All Amazing Babies

— Well, did you eat that up? — Vlad barged into the kitchen, swinging his car keys like a scepter. — The deal is closed. I told you I’d crush them.

 Anya slowly lifted her gaze from the laptop screen. His flushed, triumphant face was mirrored on the glossy surface.

She silently closed the lid. The banking app still lingered on the darkened screen, showing a seven-figure sum.

— I’m glad it worked out for you, — she replied evenly.

Vlad snorted and opened the fridge with the authority of an inspector.

— Worked out? Anya, this isn’t “worked out.” This is the natural result. The result of brains, grit, and hard work — not staring at silly pictures on the internet.

He was talking about her blog. The one he’d spent the past five years calling “nonsense” and a “waste of time.” She never argued. Why bother?

Anya stood and walked to the window. Evening lights shimmered in the rain-streaked glass like a blurred watercolor.

 

Five years of humiliation, mockery, and dismissal. Five years she’d poured into her blog about rare, nearly vanished crafts, collecting stories from old masters piece by piece.

— Speaking of your little pictures, — Vlad continued, pulling a bottle of expensive sparkling wine from the fridge. — It’s about time you quit that. We’ll need more money soon. I’ve picked out a new country house. And your hobby only puts us in the red.

He said “we,” but she clearly heard “me.” That was always the way. His victories were his alone, but financial burdens were shared.

— Do you even realize the level we’re at? — Vlad approached, popping the cork with a loud bang. Foam sprayed across the windowsill. — I’m the man who gets things done. And you… who are you?

He poured himself a full glass, ignoring her.

Anya looked at his reflection in the dark glass — the smug grin, the expensive suit he thought made him untouchable.

Inside her, there was no anger, no bitterness. Just a strange, ringing calm. As though she were watching a scene from a bad movie.

 

— You’re broke, and I’m successful! — he laughed, as if it were an undeniable fact of the universe. — You should remember who carries the weight of this family.
Family games

He drank, waiting for her reaction. Tears? A breakdown? Silent submission?

Anya slowly turned to him. She looked him straight in the eyes — not defiantly, but with faint curiosity.

The way one looks at a book long read and grown dull.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

A message from a buyer. A major international media network had purchased her “useless” blog to turn it into a global project. They wrote they were deeply impressed with her work.

— You know, Vlad, — she began quietly, her voice steady, — you’re right. It really is time to change something.

 

She picked up her laptop from the table.

— I think I’ll go. Book myself a hotel room. You celebrate. You’ve earned it.

He froze, glass in hand, his face stretching in shock. He hadn’t expected this. He thought he was in control.

Anya was already in the hallway, slipping on her coat.

— Where are you going? — he shouted, bewildered. — What, are you upset? Anya!

But she was already opening the front door. On the threshold, she turned back with the same calm smile.

 

— Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the hotel myself.

The door of the presidential suite closed softly behind the porter. Anya stood alone in the vast living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows.

Below, the night city glittered — the same one that had seemed cold and distant just an hour ago.

She slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot across the plush carpet. The sensation was incredible. This wasn’t just freedom. It was coming back to herself.

Her phone buzzed insistently. Ten missed calls from Vlad. Then texts. First angry, then anxious, and finally almost pathetic. “Anya, I’m worried. Please pick up.”

She silenced it. Not now.

In the morning, she woke to sunlight flooding the room. For the first time in years, she had slept deeply. No nightmares, no heaviness in her chest.

She ordered breakfast in — the kind Vlad called “a waste of money” — and, wrapped in a silk robe by the window, opened her laptop.

An email awaited her from Eleonora Van der Meer, head of the European division of the media group. They invited her to Brussels. Tomorrow.

Anya smiled. Everything was happening so fast, but she wasn’t afraid. Only exhilarated.

Meanwhile, Vlad was unraveling.

He called all their mutual friends, her few girlfriends, even her mother, painting the picture as if Anya had had a nervous breakdown from his “overwhelming success.”

— She’s always been fragile with that blog, — he sighed into the phone. — So delicate. I’m afraid she might do something stupid.

By noon, he realized his story wasn’t working. Nobody believed Anya was crazy. But everyone heard the thinly veiled panic in his voice.

The last straw was a call from his business partner.

— Vlad, did you see the news? Some handicraft blog got sold for eight million euros! Can you imagine? Threads of Time, it’s called. Isn’t that your wife’s hobby?

Vlad froze. He remembered the name. She had mentioned it when asking for money to visit some embroiderer in a remote village. He’d laughed at her.

Frantically, he searched online. Forbes article. Anya’s photograph.

Smiling. Confident. And the sum of the deal — not just big. Massive. More than he had ever earned in his life.

Vlad’s world — where he was king and god — collapsed in an instant. His face twisted with rage mixed with primal fear. Now he understood her calmness. Her departure. Her final words.

He quickly found out which hotel she was in. Less than an hour.

Anya had just finished a video call with Eleonora, discussing contract details and future strategy.

She felt weightless. Not just a content creator now — they offered her to lead an entire division, overseeing projects worldwide.

A sharp, demanding knock rattled the door. Anya frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She peeked through the peephole — and recoiled. Vlad stood there. His face pale, eyes burning with a cruel fire. He looked like a man stripped of everything.

She opened the door.

— We need to talk, — he hissed, pushing past her into the suite. His lips curled in a bitter sneer as he scanned the luxury. — Nice setup. On my money?

Anya closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. She had expected this line. She was ready.

— Yours? — she asked calmly. — Vlad, all the money you ever gave me for “pins and needles” wouldn’t cover a single night here. So no. Not yours.

He spun around, caught off guard. His plan — storm in, scare her, dominate — was crumbling.

— It’s our money, Anya! — he tried a different tactic, adopting a pleading tone. — We’re a family. What’s yours is mine. I supported you. I inspired you! Without me, you’d still be nowhere!
Family games

— Inspired me? — she allowed herself a faint smile. — By calling my work “nonsense”? By telling me to “get a real job”? Or by declaring me broke just yesterday? Which of those was the inspiration, exactly?

Each word hit him like a blow. He flinched.

 

— You don’t understand big money! — he shouted, snapping back into aggression. — They’ll trick you! Those corporate sharks will devour you! You need me. I know how to handle assets. We can multiply it all. Build an empire!

He stepped toward her, hand outstretched, as if inviting her into his grand vision.

— Your empire collapsed last night, Vlad, — Anya cut him off. — About the time you popped your champagne. And you know what? I don’t want an empire. I want my life. The one I’ll build myself.

She picked up her phone and quickly typed something.

— What are you doing? — he asked, real fear creeping into his voice now. The fear of losing not a wife, but a resource.

— Calling security. Our conversation is over.

— No! — he lunged toward her. — Anya, wait! Please! I see it now! I was wrong!

It was a pitiful sight. The mighty Vlad, feared and respected, now begging the woman he had treated as property just yesterday.

— No, Vlad, you don’t see anything, — she replied, steady as ever. — You just saw numbers on someone else’s bank account. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce.

And about that house you picked out — forget it. Your last deal won’t even cover the down payment.

She pressed the call button.

Two burly guards arrived within minutes. Efficient. Professional.

— Please escort this gentleman out, — Anya said, pointing at the stunned Vlad. — He’s mistaken the room number.

Vlad didn’t resist. He just stared at her with hollow eyes as they led him away. No rage left. Only emptiness.

When the door closed behind him, Anya exhaled slowly. She walked to the vast window.

The city below pulsed with life, and for the first time, she felt part of it.

Free. Strong. And endlessly happy.

Tomorrow, her flight to Brussels awaited. Tomorrow, her real life would begin.

A heavy, suffocating silence wrapped around the apartment, steeped in the scent of incense and wilting lilies. Marina sat hunched on the edge of the couch, as if crushed by an invisible weight. The black dress clung to her body, itching—reminding her of the cause of this dead stillness: today she had buried her grandmother, Eiroïda Anatolyevna—the last family she had left in the world.

Across from her, sprawled in an armchair, was her husband Andrey. His presence felt like mockery—for tomorrow they were to file for divorce. He had not spoken a single word of sympathy, only watching her in silence, barely concealing his irritation, as though impatient for this tedious play to end.

Marina fixed her gaze on the faded carpet pattern, feeling the last sparks of hope for reconciliation slowly extinguish, leaving only an icy void behind.

“Well then, my condolences,” Andrey finally broke the silence, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Now you’re quite the lady of means. An heiress! I suppose your granny left you a fortune? Oh, right, I forgot—the greatest inheritance of all: an old, stinking ZiL fridge. Congratulations, what a luxury.”

His words cut sharper than any blade. Memories rose: endless quarrels, shouting, tears. Her grandmother, with the rare name Eiroïda, had hated her son-in-law from the start. “He’s a swindler, Marina,” she would warn sternly. “Empty as a barrel. Watch out—he’ll strip you bare and leave you.” Andrey would only curl his lip and sneer, calling her “the old witch.” Marina had stood between them countless times, desperately trying to smooth things over, shedding tears in the belief she could mend it all. Now she understood: her grandmother had seen the truth from the very beginning.

“And speaking of your ‘brilliant’ future,” Andrey continued cruelly, adjusting his expensive jacket, “don’t bother coming to work tomorrow. You’re fired. The order was signed this morning. So, darling, soon even your ZiL will feel like a luxury. You’ll be scavenging scraps from dumpsters, and you’ll thank me for it.”

That was the end. Not just of their marriage—the end of the entire life she had built around this man. The last hope that he might show a shred of humanity was gone. In its place, cold, pure hatred began to take root.

Marina lifted her empty eyes to him but said nothing. What was the point? Everything had been said already. Silently, she rose, walked into the bedroom, and picked up the bag she had packed in advance. Ignoring his jeers and laughter, she gripped the key to her grandmother’s old, long-abandoned apartment and walked out without a backward glance.

 

The street greeted her with a chill evening wind. She paused beneath a dim streetlamp, setting down two heavy bags. Before her loomed a gray nine-story building—the home of her childhood and youth, where her parents had once lived.

She hadn’t been here in years. After the car crash that killed her mother and father, her grandmother had sold her own apartment and moved here to raise her granddaughter. These walls held too much pain, and once Marina married Andrey, she avoided the place, meeting her grandmother anywhere but here.

Now it was her only refuge. Bitterness twisted in her chest as she remembered Eiroïda Anatolyevna—her support, her mother, father, and friend all in one. Yet in recent years Marina had visited so rarely, consumed by work at her husband’s firm and her futile attempts to save their crumbling marriage. Guilt pierced her heart. At last the tears she had held back all day burst forth. She stood trembling with soundless sobs, small and lost in the vast, indifferent city.

“Auntie, need help?” came a thin, hoarse voice nearby. Marina started. A boy of about ten stood before her, wearing a jacket far too big and worn sneakers. Dirt streaked his cheeks, but his gaze was clear, almost adult. He nodded toward her bags. “Heavy, huh?”

Marina hastily wiped her tears. His straightforwardness caught her off guard.

“No, I’ll manage…” she began, but her voice broke.

He studied her intently.

“Why are you crying?” he asked—not with childish curiosity but with a sober, adult tone. “Happy people don’t stand in the street with suitcases, crying.”

