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“There’s nothing to reconsider.”

A week later, Yana filed for divorce. There was hardly any joint property to divide—the apartment had always been hers, and the car had been bought with her own money. There was nothing to split.

Igor called, asked to meet, begged to talk. He promised everything would change, that he’d cover all the expenses himself.

“Too late,” Yana said. “Trust doesn’t return.”

“But I love you!”

“Do you love me—or my wallet?”

“You, of course!”

“Then why did you live off me for three years without a flicker of shame?”

Igor had no answer.

The divorce went through quickly—Igor didn’t contest it; he knew resistance was pointless. The court dissolved the marriage.

For another month, Valentina Stepanovna rang Yana’s phone—crying, threatening, then asking for money for medicine. Yana listened in silence and hung up.

“My blood pressure is up because of you!” the mother-in-law complained.

“Ask your son to treat you—he has savings.”

“He says he’s sorry to spend the money!”

“Wonderful. Now you understand how I felt for three years.”

Six months later, Yana ran into Igor at the store. He looked worn out; his clothes had lost their crispness.

 

“Hi,” he said awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Great. You?”

“Fine… I’m living with Mom for now.”

“I see.”

“You know, I realized I was wrong. I really did dump too much on you.”

“You realized?”

“Yes. Now I pay for all of Mom’s expenses myself, and I see how hard it is.”

“But you have savings.”

“I had. I spent them on her medicine and repairs to her apartment.”

“And? Does it hurt to spend it?”

Igor paused, then admitted, “It does. A lot.”

“Now imagine doing that for three straight years.”

“I understand. Forgive me.”

“I already have. It doesn’t change anything.”

“What if I make it right? Become a different man?”

“Igor, you only ‘became different’ when my money disappeared from your life. That isn’t change—that’s pressure.”

“But I’ve learned my lesson!”

“You learned it only when you had to pay yourself. If I’d kept covering everything, you’d never have learned anything.”

He nodded. Yana was right.

“I have to go,” she said, and headed to the checkout.

At home, Yana brewed tea and sat by the window with a book. The apartment was quiet—no one demanding money for TVs, medicine, or anything else. The balance in her account belonged solely to her. No one dictated how to spend it.

When she’d closed the door behind her ex-husband six months earlier, she’d felt light for the first time in years. Freedom from financial parasites was worth more than any blood tie. Now every ruble she spent was a choice, not coercion.

Yana never again let anyone climb onto her shoulders. She learned to say “no”—without guilt—and refused to bankroll other adults. Money returned to what it should be: a tool for her own plans, not a lifeline for people determined to live at her expense.

Yana pushed the apartment door open and immediately heard voices from the kitchen. Her husband Igor was talking with his mother—Valentina Stepanovna. The woman had arrived in the morning and settled in the kitchen, as usual.

“So what’s going on with the TV?” Igor asked.

“It’s gotten really old,” the mother-in-law complained. “The picture is bad, the sound comes and goes. It should have been replaced long ago.”

Yana took off her shoes and went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was sitting at the table with a cup of tea; Igor was fiddling with his phone.

“Ah, Yana’s here,” her husband said happily. “We were just discussing Mom’s TV.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Yana asked tiredly.

“It’s completely broken. We need a new one,” said Valentina Stepanovna.

 

Igor put down his phone and looked at his wife.

“You always pay for things like this. Buy Mom a TV. We don’t feel like spending our own money.”

Yana froze as she took off her coat. He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about buying a loaf of bread at the store.

“I don’t feel like it either. And you do?” Yana asked.

“Well, you’ve got a good job, you make decent money,” Igor explained. “And my salary is small.”

Yana frowned and looked at her husband as if checking whether he was serious. He was. Igor’s face radiated complete confidence in the rightness of his words.

“Igor, I’m not a bank,” Yana said slowly.

“Oh, come on,” her husband waved her off. “It’s just one TV.”

Yana sat down at the table and thought back over the past few months. Who paid for the apartment? Yana. Who bought the groceries? Yana. Who paid the utilities? Yana again. And the medicines for Valentina Stepanovna, who constantly complained about her blood pressure and joints. And the credit her mother-in-law had taken out for renovations—she stopped paying it back after three months, and Yana took over that, too.

“Remember something?” Igor asked.

“I remembered who’s been paying for everything in this family for the last two years.”
Family games

Valentina Stepanovna stepped into the conversation:

“Yana, you’re the lady of the house; the responsibility falls on you. Is it really so hard to buy Igor’s mother a TV? It’s a purchase for the family.”

“For the family?” Yana repeated. “And where is this family when money needs to be spent?”

“It’s not like we’re not doing anything,” Igor objected. “I work, and Mom helps around the house.”

“What help around the house?” Yana was surprised. “Valentina Stepanovna comes over to have tea and talk about her ailments.”

The mother-in-law took offense.

“What do you mean just to talk? I give you advice on how to run a family properly.”

“Advice about how I’m supposed to support everyone?”

“Well, who else would?” Igor asked in genuine surprise. “You have a steady job and a good income.”

Yana looked closely at her husband. He truly thought it was normal for his wife to carry the entire family financially.
Family games

“And what do you do with your money?” Yana asked.

“I save it,” Igor replied. “Just in case.”

“For what case?”

“You never know. A crisis, getting fired. You need a safety cushion.”

“And where’s my safety cushion?”

“You’ve got a reliable job; they won’t fire you.”

Yana said calmly, “Maybe it’s time for you and your mother to decide for yourselves what to buy and with what money.”

Igor smirked. “Why talk like that? You manage money so well. And we already try not to burden you with extra expenses.”

“Not burden me?” Blood rushed to Yana’s face. “Igor, do you seriously think you’re not burdening me?”

“Well, it’s not like we ask you to buy something every day,” his mother defended him. “Only when it’s really needed.”

“Is a TV really needed?”

“Of course! How can you live without a TV? The news, the shows.”

“You can watch everything online.”

“I don’t understand the internet,” the mother-in-law cut her off. “I need a proper TV.”

Yana realized the conversation was going in circles. In their minds, both Valentina Stepanovna and Igor genuinely believed Yana was obligated to provide for everyone and everything—while they pinched every kopeck for themselves.

“All right,” Yana said. “Tell me how much the TV you want costs.”

“Well, you can find a good one for forty thousand,” Igor brightened. “A big one, with internet.”

“Forty thousand rubles,” Yana repeated.

“Yeah. Not that much.”

“Igor, do you know how much I spend on our family every month?”
Family games

“Well… a lot, probably.”

“About seventy thousand rubles every month. The apartment, groceries, utilities, your mother’s medicines, her loan.”

Igor shrugged. “It’s family. That’s normal.”

“And how much do you spend on the family?”

“Well… sometimes I buy milk. Bread.”

