All Amazing Babies

— And what, now I’m supposed to walk around hungry?” Leo exclaimed in indignation, feeling his anger boiling inside him.

“— Of course not,” Anna replied calmly. “You can go to the store, buy some groceries, and make yourself a dinner. Or order delivery. You do have money.”

 

“— Is this some kind of strike?” he finally asked. “Are you refusing to perform your ‘feminine duties’?”

“I’m tired of being the milking cow in this family! Why should I be the only one carrying all the load?” Leo banged his briefcase onto the table and pointed at the new food processor. “Did you buy something again?”

Anna stared at her husband in surprise. It had been so unexpected that she couldn’t immediately find an answer. Dinner was almost ready, the apartment was clean, and the laundry was done—everything was, as always, in order after a full day of work.

“Leo, I have dreamed of that for a long time. It was on discount, and I paid for it with my salary…”

“With your salary!” he interrupted, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. “And what’s left of it? Pennies! Who pays for our apartment? I do! Who pays for the car? I do! Who covers all the basic expenses? Again, it’s me!”

Anna turned off the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. Steam from the pot rose to the ceiling, filling the kitchen with delightful aromas, but her appetite for dinner had vanished.

“But I work too,” she said quietly. “A full day, by the way. And with my salary, we buy the groceries. And I also cook, clean, and do the laundry…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re just saintly,” Leo said, slamming the cabinet door as he pulled a mug out to pour himself some water. “You know what? I’m fed up. From now on, everything is going to be fair. We’ll split the expenses fifty-fifty, because you’re hanging on to me too nicely.”

“What do you mean?” Anna crossed her arms.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Since we’re so modern and equal, we’ll pay equally. We’ll chip in equally for the bills, phone, and other shared expenses. That’s fair, instead of dumping everything on me alone!”

Part of her wanted to protest that his proposal wasn’t about fairness at all—it was nothing but a kind of servitude: she would have to give nearly her entire salary to the family budget, while everyday tasks wouldn’t magically disappear. She had something to say, but why speak up when things could be done exactly as he wished?

“Fine, Leo. You want it to be fair—fifty-fifty. Then that’s how it will be.”

Anna had woken up before the alarm. Leo was still asleep, turned away toward the wall. Yesterday’s conversation swirled in her head, relentless and disturbing. Quietly rising from the bed, she went to the kitchen.

After four marriages, they had gradually come to divide responsibilities in a way that now seemed blatantly unfair to her. Yes, Leo earned more. Yes, in their first year together—when she was a senior student—it made sense: he provided materially while she managed the household. But later, Anna started working too! First part-time, then full-time. And the housework? It still fell squarely on her shoulders.

She opened her laptop and began reviewing her card statements. Her salary, utility bills, groceries, daily expenses… Almost everything she earned went toward the family. And what about her contribution—cooked lunches and dinners, washed laundry, cleaned the apartment—was it worth nothing?

The memory of her first meeting with Leo—back when he was just Leo—brought a sad smile. How wonderfully he had courted her! How he had said she was his queen and that he would do anything for her. And now? “Milking cow,” huh… How quickly for some men romance turns into accounting.

Anna took a sip of her tea and thought deeply. If he wanted to split everything evenly, then so be it. But truly, fifty-fifty.

“And you know, Igor, I told her that yesterday—enough is enough. Let’s live like all modern families—fifty-fifty,” Leo said as he leaned back in his office chair, addressing a colleague.

 

Igor looked up from his monitor and stared at him attentively.

“And how did she react?”

“You wouldn’t believe it—she agreed!” Leo grinned triumphantly. “Immediately, almost without any argument.”

“Seriously?” Igor raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“I’m telling you—she agreed right away. She must have realized that I was right,” Leo clicked his mouse, opening a new file. “What’s the big deal? Fairness is fairness.”

“Everyone has their own idea of fairness,” Igor remarked philosophically as he returned to work. “My aunt always says, ‘Be careful what you wish for—they have a way of coming true.’”