Those simple words made her see him differently. His eyes held no pity, no mockery—only understanding.

“My name’s Seryozha,” he said.

“Marina,” she exhaled, tension easing a little. “All right, Seryozha. Help me.”

She nodded at one of the bags. He grunted, lifted it, and together they entered the dark, damp stairwell smelling of mold and cats.

The apartment door creaked open, releasing silence and dust. White sheets covered the furniture, curtains drawn tight, with only faint streetlight catching the drifting motes. The air smelled of old books and sadness—an abandoned home. Seryozha set down the bag, glanced around like a seasoned cleaner, and pronounced:

“Yeah… this’ll take a week, at least, if we work together.”

Marina managed a weak smile. His practicality brought a spark of life into the gloom. She looked at him—thin, small, yet so serious. She knew that once he finished helping, he would return to the cold and danger of the streets.

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

He looked up in surprise. For a moment his eyes flashed with doubt, but then he simply nodded.

That evening, after a modest meal of bread and cheese from the corner shop, they sat in the kitchen. Clean and warm, Seryozha looked almost like any ordinary child. He told his story—without self-pity or tears. His parents drank. A fire in their shack. They died. He survived. They sent him to an orphanage, but he escaped.
Kitchen supplies

“I won’t go back,” he said, staring into his empty cup. “They say from the orphanage it’s straight to prison. Like a ticket to misery. Better the street—at least you fend for yourself.”

“That’s not true,” Marina said softly, her own grief fading before his. “Neither an orphanage nor the street decide who you become. Only you. It’s all up to you.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. And in that moment, a fragile but unbreakable thread of trust stretched between their two lonely souls.

Later, Marina made up a bed on the old couch, found clean linens scented with mothballs. Seryozha curled up and drifted off almost instantly—the first time in ages in a real, warm bed. Watching his peaceful face, Marina felt: maybe her life wasn’t over after all.

The next morning, gray light slipped through the curtains. Marina tiptoed to the kitchen, scribbled a note: “I’ll be back soon. There’s milk and bread in the fridge. Don’t go anywhere.” Then she left.

Today was divorce day.

The court hearing was even more humiliating than she had feared. Andrey showered her with insults, painting her as a lazy, ungrateful parasite. Marina kept silent, feeling hollow and filthy. When the session ended and she walked out with the divorce decree in hand, she felt no relief—only emptiness and bitterness.

As she wandered the city aimlessly, his jeering words about the fridge returned to her mind.

That clunky ZiL, dented and scratched, stood in the kitchen like a relic from another era. Marina regarded it with new eyes. Seryozha, too, came over, running his hands along its enamel, tapping thoughtfully.

“Whoa, that’s ancient!” he whistled. “Even the one in our shack was newer. Does it even work?”

“No,” Marina sighed, sinking onto a chair. “Silent for years. Just a keepsake.”

The next day they tackled a full cleaning spree. With rags, brushes, and buckets, they stripped peeling wallpaper, scrubbed grime, shook dust from old things. Conversation, laughter, pauses, then more work—hours passed, and to Marina’s surprise, each one made her feel lighter. The boy’s chatter and the physical labor washed the ashes of the past from her soul.

“When I grow up, I’ll be a train driver,” Seryozha declared dreamily, scrubbing a windowsill. “I’ll drive trains far, to places I’ve never been.”

“That’s a wonderful dream,” Marina smiled. “But to make it happen, you need to study well. That means going back to school.”

He nodded gravely. “If it’s necessary, I’ll do it.”

Yet his curiosity kept returning to the fridge. He circled it like a mystery, peered inside, tapped, listened. Something about the old ZiL unsettled him.

“Look, something’s off,” he finally said, calling Marina over. “Here, the wall’s thin, normal. But this side—it’s thick, solid. Doesn’t feel right.”

Marina ran her hand along it—indeed, one side felt denser. They inspected carefully and soon noticed a faint seam along the inner panel. With a knife, she pried it open, revealing a hidden cavity.

 

Inside lay neat bundles of dollars and euros. Beside them, in velvet cases, gleamed antique jewels: an emerald ring, a pearl necklace, diamond earrings. They froze, afraid to break the fragile silence of the miracle.

“Wow…” they breathed together.

Marina sank to the floor, everything clicking into place. Her grandmother’s words—“Don’t throw out old junk, Marina, it’s worth more than your flashy fop”—her insistence that Marina take this very fridge. Eiroïda Anatolyevna, who had lived through repression, war, and currency collapse, had trusted no banks. She hid everything—her past, her hope, her future—in what she thought the safest place: the wall of a refrigerator.

It wasn’t just treasure. It was a survival plan. Grandmother had known Andrey would leave Marina with nothing, and left her a chance—a chance to begin anew.

Tears poured again, but now of gratitude, relief, love. Marina turned to Seryozha, still spellbound by the find, and hugged him tight.

“Seryozha,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Now everything will be fine. I can adopt you. We’ll buy a home, you’ll go to the best school. You’ll have everything you deserve.”

The boy turned slowly, his eyes filled with a deep, aching hope that made her heart ache.

“Really?” he asked softly. “You really want to be my mom?”

“Really,” she said firmly. “More than anything.”

Years flew like a breath. Marina officially adopted Sergei. With part of the treasure, they bought a bright, spacious apartment in a good neighborhood.

Sergei proved exceptionally gifted. He studied voraciously, caught up on lost years, skipped grades, and earned a scholarship to a prestigious economics university.

Marina too rebuilt her life: earning another degree, founding a small but thriving consulting agency. What once seemed destroyed regained shape, meaning, warmth.

Nearly ten years later, a tall, confident young man adjusted his tie in the mirror. Sergei, now grown, was graduating at the top of his class.

“Mama, how do I look?” he turned to Marina.

“As always—perfect,” she smiled proudly. “Just don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not cocky, I’m stating facts,” he winked. “By the way, Professor Lev called again. Why did you turn him down? He’s a good man. You like him.”

Lev Igorevich—their neighbor, a kind, intelligent professor—had long courted Marina shyly.

“Today something more important,” she waved him off. “My son is graduating. Let’s go, we’ll be late.”

The auditorium was packed—parents, professors, and company representatives scouting talent. Marina sat in the fifth row, her heart swelling with pride.

Then her gaze froze. Among the employers on stage, she recognized Andrey. Older, heavier, but the smug smirk was the same. Her heart skipped—then steadied. There was no fear, only a cold, clinical curiosity.

When Andrey took the podium as the head of a flourishing finance firm, he spoke pompously of careers, money, prestige.

“We seek only the best!” he declared. “We will open every door!”

Then the best graduate was called—Sergei. Calm and confident, he took the stage. The hall fell silent.

“Honored professors, friends, guests,” he began clearly. “Today we step into a new life. And I want to tell a story. About how I came to stand here. Once, I was a homeless boy on the street.”

A whisper rippled through the audience. Marina held her breath. She hadn’t known what he would say.

He continued, voice like steel. He told of a woman, cast out by her husband that very day—penniless, jobless, hopeless—who found him, dirty and starving. He spared no names, but his eyes stayed locked on a pale Andrey.

“That man told her she would scavenge in garbage,” Sergei said sharply. “In a sense, he was right. Because in the world’s garbage, she found me. And today, I want to thank him. Thank you, Mr. Andreyev, for your cruelty. Thank you for throwing your wife into the street. If not for you, my mother and I would never have met. And I would never have become who I am.”

The hall froze. Then erupted like an explosion. All eyes turned to Andrey, red with rage and shame.

“That is why,” Sergei concluded, “I state publicly: I will never work for a man of such morals. And I advise my peers to think carefully before tying their fate to his company. Thank you.”

He stepped down to thunderous applause—first hesitant, then roaring. Andrey’s reputation, built on showy wealth, collapsed in minutes. Sergei embraced Marina—teary, glowing with pride—and together they walked out, never looking back.

“Mama,” he said in the cloakroom, handing her coat. “Call Lev Igorevich.”

Marina looked at her son—grown, strong, kind. In his eyes shone love, gratitude, and confidence. For the first time in years, she felt truly happy.

She pulled out her phone and smiled:

“All right. I’ll say yes to dinner.”

Olesya frowned at the phone screen. A message from Vadim was short: “Filed for divorce. Take the kids and move out by Friday.”

“What? Divorce?” She almost dropped her cup of tea.

The phone rang immediately. Her mother-in-law’s name lit up on the screen.

“Hello, Tamara Petrovna?”
“Olesya, you already know, right?” The voice sounded almost cheerful. “Vadik’s made his decision. The apartment is ours, you understand, we bought it before you got married. He re-registered the car to himself last week too.”

Olesya sat on the edge of the chair. One thought spun in her head: “Last week? He planned all this in advance?”

“And the kids? Where will we go?”

“That’s your problem,” her mother-in-law snapped. “Vadik said he’ll pay child support. Minimum, of course. And not right now—when the court orders it.”

“But I—”

“Oh, I have another call. Bye!” Tamara Petrovna hung up.

Olesya glanced at the clock—soon Danila and Katya would be back from school. What would she tell them? How to explain that they had to pack up and leave the apartment where they’d lived for the last seven years?

 

The phone buzzed again. A text from her sister-in-law: “Long overdue. You never appreciated Vadik. Always walking around dissatisfied.”

“I’m dissatisfied?” Olesya almost threw the phone. “I worked two jobs while your brother was ‘finding himself’?”

They packed within a day. Olesya found a room in a communal apartment on the outskirts. The landlady, a plump woman with tired eyes, just looked at the kids and waved her hand:

“Move in. First and last month up front.”

The children were silent the whole way to their new place. Katya, nine, held her brother’s hand. Danila, twelve, carried his backpack, frowning like an adult.

“Mom, does Dad know where we’re going?” he asked when they stood together in the tiny room with peeling wallpaper.

“No. And he won’t know unless he asks.”

“And Grandma?” Katya squeaked softly.

“We won’t call Grandma either.”

That evening, after putting the kids on the fold-out couch, Olesya sat by the window. A neighbor snored loudly through the wall. Somewhere below, a drunken company was arguing in the yard.

“And now what?” she asked the darkness.

At work, they didn’t keep Olesya. “Staff reductions,” her boss explained dryly, avoiding her eyes. She knew—Vadim had pulled strings. He had connections in town.

A week after moving, her mother-in-law called.

“Olesya, how are you there? I’m worried about the grandkids.”

“Wonderful, Tamara Petrovna. Just fantastic.”

“Do you have money? Maybe…” Tamara paused, “maybe call Vadik? Make up? Why put the kids through this?”

“Thanks, no need. We’ll manage.”

“Oh, don’t be proud! How long will you last without us? A month? Two? Vadik says you can’t even hammer a nail in a wall.”

Olesya closed her eyes. How many times in ten years of marriage had she heard those phrases? “Without us you’re nothing.” “We dragged you out of the mud.” “Say thanks Vadik married you.”

“You know, Tamara Petrovna, your son is right. I don’t know a lot. But I’ll learn.”

That evening, after the kids fell asleep, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Neighbor!” An elderly woman from the next floor stood on the threshold. “I’m Nina Vasilievna. Heard you have troubles. Want to have some tea?”