“Igor, you spend at most five thousand rubles a month on the family,” Yana calculated. “And not even every month.”

“But I’m saving for a rainy day.”

“Whose rainy day? Yours?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Then why is the money sitting in your personal account and not in a joint one?”

Igor fell silent. Valentina Stepanovna quieted down too.

“Yana, you’re saying the wrong things,” the mother-in-law finally ventured. “My son provides for the family.”

“With what?” Yana asked, astonished. “Valentina Stepanovna, the last time Igor bought groceries was six months ago. And only because I was sick and asked him to go to the store.”

“But he works!”

“And I work. Only for some reason my salary goes to everyone, and his goes only to him.”

“That’s just how it’s done,” Igor said uncertainly. “The woman manages the household.”

“Managing the household doesn’t mean carrying everyone on your back,” Yana retorted.

 

“And what do you suggest?” asked Valentina Stepanovna.

“I suggest everyone support themselves.”

“How’s that supposed to work?” the mother-in-law cried. “What about family?”
Family games

“What about family? Family is when everyone contributes equally, not when one person pulls everyone else along.”

Igor looked at his wife in bewilderment. “Yana, that’s a strange way to think. We’re husband and wife, we have a joint budget.”

“Joint?” Yana laughed. “Igor, a joint budget is when both people put money into one pot and spend it together. And what do we have? I put money in, and you keep yours for yourself.”

“Not for myself—I’m saving it.”

“For yourself. Because when money is needed, you’ll spend it on your own needs, not shared ones.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Right now your mother needs a TV. You have forty thousand set aside. Will you buy it for her?”

Igor hesitated. “Well… that’s my savings.”

“Exactly. Yours.”

The mother-in-law tried to turn the tide:

“Yana, you shouldn’t talk to your husband like that. A man should feel like the head of the family.”

“And the head of the family should support the family, not live off his wife.”

“Igor does not live off you!” the mother-in-law protested.

“He does. For the past two years I’ve paid for the apartment, food, utilities, your medicines, and your loan. And Igor has been saving money for his personal needs.”

“It’s only temporary,” her husband tried to justify himself. “There’s a crisis, times are tough.”

“Igor, we’ve been in a ‘crisis’ for three years now. And with every month you shift more expenses onto me.”

“I’m not shifting them; I’m asking for help.”

“Help?” Yana let out a short laugh. “Did you pay the rent at any point in the last six months?”

“No, but—”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“Sometimes.”

“Igor, buying milk once a month does not count as buying groceries.”

“Well, okay, I didn’t. But I work and bring money into the family.”

“You bring it in and immediately stash it in your personal account.”

“I’m not hiding it; I’m saving it for the future.”

“For your future.”

The mother-in-law jumped back in:

“Yana, what’s gotten into you? You never used to complain.”

“I used to think it was temporary. That my husband would soon start pulling his weight with family expenses.”

“And now?”

“Now I understand I’m being used like a cash cow.”

“How can you say that!” Igor burst out.

“What else am I supposed to call it when one person supports everyone else and they still demand gifts?”

“What gifts? The TV is something Mom needs!”

“Igor, if your mother needs a TV, then your mother should buy it. Or you can buy it for her out of your savings.”

“But her pension is small!”

“And is my salary made of rubber—stretchable without limit?”

“Well, you can afford it.”

“I can. But I don’t want to.”

Silence fell. Igor and his mother exchanged glances.

“What do you mean you don’t want to?” her husband asked quietly.

“It means I’m tired of supporting the family alone.”
Family games

“But we’re a family; we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Exactly. Each other. Not one person helping everyone else.”

Yana stood up from the table. She realized they saw her as a cash machine that should dispense money on demand.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked.

“To take care of things.”

Without another word, Yana took out her phone and opened her banking app right there at the table. Her fingers moved quickly over the screen—she blocked the joint card Igor had access to. Then she went to transfers and began moving all her savings to a new account she’d opened a month earlier, just in case.

“What are you doing?” Igor asked warily.

“Taking care of financial matters,” Yana said curtly.

Her husband tried to peek at her phone, but Yana angled the screen away. Five minutes later, all the money had been moved to her personal account, to which neither her husband nor her mother-in-law had any access.

“Yana, what’s going on?” Igor asked, alarmed.

“What should have happened a long time ago is happening.”

Yana went into the card settings and permanently revoked access for everyone but herself. Igor stared at his wife, bewildered, not grasping the scale of what was happening.

Sensing trouble, Valentina Stepanovna jumped up from her chair.

“What have you done? We’ll be left without money!”

“You’ll be left with the money you earn yourselves,” Yana replied calmly.

“What do you mean, ourselves? What about family? What about the joint budget?” the mother-in-law screamed.

“Valentina Stepanovna, we never had a joint budget. There was only my budget, which everyone fed off.”

“You’ve lost your mind!” the mother-in-law kept shouting. “We’re a family!”

In a steady voice, Yana said clearly:

“From today on, we live separately. I am not obligated to pay for your whims.”

“What whims?” Igor objected. “These are necessary expenses!”

“A forty-thousand-ruble TV is a necessary expense?”

“For Mom, yes!”

“Then let Mom buy it with her pension. Or you buy it with your savings.”

The mother-in-law rushed to her son:

“Why are you keeping quiet? Put her in her place! She’s your wife!”

Igor mumbled something unintelligible, avoiding Yana’s eyes. He knew she was right but wouldn’t admit it out loud.

“Igor,” Yana said quietly, “do you really think I should support your whole family?”

“Well… we’re husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife means a partnership. Not a situation where one person supports all the others.”

“But my salary is smaller!”

“Your salary is smaller, but your savings are bigger—because you don’t spend them on anything but yourself.”

Igor fell silent again. Realizing her son wouldn’t pressure his wife, the mother-in-law decided to act herself:

“Yana, return the money immediately! I’m running out of medicine!”

“Buy it with your own money.”

“My pension is small!”

“Ask your son. He has savings.”

“Igor, give me money for medicine!” the mother-in-law demanded.

 

Her son faltered. “Mom, I’m saving that for the family.”
Family games

“I am the family!” she shouted.

“But those are my savings.”

“You see?” Yana noted. “When it comes to spending, everyone’s money suddenly becomes personal.”

Realizing how serious things were, the mother-in-law changed tactics.

“Yana, let’s talk calmly. You’re a kind woman; you’ve always helped.”

“I helped until I realized I was being used.”

“You’re not being used— you’re appreciated!”

“Appreciated for what? For paying all the bills?”

“For supporting the family.”

“I’m not supporting a family. I’m supporting two adults who can work and earn their own money.”

The next morning Yana went to the bank and opened a separate account in her name. She also printed statements for the last two years to show that all the money had been spent only on her husband and his mother—groceries, rent, utilities, medicines, and the mother-in-law’s loan. It was all on Yana.