“What does that even mean?” Leo frowned.

“Not a clue,” Igor smiled. “But it sounds smart, don’t you think?”

Leo laughed and turned back to his computer. A strange premonition briefly pierced the depths of his mind, but he brushed it aside. Everything would be fine. Anna was a reasonable woman.

At that very moment, Anna was standing in the store in front of the shelves, thoughtfully examining the price tags. In the past, she would have filled a whole cart—for a week, for the whole family. Today, in her small basket lay only some yogurt, a package of cheese, bread, and one chicken breast. She didn’t even glance at the fish fillet that Leo loved so much.

The evening fell unusually calm. At home, Anna quickly prepared baked chicken breast with vegetables, had her dinner, cleaned up, started a load of laundry, and settled comfortably on the couch with her tablet—she had three series queued up that she was eager to watch, but never seemed to have the time. Her phone rang with a message from Leo: “I’ll be there in half an hour. What’s for dinner?”

Anna smiled and put the phone aside without replying.

The key turned in the lock, and Leo walked into the apartment. His day had been exhausting, and he couldn’t wait to sit down for dinner. Usually, at this hour, delicious smells already wafted from the kitchen…

“Hey, Anyut, I’m home!” Leo shouted as he removed his coat.

There was no reply. Leo went into the kitchen and found it empty and clean, with no signs of cooking. Opening the refrigerator, he saw its half-empty shelves—yogurt, cheese, and a few vegetables.

“Anna!” he called out again as he headed into the living room.

His wife was sitting on the couch, absorbed in something on her tablet, wearing headphones. Upon noticing her husband, she pulled out one of the earbuds.

“Oh, hi. You’re home already?”

“Yes, I’m home. And where’s dinner?” Leo looked around as if expecting the food to be hiding in a corner of the living room.

Anna looked at him with mild astonishment.

“What dinner?” she asked. “Did you give me money for dinner? No! So what am I supposed to do?”

Leo froze, not believing his ears.

“Are you serious?” his voice nearly rose to a shout. “I come home after a hard day at work, and you didn’t even prepare dinner?”

“You didn’t give me money for your half of dinner,” Anna calmly removed the second earbud. “You said yesterday—fifty-fifty. I bought food for myself with my own money. I prepared my own dinner. Just as agreed.”

“But…,” Leo stuttered, looking at his wife in confusion. “I didn’t mean it like that! I meant the common expenses…”

“Exactly. The common expenses—split in half. Dinner is not just for me but for you too. These are shared expenses, so I bought groceries only for myself,” she shrugged. “And I prepared dinner only for myself.”

“And now what am I supposed to do, go hungry?” Leo fumed, feeling his inner anger boil over.

“Of course not,” Anna replied calmly. “You can go to the store, buy yourself some groceries, and prepare dinner. Or order delivery. You do have money.”

Leo stared at her, not understanding where his always caring, patient wife had gone. Who was this woman with the cold, calm gaze?

“Is this some kind of strike?” he finally asked. “Are you refusing to fulfill your feminine duties?”

Anna slowly set aside her tablet and turned to her husband, her whole body facing him.

“Feminine duties?” she repeated, her voice hardening. “I used to perform them dutifully until yesterday. But yesterday you proposed that we split the money fifty-fifty, and it made me wonder: why are you treating me so unfairly?”

 

“Me?!” Leo sputtered in indignation. “I—I…”

“Yes, you,” Anna interrupted. “Before, we used to pay the big bills with your money, and with mine, we bought groceries and a few things. And on top of that, I cooked, cleaned, and did the laundry. Every evening, after work. And on weekends—I did full cleaning, cooked meals for several days so that we could at least free up some time after work. Do you remember last Sunday when I spent three hours in the kitchen preparing food? And then three hours cleaning the apartment. That’s six hours of work, almost a full workday. On my day off.”

Leo was silent, trying to process her words.