Over tea, Nina Vasilievna told her about the benefits Olesya could apply for. About free activities at the community center. About where to look for side jobs.

“My daughter went through the same. She managed. And you will too.”

That night Olesya didn’t sleep. She wrote ads: “Apartment cleaning.” “Dog walking.” “Minor clothing repairs.” The phone was silent. Her husband’s family didn’t call. But she no longer waited for their calls.

Three days later, Olesya’s phone rang. First order—cleaning a two-bedroom apartment across town.

“Two hours of work,” the woman on the line said. “Five hundred rubles.”

“Too little,” Olesya surprised herself with her boldness. “Seven hundred.”

“Six hundred. Not a ruble more.”

On the way home, Olesya bought bread, pasta, and some minced meat.

“Dan, Katya, come here,” she called as she entered the room. “We’re going to learn to cook.”

“Dad said you cook badly,” Danila muttered, stirring the pasta.

“Dad said a lot of things,” Olesya ruffled her son’s hair. “Now we’ll all learn new things together.”

Nina Vasilievna helped her file for benefits and suggested where to enroll the kids in free clubs.

“Dance and chess at the community center,” she said. “Katya’s flexible, and Dan’s smart. Let them join, you can work during that time.”

In the evenings, Olesya sewed. She dragged an old sewing machine from the dumpster and fixed it. Her first orders were curtains for neighbors.

“You’ve got golden hands,” Nina Vasilievna praised. “Just make sure you charge enough. Don’t undersell yourself.”

Meanwhile, at her ex-husband’s house, conversations were buzzing.

“She’ll last a month at best,” Tamara Petrovna declared, pouring tea for her daughter and Vadim. “Where can she go with two kids? No skills, no decent education.”

“Think she’ll crawl back?” Vadim’s sister Lena snorted.

“Where else? Besides…” the mother-in-law looked meaningfully at her son, “you’re not rushing with child support.”

“We’re not officially divorced yet,” Vadim grumbled. “And things are tough for me too. Katya’s leaving the salon, the business is shaky.”

“Your mistress?” Lena sneered. “The one you wrecked the family for?”

“I didn’t wreck it, I freed myself,” Vadim snapped. “Enough about Olesya. Finish your tea, let’s go to the new restaurant.”

On Saturday at the town market, Olesya sold her first handmade items—aprons and potholders. The kids helped. Katya carefully arranged the goods, Danila called out to customers.

“What a lovely family,” a well-groomed woman in her forties stopped at the stall. “And what’s this work?”

“Mine,” Olesya smiled shyly. “I sew in the evenings.”

“Very neat. Are you a professional seamstress?”

“No, self-taught.”

“Interesting…” The woman thoughtfully examined the aprons. “I’m Marina, the director of the sports school’s wife. We need someone with your skills. Come by Monday, let’s talk.”

At home, Olesya couldn’t sit still.

“Mom, why are you pacing?” Danila asked.

“I got offered a job! A real one!”

“Hooray!” Katya jumped. “Then we can buy new pencils?”

“And move out of here,” Olesya nodded. “If it works out.”

At the sports school, Olesya was welcomed warmly. The director, a tall man with a military bearing, explained:

 

“We need someone for two roles—cleaner and seamstress. To mend sports uniforms, sew numbers, sometimes costumes for performances.”

“I can handle it,” Olesya said firmly.

“I believe you,” Marina smiled. “Start next week.”

That evening Olesya cried for the first time in a long time. Not from grief—from relief.

“Nina Vasilievna, I’m doing it,” she whispered in her neighbor’s kitchen. “It’s really working!”

“What did you expect?” the elderly woman nodded. “You just weren’t given a chance before. Now fly, little bird!”

Her first paycheck came in cash—a clean fifteen thousand rubles. For her, it was a fortune.

“Let’s count,” she told the kids that evening, pouring the bills on the table. “How much for rent, how much for food, how much to save.”

“Can I get new sneakers?” Danila asked quietly. “My toe’s sticking out of the old ones.”

“Of course, son. And sandals for Katya. And also…” Olesya paused, “let’s look for an apartment? Tiny, but our own.”

A new apartment was found a week later—a one-bedroom on the fifth floor of a panel house. No renovation, peeling wallpaper, but theirs.

“Eight thousand a month,” the landlord rasped. “Plus utilities.”

“I’ll take it,” Olesya didn’t even haggle.

Nina Vasilievna helped with the move. Dragged over an old couch and two stools.

“My dowry for you,” she laughed. “You’ll settle in gradually.”

Things at the sports school went well. Olesya came early, cleaned classrooms and halls, then sat at the sewing machine. Uniforms, patches, small repairs. The director praised her work.

“You’re a real find, Olesya Igorevna,” he said. “Might even give you a bonus at the end of the quarter.”

One day, sorting through old performance costumes, Olesya suggested:

“Can I try a new design? I have ideas.”

Marina, the director’s wife, was intrigued:

“Show me sketches.”

That night, after putting the kids to bed, Olesya drew late into the night. In the morning, she brought Marina five designs.

“This is amazing!” Marina exclaimed. “Yury Mikhailovich, look what our seamstress came up with!”

Two weeks later, the school allocated funds for new costumes. Olesya was officially named a designer. Her salary increased by five thousand.

And in town, rumors spread.

“Did you hear, Vadik’s ex got the kids into the fancy sports school?” women whispered in the supermarket line.

“And she works there too. They say the director values her.”

“And how do they live?”

“Rent an apartment. A normal one, not some hole.”

The gossip reached Vadim and his family. At Sunday lunch, the topic came up unexpectedly.
Family games

“Heard your ex has settled well,” Tamara Petrovna drawled, serving salad to her son. “Works at the sports school, kids go there too.”

“No way,” Vadim grimaced. “Probably just mops floors.”

“Not only that,” Lena interjected. “My friend saw her at a parent meeting. Olesya sews school uniforms to order. Says there’s a line for her.”

“What line?” Vadim stopped chewing. “She didn’t know anything!”

“Then she learned,” Lena shrugged. “And the kids look good—clean, neat. You wouldn’t say their mom’s raising them alone.”

“And she’s not even asking for money?” Tamara pursed her lips.

“Imagine that, no,” Lena smirked. “Maybe she wasn’t as useless as you said.”

Vadim shoved his plate away with a clatter.

“I gotta go. Business.”

 

At home, Vadim couldn’t sit still. His sister’s words kept spinning in his head: “Not as useless.” And he really had thought that. Ten years considering his wife a loser, a burden. And she went and made it. Without him.

His phone was ringing off the hook—his ex-mother-in-law:

“Vadim, when will you send child support? Have some conscience!”

She used to stay silent. But now she exploded. Apparently, Olesya had shared her successes.

By evening, he couldn’t stand it and dialed his ex-wife’s number.

“Hello?” Olesya’s voice was calm.

“Hi. How are the kids?”

“Fine. Danila has a competition soon. Katya’s doing dance.”

“I heard you… settled well,” the words were hard to force out.

“Yes, thanks,” a hint of irony slipped into Olesya’s voice. “We’re managing.”

“Maybe I could come by? See the kids?”

Pause. Long.

“No, Vadim. Not now.”

“But I’m their father!” he burst out.

“The one who didn’t care how they lived for two months,” Olesya cut him off. “Sorry, I have to go. We have costume fittings.”

Three months after the move, Olesya’s life stabilized. She was officially promoted to fashion designer at the sports school. In her spare time, she sewed school uniforms on commission. Her clientele grew steadily.

“Mom, maybe you need an assistant?” Danila asked once, eyeing the pile of patterns. “You can’t keep up.”

“I’ll manage,” Olesya ruffled his hair. “But we’ll go to a holiday resort for New Year’s. I’ve already looked at tickets.”

“Really?” Katya clapped. “Will there be snow?”

“There will. And sleds, and an ice rink.”

That evening her mother-in-law called.

“Olesya, how are you?” Her voice sounded unusually gentle.

“Fine, Tamara Petrovna.”

“Listen… New Year’s is soon. Maybe let the kids visit us? Grandpa and I miss them.”

Olesya smirked. Three months ago this woman threw them out. Now she “misses” them.

“Sorry, we already have plans. We’re going away.”

“Where?” the mother-in-law was surprised.

“To a resort. Skiing and skating.”

Pause.

“Olesya, maybe make peace? Vadik says he overreacted. Maybe give it another try?”

“No, Tamara Petrovna. That’s in the past.”

“But how? Kids without a father…”

“And where was this father when they had nothing to eat?” Olesya gripped the phone. “When we slept on the floor in a communal flat?”

“Well, everyone makes mistakes…”

“I agree. My mistake was letting you treat me as worthless. I won’t repeat it.”

The next day by the school, Olesya got a surprise—Vadim with a huge bouquet.

“Can we talk?” he held out the roses.

“Why?” Olesya didn’t take the bouquet.

“I realized everything. I was wrong. Maybe we can start over?”

“Vadim,” Olesya looked him straight in the eye, “when you kicked us out, I thought I’d die of grief and fear. But then I realized—it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“What?”

“For ten years you convinced me I was worthless. That I’d be lost without you. And you know what I’ve realized these past months? I can do anything. Work, raise kids, make plans. And I don’t need someone next to me who doesn’t value that.”

Vadim lowered the bouquet awkwardly.

“And the kids? They need a father…”

“They need a reliable father. You want to help—pay child support on time. You want to see them—we’ll set a schedule. But we can’t go back.”

At home, the kids had a surprise waiting—a new laptop.

“This is for your studies,” Olesya said. “And I’ve enrolled in fashion design courses. We’ll keep moving forward.”

“Mom, are you really never going back to Dad?” Katya asked that evening. “Grandma called, said Dad misses you.”

“No, sweetie. We’ll live our own life. Dad can visit if he wants.”

“I’m glad,” Danila suddenly said. “I mean… before, there was always yelling at home. Now it’s good. Peaceful.”

Olesya hugged her son.

“And it’ll get even better. I promise.”

In spring, Olesya opened a small atelier. Took a loan, bought equipment. Nina Vasilievna helped with the kids when Olesya stayed late.

“You’re amazing, girl,” the neighbor said. “You climbed out of such a pit.”

“You know, Nina Vasilievna,” Olesya smiled, locking up after work, “sometimes you have to lose everything to understand what you’re capable of.”

That evening, walking home, she thought about the upcoming recital at the sports school. Her costume designs had won an award at the regional contest. The director talked about expanding their collaboration.

At home, kids, homework, and an unfinished dress for Katya were waiting. An ordinary evening of an ordinary family. But now Olesya knew for sure—they would make it. Together.

Because sometimes the end of an old life is just the beginning of a new one. A better one.

“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.
Family games

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.

The Husband’s Parents Secretly Demanded Money From Their Daughter-In-Law, And After Three Months She Gave Them An Unexpected Surprise

Yulia straightened the tablecloth and moved a plate a couple of centimeters to the right. The eighth time in the last ten minutes. The perfect dinner wasn’t working out. She heard the front door slam.

“Pasha, is that you?” she called from the kitchen.