When she got home, Yana pulled out a large suitcase and started packing Igor’s things. Shirts, trousers, socks—she folded everything neatly.

“What are you doing?” her husband asked when he came home from work.

“Packing your things.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live here anymore.”

“What do you mean, I don’t? This is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name. I decide who lives in it.”

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“For now, yes. But not for long.”

Yana rolled the suitcase into the hallway and held out her hand.

“The keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. All sets.”

“Yana, are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Reluctantly, Igor handed over the keys. Yana checked—main set and spare.

“Does your mother have keys?”

“Yes, she comes by sometimes.”

“Call her. Have her return them.”

“Why?”

“Because Valentina Stepanovna no longer has the right to enter my apartment.”

An hour later the mother-in-law arrived. She understood it was serious when she saw the suitcase in the hallway.

“What does this mean?” she asked sternly.

“It means your son is moving out.”

“Moving out where? This is his home!”

“This is my home. And I no longer want to support freeloaders.”

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

“I dare. Hand over the keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. I know you have a duplicate.”

“I won’t give them back!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

The mother-in-law raised a real ruckus. She screamed that Yana was destroying the family, that you don’t treat relatives like this, that she had always considered her daughter-in-law a good girl.
Family games

“The good girl is gone,” Yana said calmly and dialed the police.

“Hello, we need assistance. Former relatives refuse to return the keys to my apartment and to leave the premises.”

Half an hour later, two officers arrived. They clarified the situation and checked the documents for the apartment.

“Ma’am,” they said to the mother-in-law, “return the keys and leave the apartment.”

“But my son lives here!”

“Your son is not the owner and has no right to dispose of the property.”

With witnesses present, the mother-in-law reluctantly took the keys from her purse and threw them on the floor.

“You’ll regret this!” she shouted as she left. “You’ll end up alone!”

“I’ll be alone, but with my own money,” Yana replied.

Igor silently picked up the suitcase and followed his mother out. At the door he turned back.

“Yana, maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“There’s nothing left to reconsider.”

A week later, Yana filed for divorce. There was almost no joint property to divide—the apartment had belonged to Yana from the start, and the car had been bought by Yana with her own money. There was nothing to split.

Igor tried calling, asked to meet and talk. He promised everything would change, that he would pay all the expenses himself.

“Too late,” Yana answered. “Trust doesn’t come back.”

“But I love you!”

“Do you love me—or my wallet?”

“You, of course!”

“Then why did you live off me for three years without a shred of remorse?”

Igor had no answer.

The divorce went through quickly—Igor didn’t contest it, understanding how pointless it was. The court declared the marriage dissolved.

For another month, Valentina Stepanovna kept calling Yana—crying into the phone, then threatening, then asking for money for medicine. Yana listened silently and hung up.

“My blood pressure is up because of you!” her mother-in-law complained.

“Ask your son to treat you; he has savings.”

“He says he’s sorry to spend the money!”

“Wonderful. Now you understand how I felt for three years.”

Six months later Yana ran into Igor at the store. Her ex-husband looked tired; his clothes had lost their former crispness.

“Hi,” Igor greeted her awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Great. And you?”

“Fine… I’m living with Mom for now.”

“I see.”

“You know, I realized I was wrong. I really did dump too much on you.”

“You realized?”

“Yes. Now I pay for all of Mom’s expenses myself, and I see how hard it is.”

“But you’ve got savings.”

“I had. I spent them on Mom’s medicine and repairs to her apartment.”

“And? Does it hurt to spend it?”

Igor paused, then answered honestly, “It does. A lot.”

“Now imagine doing that for three years straight.”

“I understand. Forgive me.”

“I already have. But that changes nothing.”

“What if I make it right? Become a different man?”

“Igor, you only ‘became different’ when you were left without my money. That’s not change—that’s being forced by circumstances.”

“But I’ve realized my mistake!”

“You realized it only when you had to pay yourself. If I had kept supporting everyone, you’d never have realized anything.”

Igor nodded. He knew Yana was right.

“I have to go,” Yana said, and headed for the checkout.

At home, Yana brewed tea and sat by the window with a book. The apartment was quiet—no one was demanding money for TVs, medicines, or anything else. The money in her account belonged to Yana alone. No one told her how to spend it.

When she closed the door behind her ex-husband six months earlier, Yana had felt truly light for the first time in a long while. It turned out that freedom from financial parasites was worth more than any family ties. Now every ruble she spent was a conscious choice, not coercion.
Family games

Yana never again allowed anyone to climb onto her shoulders. She learned to say “no” and not to feel guilty for refusing to support other adults. Money once again became a tool for realizing her own plans, not a means of survival for the freeloaders around her.

 

“Who is this?” Sergey Alexandrovich asked, voice cold as steel, the moment Anna stepped over the threshold with a newborn bundled against her chest. There was no gladness, no wonder—only a flint of irritation. “Do you honestly expect me to accept this?”

He had come home from yet another weeks-long business trip: contracts, meetings, flights—his whole life a conveyor belt of departure lounges and conference tables. Anna had known it before the wedding and took it as part of the bargain.

They met when she was nineteen, a first-year medical student, and he was already the sort of man she had once scrawled into her school-girl diary: established, confident, unshakeable. A rock to shelter behind. With him, she had believed, she would be safe.

So when the evening meant to be among her brightest curdled into nightmare, she felt something inside her fracture. Sergey looked at the child, and his face went foreign. He hesitated—then his voice came down like a blade.

 

“Look at him—nothing of me. Not a single feature. This is not my son, do you hear? Do you take me for a fool? What game are you playing—trying to hang noodles on my ears?”

The words slashed. Anna stood rooted, heart hammering in her throat, head ringing with fear. The man she had trusted with everything was accusing her of treachery. She had loved him wholly; she had given up her plans, her ambitions, her old life to become his wife, to give him a child, to build a home. And now he spoke to her like an enemy at the gate.

Her mother had warned her.

“What do you see in him, Anyuta?” Marina Petrovna would say. “He’s nearly twice your age. He already has a child. Why volunteer to be a stepmother? Find an equal, someone who will be your partner.”

But Anna, glowing with first love, hadn’t listened. Sergey, to her, was not simply a man—he was fate itself, the protective presence she had craved since childhood. Having grown up without a father, she had longed for a strong, reliable husband, the keeper of a family she could finally call her own.

Marina’s caution was perhaps inevitable; to a woman of Sergey’s years, he looked a peer, not a match for her daughter. Still, Anna was happy. She moved into his spacious, well-appointed house and began to dream.