“And now you say—fifty-fifty,” Anna continued. “Fine, fair enough. But let’s really do it fifty-fifty. Not only with money, but with the household duties. Cooking should be done alternately or each for oneself. Cleaning—let’s divide who does what. Laundry—everyone handles their own. What do you say?”

Leo shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Listen, this is… I don’t even know how to operate the washing machine…”

“I’ll show you,” Anna smiled. “It’s nothing complicated.”

“And besides, if you’re not going to cook or clean, then why do I even need you?” Leo blurted out, immediately regretting his words.

Anna looked at him intently for a long moment, then slowly got up from the couch.

“Providing for the family is the man’s duty,” she said quietly. “But for some reason I never ask why I need you, even though you’ve always done a rather half-hearted job, since I had to work. And now you’re completely refusing your masculine duty.” She tilted her head. “But see, I don’t ask that question. Because we’re a family. At least, that’s what I always believed.”

A heavy silence ensued. Leo stared at the floor, feeling his righteous anger slowly turning into shame. Anna stood tall, shoulders back, waiting for his response.

“Sorry,” he finally said. “I got carried away. Let’s go back to how things were, okay?”

He expected Anna to be overjoyed, to rush into his arms, to immediately start cooking dinner… But she only shook her head.

“Why do I need that?” she asked with genuine curiosity. “I used to cook you dinner, iron your shirts, wash the dishes. But now I’ve already eaten, done everything, and was just about to watch a new episode. It’s even more convenient for me this way, you know.”

With those words, she returned to the couch, put her headphones back in, and switched on her tablet, leaving Leo standing in the middle of the room with his mouth agape.

“Mom, you wouldn’t believe what she pulled off,” Leo said into the phone, holding it close to his ear, repeatedly checking the nearly empty refrigerator as if hoping food would magically appear there. “I believe it, I believe it,” his mother’s voice chuckled. “And she did the right thing. You’ve really grown cheeky, son.” “What?!?” Leo nearly dropped the phone. “Whose side are you even on?” “On the side of fairness, Leo. Do you think your father used to just bring money home? He cooked, too, when I was working, and spent time with you. And now he practically does everything himself ever since I got sick. That’s what a real man is.” Leo fell silent. He had never noticed this side of his parental relationships.

“But that’s not how we’ve always done it,” he muttered. “I always provided for the family, and Anna took care of the house.” “But now she works and runs the household too,” his mother remarked gently. “And what’s fair about that?” Leo found no rebuttal. After speaking with his mother, he ordered food delivery, dined alone in the kitchen, and for the first time seriously considered how much Anna did every day.

The first few days without dinner, clean shirts, and a cozy home felt like a cold shower to Leo. By the end of the week, he was cursing that ridiculous idea of “fifty-fifty.” Who would have thought that keeping up with the household could be so troublesome? The whole fridge was filled with semi-prepared foods, on the stove there was burnt scrambled eggs (his third attempt!), and the delivery prices made his eyes bulge.

He tried to roast meat three times the way Anna used to do it. And all three times he failed spectacularly. The first time, he hadn’t thawed it properly; the second time, he over-salted it so much that it was inedible; and the third time, he somehow managed to forget it in the oven. Fortunately, there was no fire alarm, but he had to air out the kitchen for two hours.

Meanwhile, Anna felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. No more rushing from work to the store, no more “what’s for dinner?” and “where are the clean socks?” A simple dinner for herself, a peaceful evening with a book, and her favorite series. On Wednesday, instead of doing her regular laundry, she even allowed herself to meet Mashka at a cafe after work—imagine that! On the weekends, while Leo was struggling with the vacuum, she just lounged on the couch with a book. Bliss…

Leo watched all of this with gritted teeth, but he had to admit that his wife was right. On Friday, he couldn’t take it any longer. He left work early, dashed to the supermarket, bought a bunch of “a thousand little things,” and rushed home determined to fix everything. He went all out like in the early days of their courtship: candles, a bottle of that same semi-sweet red wine that Anna secretly adored (even though she always claimed to prefer dry wine), and most importantly—a chicken roasted in the oven. It wasn’t a culinary masterpiece, of course, but it was made with all his heart.