“No, it’s the robbers!” her husband chuckled as he walked into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

“Lasagna. Your mom called, they and your dad will drop by in half an hour.”

Pavel grimaced.
“Again? Third time this week. Look, I’ve got a report deadline…”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Yulia wiped her hands with a towel. “They won’t stay long.”

Her husband kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into his study. A typical evening in the Kovrov household. Yulia sighed. Pavel was always “burning out” at work, and she handled everything else. Including his parents.

The doorbell rang exactly twenty-seven minutes later.

“Yulechka, darling!” Valentina Mikhailovna hugged her daughter-in-law. She smelled of sweet perfume. “How are you, dear?”
“All good, come on in.”

Konstantin Petrovich silently nodded and went into the living room. He was never much of a talker.

“And where’s our workaholic?” the mother-in-law asked.

“Pasha’s working. He’ll come out later.”

Over dinner they chatted about the weather, the neighbors, the new shopping mall. Ordinary talk. Pavel did come out, but only for ten minutes—said hello, exchanged a few phrases, and went back to his spreadsheets.

“Yul, can I see you for a minute?” Valentina Mikhailovna called her into the kitchen when Yulia was clearing the plates. “I have this matter… it’s a bit awkward.”

“You see, your father-in-law and I had a little hiccup. Our pension got delayed, and we need medicine urgently. Could you lend us five thousand until next week?”

“Of course, I’ll get it,” Yulia went for her wallet.

“Just don’t tell Pasha,” the mother-in-law lowered her voice. “He’s so nervous these days. All that work stress… why upset him?”

Yulia returned with the money.
“Here you go.”

“You’re our savior,” Valentina Mikhailovna quickly hid the bills in her bag. “And remember—not a word to Pasha. He’ll get upset that we didn’t ask him.”

A week later, the story repeated itself. This time they needed ten thousand—for utilities. Three days later—seven thousand for a faucet repair. Yulia didn’t think much of it until she noticed the amounts growing and the intervals between requests shrinking.

In the middle of the second month, Konstantin Petrovich asked for thirty thousand—supposedly for a new refrigerator. Yulia took the money from her savings.

“Maybe we should tell Pasha?” she suggested timidly.

“Oh no, no!” her father-in-law waved his hands. “He’s got enough problems at work. Why burden him? He’s always been so… emotionally unstable.”

Yulia frowned. Pasha had never seemed unstable to her. But who knows a son better than his parents?

That evening she sat over the family budget, calculating. In a month and a half, she had given her husband’s parents almost a hundred thousand. Not a single ruble returned.

The phone rang at the worst moment.

“Yulenka, sweetie,” Valentina Mikhailovna’s voice sounded overly sweet, “we have a situation…”

Yulia clenched the phone until her fingers hurt. She already knew what was coming.

“What situation?” she asked wearily.

“We urgently need fifty thousand. You see, Kostya… his blood pressure. He needs expensive medicine.”

Yulia closed her eyes. Fifty thousand. That’s no joke.

“Valentina Mikhailovna, maybe we should tell Pasha after all? He should know about his father’s health.”

The pause on the other end was so long that Yulia thought the line had cut out.

“Don’t you understand?” her mother-in-law’s voice turned icy. “Pavlik mustn’t worry. He has an important project. Or don’t you care?”

 

“Of course I care, but—”

“No ‘buts’! You don’t want to ruin our relationship with Pavlik, do you? He loves us so much.”

Yulia felt a lump rising in her throat. This was outright blackmail now.

“All right, I’ll transfer the money,” she said quietly.

“Good girl. We’ll stop by tomorrow.”

Yulia threw the phone on the couch and burst into tears. By the time Pavel came out of his study, she had washed her face and pretended everything was fine.

“Why are you so red?” he asked, opening the fridge.

“Cutting onions,” she lied. “How’s work?”

“Okay. Hey, did my parents call? I wanted to ask Dad about the dacha.”

Yulia froze.
“No. Why?”

“Thinking of redoing the roof. They were planning to go there next week, right? Dad said he’d saved up for the repairs.”

Yulia clenched her teeth. Saved up, huh. From what money, she wondered?

The next day her in-laws arrived as if nothing had happened. Konstantin Petrovich looked perfectly healthy. No sign of blood pressure issues.

“Yul, where’s our money?” Valentina Mikhailovna pulled her aside in the kitchen while Pavel showed his dad something on the laptop.

“Here,” Yulia handed her an envelope. “But listen… I can’t keep doing this.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” the mother-in-law squinted. “What about family? We’re your husband’s parents!”

“Pasha mentioned the dacha yesterday. About your savings for the repairs…”

Valentina Mikhailovna turned pale.
“You told him?!”

“No. But I’m thinking of telling him.”

“Don’t you dare!” the older woman grabbed her elbow. “If you tell him, we’ll say you’ve been squeezing money out of us. Who will he believe—his mother or you?”

Yulia pulled her arm away. Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach.

From that day on, it only got worse. The in-laws came more often, asking for larger amounts. In three months, Yulia gave them almost all her savings—three hundred thousand rubles. She stopped sleeping at night. Lost weight. Started snapping at Pasha.

Then October came—his birthday month. And Yulia decided she’d had enough. Time for a surprise. A big family surprise.

“We’re celebrating your birthday this Saturday, right?” she asked her husband over breakfast.

“Yeah. Just don’t go overboard, okay? We’ll invite my parents, your sister and her husband, that’s all.”

“Of course, honey,” Yulia smiled. “No excesses. Just the essentials.”

Saturday morning Yulia rushed around the apartment like crazy. She polished the parquet until it shone, arranged flowers in vases, and baked Pavel’s favorite Napoleon cake.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” her husband said, watching her fuss. “It’s just a birthday, not a wedding.”

“I want everything to be perfect,” Yulia waved him off. “Go iron your shirt instead.”

Guests were due at six. At half past five, the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” Yulia peeked through the peephole.

“It’s us!” Valentina Mikhailovna’s voice was festive. “Open up, Yulechka!”

The in-laws entered, loaded with bags. Konstantin Petrovich carried a big box with a bow.

“Pashenka not ready yet?” Valentina Mikhailovna glanced around the hallway.

“In the shower,” Yulia helped them with their coats. “Go to the living room. Tea?”

“Better tea. Listen, while no one’s here…” the mother-in-law lowered her voice. “We have a little emergency. Seventy thousand till next week. Can you?”

Yulia stared at her, unable to believe her ears. Right now? On her son’s birthday?

“Yul, why are you silent?” Valentina Mikhailovna frowned.

“I… let’s talk later, okay?” Yulia forced a smile. “It’s his birthday, after all.”

“You’re refusing?” the older woman pursed her lips. “After all we’ve done for you…”

“Mama?” Pavel came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair. “You’re already here! Where’s Dad?”

“In the living room, unpacking the gift,” Valentina Mikhailovna instantly changed her tone. “Happy birthday, son!”

Soon the rest of the guests arrived—Yulia’s sister and her husband, two of Pavel’s friends with their wives. The table was full of snacks. Yulia was all smiles, but inside she trembled. She knew what she had to do, but she was scared to death.

“And now—gifts!” she announced after everyone had eaten. “Who’s first?”

Guests handed over their presents one by one. Pavel got a tool set from his friends, an expensive shirt from Yulia’s sister, and a new smartphone from his parents.

 

“And where’s your gift?” Pavel hugged his wife.

“Right here,” Yulia went to the bedroom and came back with a large leather-bound album. “Here.”

“A photo album?” Pavel accepted the gift, puzzled. “Thanks, but…”

“Open it,” Yulia said softly. “It’s a special album.”

Pavel began flipping through the pages. Photos from their life together—the wedding, Turkey vacation, dacha, cozy evenings at home. His parents were in many of them. Everyone smiled, reminiscing.

“This one’s my favorite,” Valentina Mikhailovna pointed to a photo of them all around the table. “Such a friendly family!”

“Turn to the last page,” Yulia told her husband.

Pavel obeyed. And froze. On the last page was a printout of bank transfers. With amounts and dates. He frowned.

“What’s this?”

“The money I gave your parents over the last three months,” Yulia replied calmly. “A total of three hundred and twenty thousand rubles. They asked me not to tell you.”

Silence hung over the room. Valentina Mikhailovna’s face went pale, then blotched red.

“What nonsense is this?” she finally spat. “Pasha, she’s making it all up!”

Pavel slowly shifted his gaze from the printout to his mother’s face, then to his father, who suddenly found the tablecloth pattern fascinating.

“Is this true?” Pavel’s voice was unusually quiet.

“Son, you don’t understand…” Valentina Mikhailovna began.

“I asked—is it true?” Pavel slammed his palm on the table. Glasses clinked.

The room went so quiet Yulia could hear the ticking clock from the kitchen. Her sister and brother-in-law exchanged glances. Pavel’s friends shifted uncomfortably.

“Maybe we should leave?” one of them suggested.

“Sit,” Pavel cut him off. “Since my parents staged this show in front of everyone, let them explain themselves in front of everyone.”

Konstantin Petrovich finally raised his eyes.
“Son, we really did need the money.”

“For what?” Pavel flipped through the printouts. “Medicine? Repairs? A vacation in Turkey?”

Yulia flinched. She hadn’t known about Turkey.

“We wanted to surprise you…” Valentina Mikhailovna mumbled.

“What kind of surprise costs three hundred thousand?”

“We were going to buy you a share of the plot next to our dacha,” the mother-in-law blurted. “So you could build a house. Yulia ruined everything!”

Yulia shook her head.
“Valentina Mikhailovna, enough. Yesterday you asked for another seventy thousand.”

“You’re lying!” the older woman jumped up.

“God, Mom, stop it!” Pavel stood too. “I can see it’s true. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“You’re always busy,” Konstantin Petrovich muttered. “And Yulia… she’s family.”

“Whom you used and blackmailed,” Pavel hugged his wife’s shoulders. “Yul, why didn’t you tell me?”

“They asked me not to. Hinted you had problems at work, that you’re nervous, that you couldn’t handle it…” Yulia spoke quietly but clearly. “And they threatened that if I told you, they’d convince you I’d been begging them for money.”

The guests sat in stunned silence. Valentina Mikhailovna collapsed onto a chair and covered her face with her hands.

“We’re leaving,” Konstantin Petrovich stood. “Since we’re not welcome here…”

“Sit down,” Pavel ordered in such a tone that his father obeyed automatically. “No one leaves until we clear everything up.”

The next half hour was painful. The parents confessed they had spent the money on apartment renovations and a vacation in Turkey. They simply decided Yulia was easy prey since she worked from home as a designer and had access to the family finances.

“From now on,” Pavel spoke calmly but firmly, “all your financial matters go through me. No secrets, no loans behind my back. I’ll help you monthly, as we agree. And this money,” he pointed to the printouts, “you’ll return. In parts, but you’ll return it.”

“But Pasha, we’re your parents!” Valentina Mikhailovna sobbed.

“Exactly. And she’s my wife. And you humiliated her for three months.”

When the guests left and the parents, ashamed, went home, Pavel hugged Yulia.

“Forgive me. I should have noticed.”