For a while, life did look perfect. Anna kept at her medical studies, living out, in part, her mother’s unrealized wish—Marina had once wanted to be a doctor, but an early pregnancy and a vanishing man had ended that dream. She raised Anna alone. The absence of a father left a hollow that made her daughter lean toward the promise of a “real” man.

Sergey filled that space. Anna imagined a son, a complete family. Two years after the wedding, she learned she was pregnant. The news flooded her like spring light.

Her mother worried. “Anna, what about your degree? You won’t throw it all away? You’ve worked so hard!”

The fear was reasonable—medicine demanded sacrifices: exams, rotations, pressure without relief. But none of it mattered in the face of what grew within her. A child felt like the meaning of everything.

“I’ll go back after maternity leave,” she said gently. “I want more than one—two, maybe three. I’ll need time.”

Those words triggered every alarm in Marina’s heart. She knew what it meant to raise a child alone; hard years had taught her prudence. “Have only as many children,” she liked to say, “as you can raise if your husband walks.” And now her worst thought stood on the doorstep.

When Sergey threw Anna out as if she were a nuisance, something in Marina broke. She gathered her daughter and grandson close, fury trembling in her voice.

“Has he lost his mind? How could he? Where is his conscience? I know you—you would never betray.”

But warnings and years of quiet advice had collided with Anna’s stubborn belief in love. All Marina could say now was bitter and simple: “I told you who he was. You didn’t want to see.”

Anna had no strength for reproach. The storm inside her left only pain. She had pictured a different homecoming: Sergey taking the baby, thanking her, embracing her—three of them welded into a real family. Instead: coldness, rage, accusation.

“Get out, you traitor!” he shouted, his decency shredding. “Who was it? You think I don’t know? I gave you everything! Without me you’d be crammed in a dorm, barely scraping through med school, slaving in some forgotten clinic. You can’t do anything else. And you bring another man’s child into my house? Am I supposed to swallow that?”

Shaking, Anna tried to reach him. She pleaded, told him he was wrong, begged him to think.

“Seryozha, remember your daughter when you brought her home? She didn’t look like you straight away. Babies change; features emerge with time—eyes, nose, gestures. You’re a grown man. How can you not understand?”

“Not true!” he snapped. “My daughter looked exactly like me from the start. This boy isn’t mine. Pack your things. And don’t count on a single kopeck!”

“Please,” Anna whispered through tears. “He’s your son. Do a DNA test—it will prove it. I’ve never lied to you. Please… believe me, if only a little.”

“Go to laboratories and humiliate myself?” he barked. “You think I’m that gullible? Enough. We’re finished.”

He burrowed deeper into his certainty. No plea, no logic, no memory of love could pierce it.

Anna packed in silence. She lifted her child, took one last look at the house she had wanted to make a hearth, and stepped into the unknown.

There was nowhere else to go but home. As soon as she crossed her mother’s threshold, the tears came.

“Mama… I was so foolish. So naive. Forgive me.”

Marina did not cry. “Enough. You’ve given birth—we’ll raise him. Your life is beginning, do you hear? You’re not alone. Pull yourself together. You are not quitting your studies. I’ll help. We will manage. That’s what mothers are for.”

Words failed Anna; gratitude flooded her in place of speech. Without Marina’s steady hands, she would have shattered. Her mother fed and rocked the baby, shouldered the night shifts, and guarded Anna’s unbroken line back to school and forward to a new life. She didn’t complain, didn’t scold, didn’t stop fighting.

Sergey disappeared. No alimony, no calls, no interest. He slipped away as if their years together had been a fever dream.

But Anna remained—no longer alone. She had her son. She had her mother. In that small, real world, she found a deeper love than the one she had chased.

The divorce felt like a building collapsing inside her. How could a future so carefully imagined turn to ash overnight? Sergey had always had a difficult temperament—jealous, possessive, a man who mistook suspicion for vigilance. He had explained his first divorce as a “financial disagreement.” Anna had believed it. She hadn’t understood how easily he erupted, how swiftly he lost control over the smallest, most innocent things.

In the beginning he had been tenderness itself—attentive, generous, solicitous. Flowers for no reason, questions about her day, little surprises. She thought she’d found her forever.

Then Igor was born, and she poured herself into motherhood. As he grew, she recognized a duty to herself too. She went back to university, determined to be not just a graduate but a true professional. Marina backed her in every way—childcare, money when it was tight, encouragement when it wasn’t.

Her first work contract felt like a flag planted on new ground. From then on she supported the family herself—modestly, yes, but with pride.

The chief physician at the clinic saw something immediately—focus, stamina, a hunger to learn. A seasoned woman with clear eyes, Tatiana Stepanovna took Anna under her wing.

“Becoming a mother early isn’t a tragedy,” she told her gently. “It’s strength. Your career is ahead of you. You’re young. What matters is that you have a spine.”

Those words were a pilot light. Anna kept going. When Igor turned six, a senior nurse at his grandmother’s hospital reminded her, not unkindly, that school was coming fast and the boy wasn’t quite ready. Anna didn’t panic; she acted. Tutors, routines, a small desk by the window—she built the scaffolding for his first steps into study.

“You’ve earned a promotion,” Tatiana said later, “but you know how it is—no one advances here without the numbers behind them. Still… you have a gift. Real medical instinct.”

“I know,” Anna answered, calm and grateful. “And I’m not arguing. Thank you—for everything. Not only for me. For Igor.”

“Oh, enough,” Tatiana waved, embarrassed. “Just justify the trust.”

Anna did. Her reputation grew quickly—colleagues respected her, patients felt safe in her care. The compliments piled up; even Tatiana wondered aloud if there were too many.

And then, one afternoon, the past stepped into Anna’s office.

“Good afternoon,” she said evenly. “Come in. Tell me what brings you.”

Sergey Alexandrovich had followed a recommendation to the best surgeon in the city and had assumed the shared initials were coincidence. The second he saw her, doubt ended.

“Hello, Anna,” he said, quietly, a tremor under the words.

His daughter, Olga, had been sick for a year with something no one could name. Tests inconclusive, specialists baffled. The child was fading.

Anna listened without interruption. When he finished, she spoke with clinical clarity.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. It’s unbearable when a child suffers. But we can’t afford delays. We need a complete workup—now. Time is not on our side.”

He nodded. For once, he did not argue.

“Why are you alone?” she asked. “Where is Olga?”

“She’s very weak,” he whispered. “Too tired to sit up.”

He tried for composure, but Anna heard the storm beneath his restraint. As always, he moved as if money could batter down fate.

“Help her,” he said at last. “Please. Whatever it costs.”

Igor’s name never surfaced. Once, that would have split Anna open. Now she filed it away—an old wound that had scarred over.

Professional duty steadied her. Patients are not divided into “ours” and “theirs.” Still, she wanted him to understand: she wasn’t a miracle worker.