When the key turned in the lock, Leo nearly jumped with excitement. Anna stood at the doorway, inhaling the homey scents that she had long since forgotten.

“What’s this?” she asked suspiciously, nodding toward the set table and the flickering candles. “Dinner,” Leo replied simply. “For both of us. I made it.” They sat down at the table, and Leo poured wine into their glasses.

“I’ve thought a lot over these past few days,” he began. “And I realized that I was wrong. You’ve always done so much more than I noticed or appreciated.” Anna listened attentively, not interrupting.

“I propose a new agreement,” Leo continued. “We both work full-time, and we both should take care of our home. I’m ready to take on part of the household chores—grocery shopping, dishes, taking out the trash, maybe something else. I’m not very good at this yet, but just tell me what you need. And regarding finances… let’s contribute to the household budget according to our salaries. I’ll contribute sixty-five percent, and you thirty-five. Isn’t that fair?”

Anna turned her wine glass thoughtfully in her hand.

“You know,” she finally said, “I agree. But on one condition. We really divide the household duties, and not just in a way where I constantly have to remind and oversee everything.”

“I promise,” Leo said firmly, nodding. “I even made a list and a schedule. Here, take a look,” he said, handing her his phone with an open file. “I planned everything out.”

Anna scanned the list and smiled.

“You know, you might just turn into a pretty decent husband,” she said with a sly smile.

Leo laughed and raised his glass.

“Here’s to a new beginning?” he offered.

“To partnership,” Anna corrected as they clinked glasses.

They sat in the kitchen for a long while, talking and making plans. And despite its slight dryness and saltiness, that roasted chicken seemed the most delicious dish in the world that evening.

The morning hustle in the office of “Grand-Ver” was in full swing. Employees hurried about their business, talking to one another and running from the elevators to their offices. No one paid any attention to the young woman of about twenty-five who calmly entered the lobby and looked around.

“Alright, Anya, it’s time to act,” she whispered under her breath as she adjusted the resume clutched in her hand.

In truth, her name was Anna Belskaya, daughter of Gennady Belsky, one of the largest shareholders of “Grand-Ver,” a company dealing in ecological products and recently launched into the fitness nutrition market. But officially, no one knew this: the documents listed her mother’s surname. She decided to use this fact to get a job without any privileges and to see firsthand how the company functioned from the inside. “My father wants to place me directly on the board of directors, but I need to understand how the company operates at an ordinary employee’s level,” Anna thought as she approached the security desk.

“What is your business?” the security guard asked sharply, raising an eyebrow.

“I have an interview scheduled in the purchasing department. My name is Anna Zhukova,” she replied with a friendly smile.

“Alright, please come in. Sign in at the reception,” the guard nodded.

Anna headed to the elevator, feeling her heart pounding in her chest: “My father is one of the main shareholders of this company, and here I am, just an ordinary job applicant…” But there was no other way: she wanted to uncover the truth about how ordinary employees were treated.

On the fifth floor, she was met by HR manager Irina, who quickly skimmed through her resume:

“Anna Zhukova, right? Your experience is a bit lacking, but you do have a degree in management…”

“Yes, I recently completed my master’s degree and want to develop in the field of procurement,” Anna answered confidently. “I’m ready to learn.”

Irina thoughtfully continued:

“Our purchasing department is quite demanding. The head, Gleb Igorevich Safronov, is a demanding man who likes to do things his own way. But if you can handle it, there’s a chance for growth. Will you give it a try?”

Anna smiled:

“Of course, I will.”

Half an hour later, she was led to Gleb Igorevich—a man of about thirty-five with a haughty look. He glanced over her resume briefly and frowned:

“Your experience is minimal… Well, alright, we’re looking for a junior specialist. Let’s give it a try. Question: are you ready for overtime and irregular hours?”