“It’s not your fault,” Yulia buried her face in his shoulder. “I was afraid to ruin the relationship. Stupid, right?”

 

“No. You meant well. But no more secrets, agreed?”

A month later the parents began repaying the debt. Small amounts, but regularly. Valentina Mikhailovna felt awkward around Yulia and never brought up money again. Pavel personally handled financial support for his parents now—transferring a fixed amount each month.

And Yulia… Yulia finally stopped being afraid. She realized that standing up for her boundaries doesn’t destroy a family—it makes it stronger. And she also learned that her husband would always be on her side.

“You know,” she told Pavel six months later as they sat in the kitchen over tea, “that nightmare with your parents… it brought us closer.”

“Definitely,” Pavel nodded. “By the way, Mom called. Invites us to the dacha for the weekend. Says she wants to apologize to you. In person and in front of everyone.”

“Shall we go?”

“Of course. We’re family, after all.”

Yulia smiled. Now that word sounded completely different.

 The maternity ward of Saint Thorn Medical Center was unusually crowded that morning. Though Amira’s delivery was progressing normally, the room filled with twelve doctors, three senior nurses, and even two pediatric cardiologists. Not because of any complication — but because the scans had raised questions no one could answer.

 

The fetus’s heartbeat was almost hypnotic: strong, rapid, and impossibly steady. At first, they blamed faulty equipment. Then, a software error. But after three ultrasounds and five independent specialists confirmed the same flawless rhythm, the case was labeled unusual — not dangerous, but demanding vigilance.

Amira, twenty-eight, was perfectly healthy. Her pregnancy had been uneventful. The only thing she had asked was: “Please, don’t turn me into a spectacle.”

At 8:43 a.m., after twelve hours of exhausting labor, she gave her final push — and for a moment, the world itself seemed to pause.

Not from fear. From astonishment.

The boy emerged with warm golden skin and dark curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes were wide open, clear, focused — as if he had already arrived with understanding. He did not cry. He breathed. Evenly. Calmly. His tiny limbs moved with confidence, and then his gaze locked on the attending doctor.

 

Dr. Havel, a man who had delivered more than two thousand babies, froze. There was no wild disorientation in those eyes, no chaos of a newborn’s first moments. There was awareness. Presence.

“My God…” a nurse whispered. “He’s really looking at you.”

Havel leaned closer, frowning.
“It’s just a reflex,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

And then it happened.

One ECG monitor flickered and failed. Then another. The machine tracking the mother’s pulse shrieked an alarm. For a split second the lights died, then flared back — and suddenly every monitor in the ward, even in adjoining rooms, pulsed in unison. A single rhythm, as if all the electronics had been bound to one heart.

“They… synchronized,” a nurse whispered, eyes wide.

 Havel’s instrument slipped from his hand. The newborn raised a tiny hand toward the nearest monitor — and at that instant, let out his first cry. Clear. Powerful. Alive.

The machines froze. One by one, they returned to normal operation.

For several long seconds, the ward was silent.

“That was… unusual,” Dr. Havel finally said.

Amira noticed nothing. Exhausted, radiant, she asked only:
“Is my son all right?”

The nurse smiled faintly.
“He’s perfect. Just… very watchful.”

They cleaned and swaddled the boy, tagged his ankle, and laid him on his mother’s chest. At once he settled, his breathing deep and steady, his tiny fingers gripping her shirt with quiet determination.

 

Everything looked normal again. And yet, none of those present could forget what they had witnessed. None of them could explain it.

Later, in the corridor, the team gathered in uneasy whispers.
“Has anyone ever seen a newborn hold your gaze like that?” a young doctor asked.

“No,” came the answer. “Children do strange things sometimes. We’re probably overthinking.”

“And the monitors?” Nurse Riley pressed.

“Power surge. Interference, maybe,” another suggested. But no one sounded convinced.
“All at once? Even in the neighboring ward?”

Silence descended. Every gaze turned to Dr. Havel. He studied the chart, closed it, and spoke quietly:

“Whatever it is… he was born different. That’s all I can say.”

Amira named her son Josiah, after her grandfather — the man who often said: “Some arrive quietly. Others appear — and everything shifts.”

She didn’t yet know how right he had been.

The Subtle Shift

Three days after Josiah’s birth, Saint Thorn Clinic changed. Not with panic or fear, but with something harder to define — a tension in the air, as if reality had tilted ever so slightly.

Nurses lingered at monitors longer than usual. Young doctors whispered behind clipboards. Even the cleaners noticed: silence had grown thick in the ward, a silence that watched.

And in the middle of it all was Josiah.

By every medical measure, he was ordinary: 2.85 kg, healthy tone, strong lungs. He ate well, slept calmly. But then there were moments — inexplicable, unchartable. They simply happened.

The First Incidents

On the second night, Nurse Riley swore she saw the clasp on the oxygen monitor tighten by itself. She had just fixed it, turned away — and seconds later, it shifted again. She blamed her tired eyes. Until it happened while she was across the ward.

The following morning, the pediatric floor’s electronic records froze for ninety-one seconds. Every screen black.

When the system flickered back, something else had shifted: three premature babies with failing rhythms now showed stable heartbeats. No seizures. No crashes. No explanation.

The administration called it a “technical glitch.” But those who were there quietly wrote their own notes.

A Human Kind of Strange

Amira, however, noticed something not in the charts.

On the fourth day, a nurse stumbled in, eyes red from crying. Her daughter had lost her scholarship; she was devastated. She stopped near Josiah’s crib, steadying herself.

The baby reached out, brushing her wrist with his tiny fingers.

Later she whispered: “It was like he breathed for me. My chest loosened. My tears stopped. I walked out as if someone had poured light into me. As if he had given me a piece of his calm.”

The Rhythm

By the week’s end, Dr. Havel requested deeper observation.

“No invasive tests,” he assured Amira. “I just… need to understand his heart.”

They placed Josiah in a sensor crib. What appeared on the screen silenced the room: his heartbeat matched the alpha rhythm of an adult brain.

When a technician accidentally brushed the sensor, his own pulse synchronized with Josiah’s within two seconds.

“I’ve never seen this before,” he whispered. No one dared call it a miracle. Not yet.

The Sixth Day

 

In a neighboring ward, a mother began to hemorrhage. Blood pressure plunged. Staff rushed in.

At that exact moment, Josiah’s monitor froze. A perfect flatline. Twelve seconds. No struggle, no alarm — just stillness.

Nurse Riley screamed. They wheeled in a defibrillator — then froze as the monitor restored itself, heartbeat steady as before.

In the other room, the mother’s bleeding stopped. Instantly. Without transfusion. Without intervention.

“This can’t be…” one doctor muttered, but his voice broke.

Josiah yawned, blinked — and drifted into sleep.

Whispers and Warnings

By the seventh day, a confidential note circulated among staff:

“Do not discuss child #J. Do not disclose information externally. Observe under standard protocol.”

But the nurses no longer felt fear. They smiled whenever they passed his crib — the baby who never cried, unless someone else did first.

Amira stayed calm. She felt the new way people looked at her son: reverent, hopeful. But to her, he was simply hers.

When an intern shyly asked, “Do you feel he’s… unusual?” she answered softly:

“Maybe the world is only now seeing what I always knew. He was never meant to be ordinary.”

 

 

 

They were discharged without cameras, without ceremony. Yet every staff member lined up at the doors.

Nurse Riley kissed his forehead and whispered:

“You’ve changed something. We don’t understand what. But thank you.”

Josiah purred, soft as a cat. His eyes wide open. Watching.

As though he understood.

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.

“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?”

“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?”

“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.”

“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.
Family games

“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.”

“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.”
Family games

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.

“Igor, forgive me, please, if I’m interrupting,” Tatyana Yevgenyevna’s voice was quiet, almost apologetic, as if she were asking not for a favor but for some great, unthinkable indulgence. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her dry, pigment-spotted hands clasped in front of her. “The door to my room… it creaks terribly. I got up at night to drink some water and nearly jumped from the sound. Could you oil it when you have time? If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”
Kitchen supplies

Igor didn’t even look up from his phone. He was sprawled on the sofa in the living room, which was combined with the kitchen, lazily scrolling a news feed with his thumb. In answer to his mother-in-law’s request he produced an indistinct throaty sound—something between “uh-huh” and “leave me alone.” It was enough for Tatyana Yevgenyevna to know she’d been heard; she immediately retreated to her room, pulling shut that very door. A long, drawn-out, groaning squeal came from the hinges.

Yulia, who was wiping down the counter just then, tensed. She felt the atmosphere in the apartment—never very welcoming to begin with—grow denser, as if some of the air had been pumped out. All week that her mother had been visiting, Igor had worn the face of a man with a jackhammer running nonstop under his window. He didn’t throw open fights, no. He radiated waves of silent, sticky displeasure. Everything irritated him: the soft rustle of the newspaper her mother read in the evenings, the faint whiff of corvalol in the hallway, even how long, in his opinion, she occupied the bathroom in the mornings. He kept quiet, but that silence was louder than any shout.

He set the phone down on the sofa with a sound like dropping a stone.

“Your old hag is going to tell me what to do in this house now,” he said quietly, but with such distinct bile that Yulia flinched. He stared at the wall in front of him as if addressing an invisible companion who would surely understand and back him up.

“She just asked, Igor,” Yulia tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. She put down the cloth and turned to him. “The door really does creak so badly it wakes you at night. I meant to ask you myself—I just forgot.”

 

“She just asked,” he mimicked, twisting his lips into an unpleasant smirk. “Of course. She’s got everything laid out here for her, like it’s a spa. She showed up, sprawled out, now she’s laying down the rules. Oil the door, then what? Turn the TV down when she deigns to rest? Tiptoe around?”

It was unfair and petty. Tatyana Yevgenyevna behaved quiet as a mouse. She left her room only to eat or go to the clinic. Most of the time she sat in there so as not to, God forbid, disturb “the young.” She was afraid of being a burden—you could feel it in every movement, every soft word.

“Please stop. She came for a week, for tests. It’s not forever,” Yulia came over to the sofa, still hoping to steer things back to peace. “She already feels bad that she’s in our way.”

“In our way?” He finally turned his head, and in his eyes she saw a cold, ingrained irritation. “It’s me she’s cramping! I can’t relax in my own home! I’m always having to think someone’s behind the wall listening, expecting something. Always that smell of medicine. Always that disapproving face. Nothing suits her.”

He stood up, walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into it aimlessly, and slammed the door shut.

“Exactly. A whole week of this show. And let that door keep creaking. Maybe then she’ll come out of her den less often.”

With that he grabbed his headphones from the shelf, deliberately put them on, and collapsed back onto the sofa, disappearing into his phone. It was worse than a fight. It was an ultimatum disguised as total indifference. Yulia was left standing in the middle of the kitchen, alone. From the hallway came the quiet, plaintive creak again—her mother was going to the bathroom. That sound grated on her worse than any insult.

Evening thickened into something like dense, inky jelly. Dinner passed in near silence, broken only by the delicate clink of forks on plates. Tatyana Yevgenyevna ate her portion of buckwheat and a chicken cutlet with guilty speed, thanked them, and almost ran back to her room. The piercing creak of the door sounded this time like the final chord of a funeral march. Yulia and Igor were left alone at the table. He finished his food, chewing with exaggerated appetite, ostentatiously showing that nothing bothered him. She simply picked at her cooling cutlet.