A week later, after exhaustive testing, she called. “I’ll operate,” she said. Her certainty steadied him even as fear shook him.

“What if… what if she doesn’t make it?”

“If we wait, we sign a sentence,” Anna replied. “We try.”

On the day of surgery, he hovered at the clinic, unable to leave, as if presence were prayer. When Anna finally came out to him, he rushed forward.

“Can I see her? Just a minute—just say a word—”

“You’re speaking like a child,” she said, more gently than the words. “She’s waking from anesthesia. She needs hours of rest. The operation went well—no complications. Tomorrow.”

He did not explode. He didn’t insist that he was the father and the rules didn’t apply. He only nodded and walked into the night.

 

He went home a broken figure, slept not at all, and returned before dawn. The city was fog and empty streets; he noticed none of it. Olga was awake now, fragile but improved. When she saw him at such an hour, she smiled faintly.

“Dad? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “I had to see you breathing.”

For the first time, Sergey felt what fatherhood truly was. How little of real family he had, and how much of it he had ruined—twice—by will and by weakness.

When day thinned the windows, he stepped into the corridor—spent but oddly lighter—and nearly collided with Anna.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, edged with irritation. “I made the rules clear—no visits outside hours. Who let you in?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes lowered. “No one. I asked the guard. I just needed to be sure she was all right.”

“The same old story, then,” Anna exhaled. “You thought money would open the door. Fine. You’ve seen her. Consider the mission accomplished.”

She passed him and slipped into Olga’s room. He waited in the hall, unwilling to walk away.

Later, he came to her office with a spring-scented bouquet and a neat envelope tucked under his jacket—gratitude, not only in words.

“I need to speak with you,” he said, steady now.

“Briefly,” she replied. “Time is scarce.”

She held the door open. He hesitated, searching for a beginning—and fate cut the knot.

The door burst inward and an eleven-year-old boy marched in, all indignation and energy.

“Mom! I’ve been standing out there forever,” he said, scowling. “I called you—why didn’t you answer?”

That day had been marked for him—no emergencies, no operations. Work had a way of devouring promises; guilt flickered across Anna’s face.

Sergey froze. The boy stood before him like a living echo.

“My son,” he managed. “My little boy.”

“Mom, who is this?” Igor asked, frowning. “Has he lost it? He’s talking to himself.”

Anna went rigid. This was the man who had called her a liar, abandoned them, sliced them out of his life as if erasing a line of text.

But she said nothing. Pain surged; behind it, something else smoldered—small but unmistakably alive.

Sergey was drowning in remorse and a fear that he did not deserve a second chance. He didn’t understand why this door had opened to him at all. He only knew he was grateful—for the dawn after a night of prayers, for a child breathing, for a woman who had once loved him and now, despite everything, had saved his daughter’s life.

Zhanna smoothed her hair and looked at Max’s parents’ house. The two-story brick mansion had always seemed too big for two elderly people.

Well, ready?” Max pulled the bags from the trunk.

“Of course,” she smiled. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her how to hide awkwardness.

The door was opened by Irina Vasilievna. Made up, in a new housecoat.

“Oh, you’re here. Maksimka, son!” She hugged her son and pecked his cheek. She shot Zhanna a brief glance. “Hello, Zhanna.”

“Hello,” Zhanna held out a box of chocolates.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have. Your father’s diabetes is getting worse.”

Max said nothing. As always.

In the living room sat Pyotr Semyonovich, watching the news. He nodded to them and turned back to the TV.

“Dinner in an hour,” the mother-in-law announced. “Maksim, help me in the kitchen. Zhanna, you rest.”

 

Rest. As if she were an invalid.

Zhanna went to the guest room. She put her things in the closet and sat on the bed. Through the wall she could hear Max and his mother talking. About work, the neighbors, health.

Why did they come here every month? For appearances’ sake? Or did Max truly miss his parents?

“Zhannochka, come eat!” Irina Vasilievna called.On the table—chicken, potatoes, salad. Same as always.

“Max said you spent your vacation in Turkey again,” the mother-in-law began. “When we were your age, we went to the dacha. We helped the country.”

“Times are different now,” Zhanna replied.

“Oh, they’re different, all right. Back then family mattered more than entertainment.”

Zhanna felt her fists clench. Max chewed his chicken and kept quiet.

“And when are you having children?” Pyotr Semyonovich looked up from his plate. “The years are ticking by.”Dad, we’ve talked about this,” Max muttered.

“Talked and talked. And what came of it?”

Zhanna stood up from the table.

“Excuse me, I have a headache. I’ll turn in early.”

In the room she shut the door and sat on the bed. Her hands were trembling. Every time the same thing. Hints, reproaches, disapproving looks.

Max came in half an hour later.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Nothing. Just tired.”

“They don’t mean any harm. They worry about us.”

Worry. Zhanna lay down and turned to the wall.

“Good night.”

Max undressed, lay down next to her, and a few minutes later began to snore.

Zhanna lay there thinking. About how tomorrow there’d be snide comments over breakfast again. About how Max would once more pretend not to notice anything.

Fifteen years. Was this how it would be forever?Zhanna woke at three in the morning. Her mouth was dry, her head buzzing. Next to her, Max was snoring, sprawled across the whole bed.

She got up, threw on a robe, and went to the kitchen for water. A night-light glowed in the hall; the floorboards creaked underfoot.

She stopped by the kitchen. Voices were coming from inside—her father-in-law and mother-in-law.

“…putting up with that barren cow,” hissed Irina Vasilievna. “Fifteen years! No kids, no use.”

“Quiet, someone will hear,” grunted Pyotr Semyonovich.

“Let her hear! Maybe she’ll finally feel shame. Maksimka could have any woman. Handsome, well-off.”Zhanna pressed herself to the wall. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed the whole house could hear.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Talk to him tomorrow. A serious talk. A man needs to understand—time isn’t made of rubber. At forty-three you can still start a normal family.”

“And their apartment? The car?”

“The apartment is in Maksim’s name; we gave the money for the down payment. The car is his too. She’ll only get what she earned herself.”

Irina Vasilievna let out a nasty laugh.And that’s peanuts. A damned librarian.”

“You think he’ll agree?”

“Of course he will. I’m his mother; I know how to talk to him. The main thing is to frame it right. Like, you’re unhappy, son, suffering with that… what’s her name…”

“Zhanna.”

“Right, that one. Time to get rid of the dead weight!”

Zhanna stood there, unable to believe it. Dead weight. Fifteen years, and she was dead weight.

“And if he refuses?”“He won’t. Maksim has always listened to me. He will now too.”

Bags rustled in the kitchen; dishes clattered.

“All right, time for bed. Big day tomorrow.”

Zhanna hurried to the bathroom, locked the door. She sat on the toilet lid and covered her face with her hands.