“Yes, I am,” Anna nodded confidently.

Gleb shrugged indifferently:

“The salary is modest, I warn you right away. There are many projects and little time; you’ll have to work hard. If you agree, come in tomorrow.”

Anna agreed, and he merely waved his hand:

“Go ahead, get registered. That’s all.”

Leaving the office, Anna felt mixed emotions: “It seems Gleb is the typical boss who sees me as nothing more than cheap labor.” But there was no other way—she wanted to find out how the company really treated its employees.

The next day, Anna took a small desk by the window, sat down at an old computer, and began working on spreadsheets. A young woman in a business suit approached her:

“Hi, are you new? I’m Olga, the chief accountant. If you need any help with the accounts, just ask.”

“Thank you,” Anna replied with a smile.

Shortly afterward, a man of about forty with a kindly smirk came over:

“Oh, you’re new? I’m Sergey, in charge of transportation logistics. If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask; if not—well, suit yourself.”

Anna nodded politely, watching the bustle around her. She felt a slight nervousness. An hour later, she decided to ask Gleb Igorevich a question:

“Gleb Igorevich, excuse me, where can I find the archive of old contracts? I need a sample…”

“Figure it out yourself!” he snapped without even looking up from his screen. “They’re in the folders by that wall,” he added casually.

Anna understood: “No one here will train you in detail. You have to figure it out on your own.”

A week later, the first crisis occurred: a supplier missed the deadlines, and clients began to complain. Gleb Igorevich summoned Anna to his office, clearly irritated:

“Why didn’t my assistants keep an eye on the deadlines? You were supposed to call the supplier and take control of the situation!”

“But you didn’t warn me…” she began, feeling embarrassed.

“No time to warn! Handle it yourself. Learn to act quickly,” Gleb barked. “And if you want to stay here, work your mind instead of just waiting for orders!”

Anna suppressed the urge to argue, though inside she was boiling: “Is this really acceptable management? No instructions, then anger when a task isn’t completed?” Still, she pulled herself together, quickly contacted the supplier, negotiated compensation, and solved the problem. Gleb was surprised by her calmness but offered no praise.

One late evening, when Anna was staying late at work, she noticed a familiar figure in the corridor: her father, Gennady Belsky, had come for a board meeting. He glanced at her briefly, smiled with his eyes, but made no sign that they were acquainted. He only quietly asked:

“Everything alright, daughter?”

“Yes, Dad… I’m managing. There are some difficulties, but I’m holding up,” she whispered.

“Excellent. Soon the board will choose a new head for the department. Perhaps I should support you?”

“Not yet,” she shook her head. “I still want to understand how my colleagues think. And please, don’t reveal our secret!”

“Understood,” her father nodded. “Listen, if someone gets too cheeky, we can fire them.”

“No! Don’t interfere. I’ll handle it myself…”

He smiled knowingly, patted her on the shoulder, and left, murmuring, “Well done, proud of you, Anya.”

Time passed, and Anna integrated well with her colleagues; some began to appreciate her work. But Gleb continued to put pressure on her. To him, she remained “a mere assistant who must follow orders without question.” One day, a serious conflict arose between them: Anna suggested improving the procurement process by implementing a new system of electronic requests, but Gleb exploded:

“Who do you think you are, teaching me? I’ve been working at ‘Grand-Ver’ for seven years! And you’re nothing—just a girl with no experience.”

Anna replied calmly:

“But it would increase efficiency. I’ve studied numerous examples…”

“Numerous examples? Your examples are worth nothing!” he dismissed. “Shut up and work as always.”

The colleagues fell silent, watching as the boss “put his subordinate in her place.” Anna felt pain and humiliation. “But I have to endure this if I want to uncover the truth about employee treatment,” she thought.

An internal corporate event celebrating the “5th anniversary of the purchasing department” was approaching, and everyone was invited, though not everyone was enthusiastic about it. Gleb Igorevich haughtily remarked:

“Well, our newbie… may attend if she wishes. Just dress more modestly so as not to stand out.”