“Igor, we need to talk,” Yulia began, putting down her fork. Her voice was even, almost pleading. She decided on one last attempt to appeal to his reason.

“About what?” He didn’t look up. “I think I made everything perfectly clear this afternoon. My position hasn’t changed.”

“Your position?” She barely held back a bitter smile. “Your position is to torment an elderly person with silence and passive aggression—someone who came into a strange home out of necessity? That’s not a position, Igor. That’s pettiness.”

He dropped his fork onto the plate. The clatter was loud and ugly.

“Pettiness? Pettiness is dragging her here for a whole week and pretending nothing’s happening! She walks around with that face like we owe her for life. Always sighing, always dissatisfied. Today it’s the door; tomorrow she’ll decide I’m breathing too loudly. This will never end!”

“She hasn’t said a word to you! She’s afraid to step out of the room!”

“Exactly! She does everything silently! That’s worse! She looks at me like I’m a piece of trash getting in her darling’s way! That’s her signature move—I can smell it a mile off. Always suffering, always the victim so everyone around feels guilty. My mother’s the same. One for one. Always dissatisfied, always reproaching with just a look. And you know what, Yulia? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”

He didn’t finish. Yulia rose slowly from the table. Something in her face changed so sharply and completely that Igor instinctively fell silent mid-sentence. The warmth left her eyes, leaving two dark, unreadable wells. The calm she had so carefully maintained crumbled to dust, and in its place appeared something cold, sharp, and very dangerous.

“What did you say?” she asked, a whisper more frightening than any scream.

Not yet grasping the scale of the change, Igor smirked, though a clammy chill stirred deep inside. He decided he’d broken through her defenses and should strike while the iron was hot.

“Exactly what I said. You’re becoming her exact copy. The same constant dissatisfaction, disguised as—”

He didn’t finish again. She took one step, moved around the table, and stood right in front of him. Close enough that he could see a tiny scar on her eyebrow. Her face looked like a mask carved from pale marble.

“Go badmouth your mommy all you like, but if you say even one more word about my mother that I don’t like—you’re out of my apartment on the spot. I won’t stand on ceremony with you, darling.”

She leaned even closer, her eyes drilling into his.

“You live here. In MY apartment. You eat the food I cook. You sleep in the bed I bought. You enjoy my hospitality. Up till now I considered you my husband. Right now you’re just a lodger. A lodger who’s forgotten his place. So let me remind you. One more crooked word—one sidelong glance—toward my mother, and your things will be in the stairwell. Do you understand me?”

Igor stared at her, unable to utter a word. His brain refused to process it. The woman who five minutes ago had begged him for peace was gone. In her place stood a stranger—a merciless person who had just, with absolute calm, announced the terms of his continued existence. Instinctively he shrank back until his spine hit the wall. The power in this home had just changed. Finally and irrevocably.

Igor didn’t answer. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The words thrown in his face were not just a threat—they were a statement of fact, a cold, final sentence. All his swagger, all his feigned head-of-household pomp fell away like cheap gilding, leaving behind a bewildered, humiliated man. He looked at Yulia, and there was nothing in her eyes to latch onto: no anger, no hurt, not even hatred. Only emptiness. The efficient, icy emptiness of someone who has just erased you from her life and is now dealing with the technicalities of your continued presence. Slowly, like an old man, he edged away from her and sank back onto the chair he had just leapt from.

Without granting him another glance, Yulia turned away. She returned to the table, silently picked up his plate and hers, and carried them to the sink. Her movements were precise and economical, as if performing a long-learned task. She turned on the tap. Hot water hissed over the dirty dishes. She took a sponge, squeezed a drop of detergent onto it, and began to wash the plates in steady circles. The squeak of the sponge on ceramic, the rush of water—these ordinary household sounds became deafening in the new silence. They were a declaration. A declaration that the incident was over. The conversation was finished. Life—her life—would continue on her terms.

Igor sat motionless, staring at his wife’s back. He felt gutted. His entire sense of himself—as a man, as head of the family—had been crushed and ground into the kitchen linoleum. He had always thought of this apartment as his. Yes, it had come to Yulia from her grandmother, but he lived here, slept in this bed—he was her husband, after all. Turns out that was an illusion. He wasn’t a husband; he was a guest. A guest whose right to stay had just been called into question.
Family games

Yulia washed the dishes, set them neatly in the rack, and dried her hands. Then she walked past him without a glance and went into the bedroom. A couple of minutes later she came out with a blanket and a pillow and dropped them silently on the living-room sofa. It wasn’t done in malice or provocation. It was like tossing down a mat for a dog, assigning it a place for the night. Then she just as silently returned to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the apartment’s hush.

The night was long. Igor didn’t sleep. He lay on the sofa—which suddenly felt foreign and uncomfortable—and stared at the ceiling. Humiliation burned in him with a cold fire, refusing to let him drift off for even a second. He replayed her words, her look, her calm, cruel actions. The more he thought, the more a dark, impotent rage boiled inside him.

Morning brought no relief. It brought a new reality, woven of silence and demonstrative disregard. Yulia came out of the bedroom already dressed, ready to go. She went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took yogurt and cottage cheese from the fridge. She moved through her territory with confidence and ease. Igor got up from the sofa feeling rumpled and sore. He went to the kitchen too, hoping for a cup of coffee, some return to a semblance of normal.

Yulia poured boiling water into two cups. In one she put a chamomile tea bag; into the other she spooned sugar. Then she took both cups and, without a word, carried them into her mother’s room. The door closed behind her, this time without a creak—apparently she held it from inside so as not to disturb the apartment’s peace. Igor was left standing at the empty table. There was no coffee for him. He wasn’t part of this morning. He was furniture. A piece of the decor.
Kitchen supplies

Ten minutes later Yulia came out with her mother. Tatyana Yevgenyevna was pale and looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. She didn’t look toward Igor; her eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Mom, are you ready? We should be leaving for the clinic soon,” Yulia’s voice was even, drained of any color. She spoke to her mother as if Igor didn’t exist in the room.

 

They dressed in the hallway. Yulia helped her mother fasten her coat and straighten the scarf at her neck. That scene of quiet, tender care was another punch to Igor’s gut. It was a demonstration. This is whom she loves. This is who matters. And you are nothing. When the front door shut behind them, Igor was left alone in a deafeningly quiet apartment. He walked slowly into the kitchen and looked at the door to his mother-in-law’s room. The door where it had all begun. Something misshapen and vicious stirred in his soul, promising this was far from over.

They came back close to noon, tired and silent. Igor heard the key turn in the lock and tensed all over on the sofa. He had spent the entire day in that quiet apartment, which had turned into a torture chamber for him. Every piece of furniture seemed to mock him, to remind him of his degraded position. He hadn’t turned on the TV or listened to music. He simply sat there nursing his rage, stoking it to a white heat. He waited. He didn’t know for what exactly, but he felt an explosion was inevitable.

Yulia and Tatyana Yevgenyevna came in carrying with them the faint, sterile smell of the clinic. Yulia went straight to the kitchen to set down her bag, and her mother, slowly, with a certain elderly caution, took off her coat in the hallway. She saw Igor, and fear flashed across her face. She quickly looked away and tried to slip into her room.

“Mom, let’s have lunch—I’ll heat it up quickly,” Yulia called matter-of-factly from the kitchen. She still acted as if Igor didn’t exist.

Lunch, like the previous night’s dinner, passed in oppressive silence. Yulia set bowls of soup on the table. For herself, for her mother. And, after a second’s hesitation, for Igor. It wasn’t a gesture of reconciliation. It was mechanical, as if she were feeding a cat. Igor ate without a word, feeling the food stick in his throat. He watched his mother-in-law. She ate with her head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and that submissive, beaten posture infuriated him even more.

When the soup was finished, Tatyana Yevgenyevna got up and went to the kettle. She brewed tea in her cup and then, mustering her courage, took another cup, dropped a sachet of some herbs into it, and poured in boiling water. She came to the table and, her hand trembling with nerves, set the cup in front of Igor.

“This… this is for the nerves, Igor. A calming blend,” she whispered, not daring to raise her eyes. “Drink some—you must be having a hard time…”

That was the last straw. Her pity. Her attempt at care, which he took as the height of hypocrisy and mockery. A sick, feeble old woman was pitying him. Teaching him how to live. Igor slowly raised his head. His face twisted into an ugly, spiteful grin.

“Hard? It’s hard for me?” he said quietly, but with such icy hatred that Tatyana Yevgenyevna recoiled. “Yes, it’s hard for me. It’s hard to breathe the same air as you, you old hag. You came here to die, didn’t you? Came for tests to find out how much longer you’ve got to foul this sky and poison other people’s lives?”

Yulia froze with a plate in her hands. But she stayed silent. She let him finish.

“A calming blend?” He pushed the cup away in disgust. “You’d better brew it for yourself. A double dose. To be sure. So you won’t creak your bones anymore and won’t ask me to oil your hinges. You think you’re a guest here? You’re not a guest. You’re mold. A burden. That your darling daughter dragged into MY house so I’d have to bow and scrape to you!”

He stood, looming over the table, and addressed the petrified, terrified woman directly.

“You were nothing your whole life, and you’ll die a nobody. A pitiful, sick old woman who’s nothing but trouble to everyone. And the sooner that happens, the better for everybody. Especially for your daughter, who has to drag you around hospitals instead of living a normal life.”

He was done. Dead silence fell in the kitchen. He was breathing hard, expecting screams, tears, a scene. But none of that came. Yulia slowly set the plate on the table. Her face was perfectly calm, unreadable. She looked at him the way one looks at an insect just before crushing it. Then she stood up without a word, walked past him into the hallway. Igor, grinning in triumph, waited for the next act.

She didn’t go to the bedroom. She went to the front door, turned the key, and flung it wide. Then she came back to the kitchen doorway and looked at Igor.

“Out,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but left no room for argument.

Igor was taken aback.

“What?”

“I said out. Right now. In what you’re wearing.”

His face went slack. He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t a bluff.

“Are you… are you serious? You’re throwing me out?”

“I warned you,” she answered in that same even tone. “One more word about my mother, and you’d be out. You said your word. Now it’s your move. The door is open.”

She stood and waited. Without moving. Her calm was more frightening than any fury. Igor looked around the kitchen—his plate, his mother-in-law frozen in shock, Yulia standing in the doorway like a guard. He saw nothing in her eyes. No chance, no regret, no possibility of setting anything right. Only emptiness. He understood he had lost. Completely. Slowly, as if in a dream, he stood up, walked around the table, and headed for the door. He passed her, feeling her cold, watchful gaze on him. He stepped over the threshold.
Kitchen supplies

“I’ll be back, and you’ll both regret this!”

Without another word, Yulia closed the door behind him. One lock clicked. Then a second. She turned and looked at her mother, who sat with her face in her hands. Then she immediately took out her phone and called a locksmith to change both front-door locks first thing in the morning. The apartment fell silent. But it was a different kind of silence now. The silence of scorched earth.