Dead weight. A barren cow.

For fifteen years she had tried. Cooked for holidays, gave gifts, endured hints and reproaches. And they were planning to dispose of her like old furniture.

And Max would obey. Of course he would. When had he ever disobeyed his mother?

Zhanna went back to the room. Max was still snoring. She lay down, pulled the blanket over herself, and waited for morning.

At seven she got up, got dressed, and packed her things. Max woke from the rustling.

“Zhan, why so early?”

“I’m going home.”

“How home? We were going to stay till evening.”

“I want to go home. Now.”

Max sat up on the bed, rubbed his eyes.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I just want to go home.”

“And my parents? They’ll be upset.”

Your parents. Zhanna picked up her bag.

“Tell them I said hello. Say I had a headache.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. Stay. Spend time with your parents.”

She left the room. In the hall she put on her jacket and took out her phone. She called a taxi.

“Zhannochka, where are you going?” Irina Vasilievna poked her head out of the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I’m going home. Thank you for the hospitality.”

“But why so early?”

Zhanna looked at her closely. Painted lips, surprised eyes, a caring tone.

“I have things to do at home.”

The taxi arrived ten minutes later. Zhanna got into the back seat and closed her eyes.

The dead weight is disposing of you on its own.

At home, Zhanna brewed strong tea and sat at the kitchen table. The apartment felt unusually quiet. Usually they returned in the evening, tired, had dinner, and went straight to bed.

But now it was Saturday, eleven in the morning, and she was alone.

The phone rang. Max.

“Zhan, did you get home okay?”

“I did.”

“What’s going on? Mom says you were acting weird.”

Weird. Zhanna smirked.

“Everything’s fine. How are your parents?”

“They’re fine… Listen, I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk.”

“All right.”

She hung up and looked around. Their apartment. They’d chosen the wallpaper together, bought the furniture together. Only the down payment had come from Max’s parents. So by their logic, the apartment wasn’t hers.

Zhanna stood up, went to the closet, and took out a folder with documents. Marriage certificate, apartment papers. Everything registered to both of them.

Another lie from the old hag.

On Monday she took a day off and went to a lawyer. A young woman of about thirty, in jeans and a sweater.

“Want to file for divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Do you anticipate property disputes?”

Zhanna thought.

“Possibly.”

“Then it will have to go through court. We’ll submit a petition; you’ll be summoned for a hearing. If your husband doesn’t agree, there will be several hearings.”

“And if he agrees?”

“It’ll go faster. A month and a half to two months and that’s it.”

Zhanna filled out the forms and paid the state fee. A strange feeling—as if she had dropped a heavy backpack.

That evening Max came at eight. Tired, annoyed.

“What a day… Mom’s been nagging me nonstop. Says you yelled at her.”

“I didn’t yell.”

“Then what? Why did you take off like that?”

Zhanna set a bowl of borscht in front of him.

“Max, do you love me?”

He choked.

“What’s with the questions?”

“I’m just curious. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. Fifteen years together.”

“That’s not an answer. You can live fifteen years out of habit.”

Max set down the spoon.

“Zhan, what is going on? For two days you’ve been… different.”

“Answer the question.”

“Well… I love you. So what?”

“What will you say if your parents suggest we get divorced?”

Max’s face changed. He lowered his eyes.

“That’s nonsense. Why would they?”

“And if they do?”

“They won’t.”

“Max, I’m asking—what will YOU say?”

A long pause. Max crumpled the napkin in his hands.

“Zhan, why talk like this? We’re fine.”

“‘Fine’ isn’t an answer.”

“I don’t know!” He pushed back from the table. “I’m tired of these questions. Two days ago everything was fine, and now… What happened?”

Zhanna stood as well.

“Nothing happened. I just realized something.”

“Realized what?”

“That I’ve been a fool for fifteen years.”

She went to the bedroom, took the folder with the documents from the closet, came back to the kitchen, and set the divorce petition on the table.

Max read it and went pale.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“On the contrary. For the first time in a long while I’m thinking clearly.”

“Because of what? Because of my mother? She didn’t mean anything by it!”

“I know. She didn’t mean anything by it. She just thinks I’m dead weight.”

Max froze.

“How did you—”

“I overheard your family strategy meeting. At night. In the kitchen.”

“Zhan, it’s not what you think…”

“What is it then?”

He was silent. He turned the petition in his hands and said nothing.

“Say something,” Zhanna sat down opposite him.

Max put the petition on the table.

“Mom really did talk about… kids. That there isn’t much time.”

“And did she also talk about dead weight?”

“Zhan, she’s old. She says stupid things sometimes.”

“And what did you say?”

Max rubbed his forehead.

“I… didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. As always.”

Zhanna stood and poured herself tea. Her hands weren’t shaking. Strange—she had expected hysterics, tears. Instead there was calm.

“For fifteen years I waited for you to finally put them in their place,” she said. “For you to tell your mother I’m your wife, not a temporary lodger.”

“They’re used to being in charge…”

“And you’re used to obeying. And you made me obey.”

Max sprang up.

“I didn’t make anyone obey! I just don’t like conflict.”

“Conflict?” Zhanna laughed. “It’s called defending your wife. But you preferred that I just endure.”

“So what do we do now? You can’t change the past.”

“Nothing needs doing. It’s already done.”

Max grabbed the petition.

“I won’t sign this!”

“You don’t have to. The court will grant the divorce.”

“Zhan, come to your senses! Where will you go? What will you do?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll do it without the three of you.”

He paced the kitchen, waving his arms.

“This is insane! To destroy a family over a silly old woman’s words!”

“Family?” Zhanna set down her cup. “What family, Max? Where do you see a family?”

“Well, we… we live together…”

“We live. Like roommates in a communal flat. You work, I work. We see each other in the evenings and watch TV. On weekends we go to your parents’, where I pretend to be grateful that they tolerate me.”

Max sat down.

“And what’s wrong with that? It’s a normal life.”

“Normal for you. I’m tired of being nobody.”

The phone rang. Irina Vasilievna.

“Don’t pick up,” Max begged.

Zhanna answered.

“Hello.”

“Zhannochka, dear! Is Maksimka home? I wanted to see how things are.”

“Things are fine. I’m divorcing your son.”

Silence. Then:

“What? What are you saying?”

“What you wanted to hear. I’m getting rid of myself for you.”

“Zhanna, I don’t understand…”

“You will. Say hi to Pyotr Semyonovich.”

 

She hung up. Max stared at her in horror.

“Why did you tell her?”

“Why hide it? Let her be happy.”

Half an hour later, Irina Vasilievna rushed in. She burst into the apartment without knocking.

“What is going on? Maksim, explain this instant!”

“Mom, not now…”

“Zhanna!” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “What are you up to? Have you lost your mind?”