A sharp smell of burning burst into sleep without warning — like a night thief who doesn’t knock but breaks in with force. Grigory suddenly sat up in bed, his heart pounding wildly as if trying to break free. The night outside was unnaturally bright — an anxious, flickering glow illuminated the room, casting long shadows on the walls.

He ran to the window and froze. It was burning. Not just burning — flames were devouring, greedy and vicious, everything he had ever built. The barn, his old tools, dreams, memories — all were now in the embrace of fire.

His heart skipped a beat, then pounded somewhere in his throat. He understood immediately — it was no accident. It was arson. And that thought struck harder than the fire itself. The first reaction was animalistic: lie back down, close your eyes, and let everything burn to ashes. It’s the end anyway.

But at that moment, a prolonged, terrified bellow of cows reached him. His animals, those who fed him and gave him strength to carry on, were locked inside. Despair turned into rage. Grigory dashed out of the house, grabbing an axe on the way, and ran toward the barn. The wooden door was already smoldering, blowing hot breath on his face.

A few swings — and the bolt gave way. The gates swung open, releasing a frightened herd. The cows, mooing and pushing each other, dashed to the far corner of the pen, fleeing the hellish flames.

When they were safe, Grigory’s strength left him. He collapsed right onto the cold, damp ground and watched as the fire consumed ten years of his life. Ten years of work, pain, hopes. He had come here alone, without money, with only faith in himself. He worked to exhaustion, sweating blood and tears. But the last few years had felt like a curse — droughts, cattle illnesses, conflicts with the village.

And now — the final chord. Arson.

While Grigory sat, lost in bitter thoughts, through the smoke and fire he noticed movement. Two figures, like shadows, worked with astonishing coordination. A woman and a teenager. They carried water, threw sand, beat the flames with old blankets. As if they knew what they were doing.

Grigory watched for a while, stunned, then stirred and rushed to help them. Silently, desperately, together they fought the fire until the last tongue of flame was defeated. All three collapsed to the ground, exhausted, burned, but alive.

“Thank you,” Grigory rasped, catching his breath.

“You’re welcome,” said the woman. “My name is Anna. And this is my son, Dmitry.”

They sat by the charred remains of the barn as dawn painted the sky in gentle, almost mocking hues.

“Do you… have any work?” Anna asked suddenly.

Grigory laughed bitterly.

“Work? Now there’s enough work here for years. But I have nothing to pay with. I was going to leave. Sell everything. Go away.”

He stood, walked around the yard, thoughtful. A wild idea flickered in his mind — born from fatigue, despair, and some strange hope.

“You know what… Stay. Look after the farm for a couple of weeks. The cows, whatever survived. And I’ll go to the city. Try to sell it all. Chances are slim, but I need to leave. At least for a while.”

Anna looked up at him with fear, surprise, and timid hope in her eyes.

“We… we ran away,” she admitted quietly. “From my husband. He beat us. We have nothing. No money, no documents.”

Dmitry, who had been silent until then, ground out through his teeth:

“She’s telling the truth.”

Something inside Grigory stirred. He saw in them his own reflection — people whom life had thrown face down in the dirt but who still tried to rise.

“Alright,” he waved his hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

He quickly showed them where things were, how to handle the equipment, where the feed was kept. Just before leaving, already sitting in the car, he rolled down the window:

“Just be careful with the locals. The people here are rotten. It’s them. Definitely them. They break this, then that. And now they set the fire.”

And he left, leaving behind smoking ruins and two strangers whom he had entrusted with the remnants of his life.

As soon as the car disappeared around the corner, Anna and Dmitry exchanged glances. There was no fear or confusion in their eyes — only determination. This was their chance. The only one.

They set to work immediately. First, they calmed and watered the cows, then milked them, strained the milk. Then they cleared debris, tidied up the surviving part of the yard. They worked without breaks, without complaints — with the fierce energy of those who know: if they fail, there is nowhere left to fall.

Several days passed. The farm was transforming before their eyes. The yard became tidy, the tools neat, and the cows, getting proper care, gave more and more milk. From the old refrigerator, which used to be more a symbol than an appliance, jars of sour cream, cottage cheese, and homemade cheese heads now protruded.

One day, while cleaning the house, Anna came across a folder with Grigory’s documents. Among the bills and receipts were veterinary certificates for the products.

The idea came suddenly. She took an old notebook and began calling local cafes and shops, offering natural dairy products. Most refused, but once she got lucky.

“Hello, is this the ‘Cozy’ family cafe chain?” she asked on the phone.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

After a short conversation, the cafe owner, Elizaveta Petrovna, agreed to come. The next day, a luxury car stopped at the gate. An elegant middle-aged woman inspected the yard skeptically, but after the first spoonful of cheese, her face spread into an enthusiastic smile.

“Dear child, this is a miracle! Real taste! I’ll take everything! And will order regularly!”

So they got their first client. And the first step to a new life.

Meanwhile, Dmitry befriended a local girl named Olga. Once, walking by the river, he complained to her about the villagers.

“So you don’t know?” Olga was surprised. “Uncle Grisha is a recluse, sure, but no one wished him harm. Three years ago, when his cows were poisoned, half the village had the same problem. The men even wanted to help, give advice, but he met them with a gun. Since then, no one approaches him.”

These words stuck in Anna’s mind. She went to the village shop and overheard confirmation from the saleswoman:

“Yes, dear, the conflict is old. After a greedy farmer opened a farm in the neighboring village, it began. Uncle Grisha decided it was us causing trouble. He shut himself off, became bitter…”

One evening, as twilight deepened over the farm, Anna and Dmitry saw a group approaching the gate. About ten men and women, slow but confident. Anna’s heart tightened. “Not another arson?” she thought.

“Mitya, quick! Bring the rifle from the house!” Anna whispered to her son, stepping into the yard herself.

Her heart beat fast and anxiously. She stood at the gate, ready to defend what was now theirs — their home, their chance to start over.

The shadows approached. People. About ten men and women. At the front was an old man in a worn cap. Coming closer, he stopped and… took off his hat. Holding it awkwardly in his hands, he said:

“Good evening, ma’am. We come in peace. To talk.”

Anna looked into their faces: tired, serious, but not angry. Slowly, cautiously, she opened the gate:

“Come in.”

An old table was brought out onto the grass, benches arranged. The conversation began. It was long. Difficult. Honest.

The villagers confessed: they were shocked by the fire. Grigory had become a legend for them — a man who wouldn’t accept help, didn’t listen to advice, didn’t forgive even small things. But now they realized: someone else was behind it all. Someone who wanted to divide them.

“We suffered too,” said the elder. “The well water spoiled, the cattle got sick. We guessed simply — but now it’s clear: someone was setting us against each other. Someone who benefits.”

And then it dawned on them. All of them.

Behind it all was a competitor from the neighboring village — a farmer from Alekseyevsky. Cold, greedy, soulless. His goal was simple: to drown Grigory in loneliness so he would give up, go bankrupt, disappear. And to turn the village into a field of internal war — a convenient ground for his manipulations.

“We must file a complaint,” said the elder. “A collective one. Against him. Against the arson. Against everything. Give this to Grigory when he returns. Tell him — the village is with him. We won’t be puppets anymore.”

Grigory drove home in depressed silence. The city gave him nothing — no one wanted to buy the charred farm, especially with the reputation of a “cursed farm.” He was ready for the house to be empty. For Anna and Dmitry to have left, like all the others.

Approaching his land, he no longer hoped for anything.

And suddenly — a stop. The car stopped by itself.

Before him was not a half-ruined yard, but a real, blossoming corner of life. The fence he had promised to fix for years was restored. The grass neatly mowed. The cows — well-fed and content — grazed by the pen. Even the air seemed different — alive, full of meaning.

He got out of the car on tiptoe and crept toward the house. From the yard came Anna’s voice — confident, calm. She was talking to people. Not just talking — dealing with business. About police reports. About plans to develop the farm. About how Elizaveta Petrovna would help with a lawyer.

Grigory froze. It was impossible. He looked at this woman whom he had taken in as a stray and saw before him — a mistress. Strong. Confident. A woman who had saved not only his farm but also himself.

He gathered his strength and stepped into the light.

“Hello,” he croaked. “May I… have some tea?”

In the evenings, Anna liked to show Grigory the records. Calculations, charts, incomes. In two weeks, they had earned more than he had in the last six months.

“This is just the beginning,” she said businesslike. “Elizaveta Petrovna is ready to increase the volume. We need to think about expanding. Maybe buy a couple more cows?”

Grigory sat with his mouth open. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Couldn’t believe that this woman — his guest, his assistant, his salvation.

He looked at her, and a feeling grew in his chest that he had long forgotten. Warm. Grateful. Loving.

But peace was short-lived.

Morning was broken by a harsh clang of the gate. A tall man stumbled into the yard, smelling of vodka and hatred in his eyes.

“Ah, there you are, bitch!” he growled, heading toward Anna. “Thought you ran away? I’ll drag you out of the ground!”

It was Viktor. Her ex-husband. Her nightmare.

He swung his arm.

And then Grigory stood between them. Like a wall. Like a mountain. Without a word, he struck — one, precise, crushing blow. Viktor fell to the ground.

“If you touch her again or even come near this house,” Grigory hissed so quietly that even Anna flinched, “I’ll bury you right here. Got it?”

Dmitry rushed out of the house and stood next to him — shoulder to shoulder. The boy’s eyes burned with determination.

“Go away, father,” he said firmly. “Go and never come back. We are not afraid of you anymore.”

Viktor, muttering curses, got up and disappeared down the road.

When it was all over, a strange silence hung in the yard. Only the cows mooed, as if they too condemned the intrusion of the past.

Grigory turned to Anna. His face was embarrassed, but his eyes full of determination.

“Anya,” he began, his voice trembling, “let’s go to the city. We’ll restore your documents. You’ll file for divorce. And then… then marry me.”

Anna looked at this big, strong, but now so shy man. The shock hadn’t worn off yet, but it was replaced by a warm, new feeling. She smiled.

“Can I think about it?” she asked playfully. “Or does the answer have to be right away?”

Grigory was completely embarrassed. He blushed. And for the first time in many years — he laughed.

They wanted to get married quietly. Without witnesses. Without noise. But in the village, secrets don’t last. In two days, the whole district knew: there would be a wedding at the farm.

And people came. From all over the village. Some with bread, some with jam, some with a barrel of kvass. The elder brought a guitar. Elizaveta Petrovna — gifts from the city. Children ran like whirlwinds, laughing and playing.

The tables were longer than the road to the river. Songs flowed like wine. And in the center of it all — the newlyweds. Hand in hand. Heart to heart.

Grigory sat holding Anna’s hand, looking at Dmitry, who was laughing freely for the first time in many years. At friends. At the sky. At the home where it was now warm.

He knew one thing for sure:

They hadn’t just found each other.

They had saved each other.

And now — together — they would build a future.

A big. Bright. Shared one.

“Mishenka, son, pass me that shrimp salad,” Svetlana Borisovna sang out to her son with the kind of tone as if he had just returned from a battlefield, victorious over an entire army. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, but behind it hid not just a request — it was a command no one dared to refuse.