Zhanna sat calmly at the table.

“On the contrary. I’ve come to my senses.”

“Over what? Did Maksim mistreat you?”

“Maksim ignored me. And you were planning to get rid of me.”

Irina Vasilievna flushed.

“Who told you that?”

“You did. Last night. In the kitchen.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“I wanted a drink of water. And I heard you calling me dead weight.”

The old woman glanced between them.

“Zhannochka, you misunderstood. I worry about Maksim—he’s unhappy…”

“Mom, that’s enough,” Max suddenly said.

She blinked.

“What do you mean, enough?”

“Enough lying. Yes, you wanted us to divorce. And yes, I listened and kept quiet. Like always.”

“Maksim!”

“And now Zhanna has decided for herself. And she did the right thing.”

Zhanna looked at her husband in surprise. For the first time in fifteen years he had told his mother the truth.

“But it’s too late,” she added.

Max nodded.

“I understand.”

Irina Vasilievna darted between them.

“You’re both crazy! Zhanna, I apologize if I said something wrong!”

“Thank you. But the decision is made.”

A month later the court finalized the divorce. The apartment was split in half; Zhanna sold her share to Max. The money was enough for a studio in another neighborhood.

The new apartment was small but bright. Zhanna put flowers on the windowsill and hung her pictures.

For the first time in many years she did what she wanted. She watched the films she liked. Ate when she wanted. No one criticized her choices.

Maxim called during the first weeks. He asked her to come back, promised to talk to his parents. Zhanna answered politely and briefly. Then the calls stopped.

Her friends were surprised: how could she leave a well-off husband? Zhanna’s explanation was simple—turns out money doesn’t replace respect.

At forty-one she started a new life. Without the mute father-in-law, without the snide mother-in-law, without the wishy-washy husband.

Hard? Yes. Lonely? Sometimes.

But for the first time in many years, Zhanna wasn’t dead weight—she was simply herself. And that was worth any difficulty.

A dense, airless quiet pressed against the apartment, saturated with incense and the fading sweetness of lilies. Marina sat hunched at the edge of the couch as if the silence itself weighed on her shoulders. The black dress clung and itched, a rough reminder of why the rooms felt so lifeless: she had buried her grandmother that morning—Eiroïda Anatolyevna, the last of Marina’s family.

Across from her, Andrey sprawled in an armchair, his presence a taunt. Tomorrow they would file for divorce. Not a single word of sympathy had crossed his lips. He only watched, restless and irritated, as though enduring a dull play and waiting for the curtain to finally drop.

Marina’s eyes fixed on the worn pattern of the carpet. Whatever thin glimmer of hope she had nursed for reconciliation guttered and died, leaving a clean, glacial emptiness.

“Well then—my condolences,” Andrey said at last, knifing into the hush with a lazy sneer. “You’re a real lady of means now, aren’t you? An heiress. I suppose your dear granny left you a fortune. Oh, no—how could I forget? The grand prize: that reeking antique ZiL. Congratulations. Pure luxury.”

 

The words sliced deep. Old scenes surged up—fights, accusations, slammed doors, tears. Her grandmother, with that rare, stern name—Eiroïda—had distrusted him from the first day. “He’s a grifter, Marina,” she would say flatly. “Hollow as a drum. He’ll strip you bare and disappear.” Andrey would curl his lip and mutter “old hag.” Marina had stood between them, pleading, smoothing, crying—convinced she could keep peace if only she tried hard enough. Only now did she admit it: her grandmother had seen him clearly from the start.“And about your ‘brilliant’ tomorrow,” Andrey went on, flicking lint from his expensive jacket, “don’t bother coming to work. You’re fired. Signed this morning. So, sweetheart, soon even that glorious ZiL will feel like a treasure. You’ll be digging in dumpsters. And you’ll thank me.”

That was the end—not just of the marriage, but of the life she had built around it. The last hope that he might show a trace of decency evaporated. In its place, something harder rooted and spread: cold, precise hatred.

Marina lifted her empty gaze to him and said nothing. There was nothing left to say. She stood, crossed to the bedroom, and took the bag she had already packed. Ignoring his sniggers, she closed her fingers around the key to her grandmother’s long-abandoned flat and walked out without looking back.

A chill wind met her on the street. Under a dim streetlamp she set down two heavy bags and stared up at a gray, nine-story block—the building of her childhood, where her parents had lived.

She hadn’t returned in years. After the car crash that killed her mother and father, her grandmother sold her own place and moved here to raise Marina. The walls held too much sorrow, and after Marina married Andrey, she avoided them, meeting her grandmother anywhere but here.

Now the building was the only harbor she had. Bitterness twisted through her as she pictured Eiroïda—her guardian, her mother and father combined, her constant ally. In these last years Marina had visited less and less, swallowed by her job at Andrey’s company and her frantic attempts to prop up the collapsing marriage. Shame stabbed sharp. The tears that had burned all day finally broke loose. She stood small beneath the lamp, shaking with silent sobs, one lonely figure in a vast, indifferent city.

“Auntie, need a hand?” a raw, childish voice asked. Marina startled. A boy of ten or so stood there in an oversized jacket and worn sneakers. Dirt streaked his face, but his eyes were startlingly clear. He nodded at the bags. “Heavy?”Marina scrubbed her face with her sleeve. His straightforward tone disarmed her.

“No, I can—” Her voice snagged and failed.

He studied her a moment. “Why are you crying?” he asked—not nosy, simply factual. “Happy people don’t stand outside with suitcases and cry.”

Something in that plain sentence changed the angle of the world. No pity, no mockery in his gaze—just comprehension.

“I’m Seryozha,” he added.

“Marina,” she managed on a breath. Some of the tightness eased. “All right, Seryozha. Help me.”

He took one of the bags with a grunt, and together they entered the sour, damp stairwell that smelled of mold and cats.

The lock turned; the door creaked; silence breathed out at them. Furniture lay under white sheets, curtains drawn tight; the streetlight threaded pale dust with gold. The air smelled of paper and old air—a home asleep. Seryozha set down the bag, looked around like a veteran cleaner, and pronounced: “Yeah… We’ll need a week. If we work together.”

Marina’s mouth tugged into a ghost of a smile. His grounded tone sparked a small glow in the gloom. She looked at him—too thin, too young, so serious. She knew that once he finished helping, the night air would swallow him again.

“Listen, Seryozha,” she said, her voice firm. “It’s late. Stay here tonight. It’s too cold outside.”

He blinked, surprised, suspicion flickering and fading. He nodded.

They ate bread and cheese bought from the corner shop, and in the kitchen’s light he looked briefly like any ordinary child. He told his story without self-pity. His parents drank. A fire took the shack. They died. He lived. The orphanage tried to hold him; he slipped away.