Misha, my husband, immediately jumped up from the table, sharply sliding his chair back so its legs scraped unpleasantly against the floor. He hurried around the table, blocking me from the other guests as if I might interfere with his role as the devoted son. I shifted a little in my seat, pretending to be engrossed in my cup of fruit juice, though in reality, I was watching the scene with cold irony that I had long learned to keep inside.

This scene repeated itself again and again at every family gathering for about a year. The same ritual each time: Misha — hero, savior, pillar of the family. And me — just a woman standing slightly aside, a convenient accessory whose duty was to pour drinks, smile at jokes that were not funny, and keep silent when needed.

Svetlana Borisovna took the salad bowl from her son’s hands with such dignity as if she were receiving a trophy after long months of difficult negotiations or harsh trials. She placed the dish in the center of the table like a queen who had just crowned herself.

“A real man, the pillar of the family!” she loudly proclaimed, looking around at all the gathered relatives. “Not like some who only know how to flirt. Everything’s on his shoulders, he carries it all.”

 

I pretended to adjust the napkin on my lap to hide my facial expression. “His shoulders” meant my money — the very money I secretly used to plug the hole in her failing business. Three million rubles — an amount that still made Misha’s hands tremble when we transferred the last installment.

“Let them think it’s me,” he said then. “It’ll be easier for Mom to accept. You know her views about a woman breadwinner.”

Yes, I knew. And I agreed. What difference did it make who got the medals if the family was saved from shame and debt collectors? Back then, I thought it didn’t matter.

“Alina, why are you frozen?” my mother-in-law’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Uncle Vitya’s plate is empty. Put some meat for him.”

I silently took his plate. Uncle Vitya smiled sheepishly, but no one ever dared argue with Svetlana Borisovna.

While I served the hot dish, she continued her monologue, seemingly addressed to everyone but aimed at me.

“I look at you young people and marvel. My Misha works tirelessly, spinning like a squirrel in a wheel. And all for what? So there’s prosperity in the house. So the wife lacks nothing.”

She paused, letting the words sink into the guests’ minds.

“And what’s the return? Where’s the support? When I was his age, I worked, ran the house, and already had children. And now? They sit on men’s necks and give nothing in return.”

I put the plate in front of Uncle Vitya. My hands trembled slightly, but I forced myself to smile. Misha caught my gaze, and something like an apology flickered in his eyes. But he stayed silent. As always.

The evening rolled along the well-worn path. Praises for Misha alternated with veiled reproaches towards me disguised as “life wisdom.” I felt like an exhibit under glass that everyone was scrutinizing and judging.

When it came to dessert, I went to the kitchen to get the cake. Misha followed me.

“Lin, don’t be upset,” he whispered, closing the door. “Mom is just… well, she’s so happy for me. That I saved her.”

“I’m not upset, Mish. I understand everything.”

But I didn’t understand anymore. This game of the modest wife beside the “hero husband” was starting to suffocate me.

My app development startup, which everyone considered a “cute hobby,” earned three times more than his department head salary. I insisted we hide my income. To avoid making anyone jealous, to not provoke envy. So Misha would feel comfortable.

He felt comfortable. But I didn’t anymore.

I returned to the living room with the cake. Svetlana Borisovna was just complaining to a cousin about prices.

“…and tell me, how is a young family supposed to save for all this? No way! Unless the husband has a brain on his shoulders. And if beside him there’s not a helper but a budget hole, then that’s it, all’s lost.”
Family games

I began slicing the cake.

Then someone from distant relatives asked:

“Svet, why aren’t your people going to the sea this year? Misha worked so hard.”

Svetlana Borisovna pursed her lips and shot me a scorching glance, as if I had canceled the trip.

And then she said slowly and venomously, so everyone could hear:

“What sea? He needs to rest from the eternal burden. You’re a burden, not a wife,” she threw at me across the table. “You only know how to sit on someone else’s dime.”

The knife in my hand froze. An awkward pause settled, broken only by Uncle Vitya coughing into his fist. All eyes turned to me. Waiting for a reaction. An outburst, tears, a rude comeback.

I slowly lowered the knife onto the plate. Looked up at my mother-in-law and smiled. Not faltering, not showing a trace of humiliation. Just an empty, cold smile.

“What piece for you, Svetlana Borisovna? With nuts or without?”

She clearly didn’t expect that. She was flustered, blinked.

And without waiting for an answer, I cut her the biggest and most beautiful piece and placed the plate before her. Then calmly continued serving the cake to the others as if nothing had happened.

The evening ended quickly. The guests, sensing the tension, retreated one by one. In the car, Misha turned on a familiar song.

“Lin, Mom went too far, it happens to everyone. You know her temper…”

“I know,” I answered flatly, looking out the window at the passing city lights. My voice sounded foreign and lifeless.

“She doesn’t mean it. She just worries about me. That I get so tired.”

“Yes, sure,” I nodded. “Worries.”

There was no anger or remorse in his voice. Only tired irritation that he had to be a buffer between two women again.

And not a gram of understanding of what really happened. He didn’t see the insult. He only saw Mom’s “character trait.”

The next few days passed in oppressive silence. We barely spoke.

I immersed myself in work, signing a new contract with foreign investors. Misha wandered the house like a shadow, offended by my silence.

Then the phone rang. Of course, it was Svetlana Borisovna. Misha spoke with her on the kitchen for a long time, then came into the room where I was working on my laptop.

“Lin, here’s the thing…” he began uncertainly.

I took off my glasses and looked at him.

“Mom’s car is completely falling apart. Can you imagine, she almost got into an accident today. She says the brakes failed.”

I stayed silent, waiting for more. It didn’t take long.

“So, I thought… We can help her. Buy a new one. Not the most expensive, of course, but reliable. So we don’t have to worry.”

He looked at me hopefully. With the same hope he had when he asked for help paying off her debts. Confident I would understand and agree again.

“We?” I clarified, slowly closing the laptop.

“Yes, we. I can’t manage alone, you know. But together…”

“No, Misha,” I said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear every word. “We can’t.”

He froze.

“What do you mean? Alina, that’s my mom!”

“She’s your mom. Exactly. So you’ll buy her the car. With your salary.”

Misha looked at me as if I spoke an unknown language. Confusion mixed with anger in his eyes.

“Are you kidding? Because of what she said to you? Kindergarten, Lin! I thought you were above that!”

“I am above that, Misha. So much above that I won’t let anyone wipe their feet on me anymore. Neither her, nor you. The bank is closed. The ‘Save the Family’ project funding is terminated.”
Family games

He grabbed his phone and rushed to the balcony, gesturing furiously. I heard fragments of phrases: “…completely lost it!”, “…over some nonsense!”, “…yes, come, of course!”. I didn’t move. I waited.

Svetlana Borisovna stormed in forty minutes later. She burst into the apartment without knocking, ready for battle. Misha followed her like a squire.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded at the doorway. “Alina, why are you pushing my son? He’s sick because of you!”

I slowly turned to her.

“Hello, Svetlana Borisovna. I’m not pushing anyone. I just refused to buy you a new car.”

“What?!” She looked at Misha, then back at me. “You refused to help the family? After all my son does for you?”

That was the moment. The stage was set, the main actors assembled.

“And what exactly does your son do for me?” I asked calmly, looking her straight in the eyes. “He didn’t even cover your business debts for three million rubles last year.”

Mother-in-law froze with her mouth open. Misha turned pale as a sheet.

 

“What are you talking about? What debts? Misha paid everything! He told me himself! He saved me!”

“Misha?” I shifted my gaze to my husband, who was pressed against the wall. “Misha, tell Mom where you, a department head with a salary of a hundred thousand, suddenly got three million from? Did you rob a bank? Or find a treasure?”

He remained silent, unable to raise his eyes.

“I’ll tell you where,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “That money is mine. Every penny.”

Earned by my “cute hobby,” as you like to say. My IT company, which you consider a trifle.

I paid for your mistakes to save your family from disgrace. And in return, I got the label of ‘burden.’

Svetlana Borisovna slowly sank onto the ottoman in the hallway. The mask of the heroic mother slid off her face, revealing confusion and humiliation.

She looked from me to her son-hero, who turned out to be a liar.

“I agreed to this lie for Misha’s sake. To not hurt his pride. So he would remain a hero to you. I thought it was right. But I was wrong.”

I grabbed my laptop bag from the chair.

“So, Svetlana Borisovna. Your son will buy you a car. If he can. Or you will. Learn to solve your problems without my wallet.”

I headed to the door, Misha stepped toward me.

“Lin… wait…”

“No,” I stopped at the threshold. “I’ve had enough. I was convenient to you for too long. It’s time to be happy for myself.”

And I left, closing the door behind me. I didn’t know where I was going. But for the first time in a long time, I felt I was going in the right direction.

Six months passed.

I stood in the middle of my new apartment — bright, spacious, with huge windows overlooking the city’s business center.

Sunlight danced on the parquet floor, the air smelled of fresh paint and coffee. Every detail in this space was mine: from the minimalist sofa to the abstract painting I bought at my first auction ever.

After that last scene, I rented a hotel room, and a week later, leased this apartment. The divorce went surprisingly smoothly.

Misha didn’t argue. It was as if they had taken the spine out of him.

He was broken, but not by my leaving, rather by the exposure. His carefully built hero image crumbled to dust.

The phone on the kitchen island buzzed. A message from Misha. They came once a week, like clockwork. At first angry tirades, then pitiful pleas, now something in between.

“Lin, I understand everything. I was wrong. But maybe we can at least talk? Mom is very sick, she cries constantly. Her blood pressure is high. She blames herself. And me. We both feel terrible without you.”

I set the phone aside without replying. I knew Svetlana Borisovna was not sick. Uncle Vitya, the only relative who called me after that evening just to ask how I was, occasionally reported the situation.

Mother-in-law did not cry — she was angry. Angry at her son who failed her hopes, at me who dared to air the family’s dirty laundry, at the whole world that was unfair to her.
Family games

They never bought her a car. Now they lived together in her apartment, and according to Uncle Vitya, the atmosphere there was gloomy.

Constant reproaches, money fights, mutual accusations. The hero and his saved mother turned out to be just two miserable people unable to care for themselves, let alone each other.

 

He never understood the main thing. He wrote that they felt “bad without me,” but not because they missed me as a person.

They felt bad without my money, without my support, without that invisible force that kept their world afloat while they sang praises to themselves.

Meanwhile, my business took off. The contract with the foreigners brought not only money but also recognition in narrow circles.

I hired five more developers, we rented a fancy loft for the office. I worked a lot, but this work brought me joy, not dull irritation.

I no longer hid my successes, no longer pretended it was a “cute hobby.” I was the owner of a thriving company, and that was my greatest achievement.

Another call came. This time — from my deputy.

“Alina Igorevna, the investors confirmed a meeting in China. In two weeks. They want to celebrate the launch in person. Should I book the tickets?”

I looked out the window. At the city lying at my feet. At the sky, clear and boundless.

“Yes, Kirill,” I replied, smiling. “Book them. And reserve me a hotel with a sea view. It’s time to finally rest.”