“I won’t go back,” he said to his cup. “From the orphanage to prison—that’s what they say. A straight line. I’d rather the streets. At least then it’s up to you.”

“That’s not fate,” Marina said softly, feeling her own grief ease at the edge of his. “Neither an orphanage nor the pavement decides who you are. You do.”

He considered her. A thin, almost invisible thread stretched taut between them—fragile, but strong.Later she found clean sheets scented faintly of mothballs and made up the old couch. Seryozha curled into sleep in minutes—the first truly warm bed he’d had in who knew how long. Watching him, Marina felt a small, wondrous thought take shape: maybe her life wasn’t over.

Morning seeped through the curtains. Marina tiptoed to the kitchen, scribbled a note—“I’ll be back soon. Milk and bread in the fridge. Please stay inside.”—and slipped out.

Today was for the divorce.

The hearing was uglier than she’d imagined. Andrey spit insults, painting her as a parasite who’d ridden on his back. Marina said nothing. Hollowed out, used up. When she walked out with the decree, no relief followed. Only a dry, sour emptiness.

She drifted through the city, and his jeer about the fridge wouldn’t leave her alone.

That dented, scratched ZiL sat like a relic in the kitchen. Marina looked at it as if it were new. Seryozha ran his hands over the enamel, tapped the side.

“Ancient,” he breathed. “We had a newer one, and ours was junk. Does it run?”

“No,” Marina said, sinking into a chair. “Dead for years. Just… a keepsake.”

The next day they started a full scrub-down. Rags, buckets, brushes; wallpaper came away in frayed strips; windows brightened; dust fled. They talked and laughed and fell silent and started again, and somehow each hour rinsed a little of the ash from Marina’s chest. The boy’s chatter and the simple work scoured grief’s edges.

“When I grow up, I’ll be a train driver,” Seryozha said dreamily, scrubbing a sill. “I’ll go far. Places I’ve never seen.”

“That’s a beautiful plan,” Marina smiled. “You’ll need school to get there. Real school.”

He nodded, solemn. “If that’s what it takes, I will.”

His curiosity kept circling back to the ZiL. He paced around it like a cat around a closed door, peering, tapping, listening. Something bothered him.

“Look,” he called. “This side’s thin, like it should be. But here—it’s thick. Solid. Not right.”

Marina pressed her palm to the metal. He was right—one side felt denser. They leaned in, eyes level with the gasket. There—a seam, faint as a scar. Marina slid a knife under the edge and coaxed. The inner panel shifted. A hollow opened.

Inside lay neat bricks of dollars and euros. Velvet boxes nestled beside them—an emerald ring, a rope of pearls, diamond drops that flashed like ice. They went still, as if any word might break the spell. Wow,” they said together, almost soundless.

Marina sat hard on the floor as the sense of it crashed into place. Her grandmother’s dry warning—“Don’t toss old junk, girl; sometimes it’s worth more than your peacock of a husband”—and her insistence that Marina take this very fridge. Eiroïda Anatolyevna, who had survived repression, war, and collapses, had trusted no bank. She had hidden everything—past, hope, future—in the last place anyone would look: a refrigerator wall.

It wasn’t merely treasure. It was a plan. Her grandmother had known Andrey would leave Marina with nothing, and she’d built an exit—a chance to start over.

Tears came again, but softer now—thankful, relieved. Marina gathered Seryozha into a fierce hug.

“Seryozha,” she whispered, voice shaking, “now we’ll be all right. I can adopt you. We’ll buy a home. You’ll go to a good school. You’ll have what you deserve.”

He turned slowly. A deep, aching hope filled his eyes and nearly broke her heart.

“Really?” His voice was small. “You’d be my mom?”

“Really,” she said, steady as bedrock. “More than anything.”

Years slid by like a single breath. Marina adopted him officially; Sergei was his name on paper now as well as in life. With a share of the hidden wealth, they bought a bright apartment in a good neighborhood.

He proved brilliantly gifted. He devoured books, closed the gaps, leapt grades. A scholarship carried him into a top economics program.

Marina rebuilt herself, too—finished another degree, launched a modest consulting firm that grew sure and steady. What had looked like wreckage acquired shape again—purpose, warmth.

Nearly a decade later, a tall young man straightened his tie in the mirror. Sergei, poised to graduate at the top of his class.

“Mama, how do I look?” he asked.

“Perfect,” Marina said, pride crinkling her eyes. “Just—don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’m not vain, I’m accurate,” he winked. “By the way, Professor Lev called again. Why’d you tell him no? He’s good. You like him.”

Lev Igorevich—their neighbor, kind and quiet, a brilliant professor—had been courting Marina with patient respect.

 

“Today, something more important,” she said, waving him off. “My son is graduating. Come on—we’ll be late.”

The auditorium thrummed—parents, faculty, recruiters scanning the rows. In the fifth row, Marina sat with her heart swelling.

Then her breath hitched. On stage among the company reps, she recognized Andrey. Older, heavier, the same smug curve to his mouth. Her heart stumbled and then found a cool, even beat. No fear. Only a distant, clinical interest.

When it was his turn, he took the podium as the head of a booming finance firm and preached about careers and prestige and limitless doors.

“We hire only the best,” he declared. “Every door will open.”

Then the master of ceremonies called the top graduate: Sergei. Calm, composed, he crossed to the microphone. The room stilled.

“Honored professors, friends, guests,” he began, voice clear. “We step into a new life today. I want to tell you how I got here. Once, I was a homeless kid.”

A ripple moved through the hall. Marina held her breath; she hadn’t asked what he planned to say.

He told them—about a woman thrown out by her husband that very day, stripped of money, work, and hope, who found a starving boy and chose him. He named no names, but his eyes never left Andrey’s pale face.

“That man told her she’d eat from trash,” Sergei said, each word precise. “In a way, he was right. In the world’s trash, she found me. And I want to thank him. Thank you, Mr. Andreyev, for your cruelty. Without it, my mother and I would never have met. And I would not be who I am.”

Silence hit, hard and total—then fractured into a swelling roar. All eyes swung to Andrey, flushing red, anger and humiliation squaring his jaw.

“That’s why,” Sergei finished, “I say this publicly: I will never work for a man of that character. And I suggest my peers think carefully before binding their futures to his firm. Thank you.”

He stepped away to thunder that started hesitant and rose to a storm. In minutes, the glossy shell of Andrey’s reputation cracked. Sergei found Marina in the crowd, and they held each other, laughing and weeping, and walked out together without a backward glance.

“Mama,” he said in the cloakroom, handing her coat, “call Lev Igorevich.”

Marina studied the man her boy had become—tall, steady, kind. Love and certainty shone in his eyes. For the first time in years, happiness felt simple.

She took out her phone and smiled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll say yes to dinner.”