Laughter spread. Anna blushed but accepted the invitation:

“Thank you, I’ll be there.”

That evening at the corporate event, the atmosphere was one of drunken merriment. Colleagues were drinking, and Gleb was recounting stories about how he “started at the bottom but climbed up,” and now “inexperienced girls are trying to teach him.” Everyone laughed. Anna, sitting aside, quietly sipped juice and listened. Suddenly, Gleb called out to her loudly:

“Anna, why so quiet? Dreaming of becoming a director?” he said sarcastically.

“No, I’m just listening,” she replied dryly.

He burst into laughter:

“What’s there to listen to? Our firm has managed just fine without people like you. They took you out of pity…”

Anna felt unbearably hurt but held her tongue. She decided it was time to reveal the truth—“enough of being a spectator.” Yet she said nothing immediately.

The following week, members of the “Grand-Ver” board gathered to discuss reforms. Gennady Belsky (Anna’s father) insisted on the need for new approaches, including changes in the purchasing department. Gleb had no idea what was coming. Anna received an invitation from her father: “Come to the meeting, but you may remain incognito until the right moment.”

When the meeting began, Gleb was present as the head of the department. Anna sat in the corner, pretending to work as a stenographer. Suddenly, Gennady requested:

“I would like to introduce a young specialist who has been studying the department’s work from within these past months. Please, Anna Belskaya, come to the podium.”

Everyone turned, including Gleb: “Who is that?” Anna stood up:

“I… I am Anna Belskaya, daughter of Gennady,” she said softly, tossing her hair back. “I worked under the name ‘Anna Zhukova’ in the purchasing department to understand the real situation.”

Gasps and whispers swept through the room. Gleb paled:

“What… you… You are the shareholder’s daughter?!” he stammered. “But why did you hide it?”

“I wanted to see how new employees are treated,” she answered firmly. “To check whether there is arrogance and bureaucracy here.”

The board buzzed. Someone shouted:

“And what did you find out?”

Anna took a deep breath:

“I saw that many employees are professional and kind. But creative ideas are often suppressed. Some managers…” she looked at Gleb, “…humiliate their subordinates just to maintain their authority.”

Gleb grew agitated:

“That’s slander! I… I was merely putting her in her place because she was inexperienced…”

Gennady Belsky interrupted him:

“Enough, Gleb. Our company needs change, not people who oppress newcomers.”

Faces in the room shifted visibly: some were glad to see the arrogant Gleb put in his place, while others feared for their own positions. Anna continued:

“I don’t intend to fire everyone. I only ask for one thing: honest treatment of employees, where new ideas aren’t stifled by personal complexes. ‘Grand-Ver’ can evolve faster if it adopts fresh approaches.”

The board murmured in approval. The formal director of the company nodded:

“I agree. Talented youth must be supported. Changes in the purchasing department are in order…”

Gleb realized he was about to lose his position. He attempted to justify himself:

“I… I didn’t know she was…”

Gennady snorted disapprovingly:

“And if she weren’t the shareholder’s daughter, could you have treated people so poorly? Alas, Gleb, you will have to leave your post,” he addressed the board, “I propose appointing Anna as the deputy head of the department. She will have the opportunity to prove herself professionally.”

Anna lowered her gaze, thinking: “I never aimed for power, but now I can help the company grow.” The meeting ended with applause, and her colleagues congratulated her.

The next day, Anna entered the familiar purchasing department now in her new role as deputy head. Olga, the chief accountant, beamed widely:

“Congratulations, Anna! I always had a feeling you were special, but I could never have imagined… Fantastic!”

“Thank you,” she replied. “But I’m still just ‘plain Anna.’ Let’s work together on improvements.”

The other employees were also happy for her; many saw in her a kind and hardworking colleague. Meanwhile, Gleb Igorevich was packing his things: he had been demoted to an ordinary specialist. He looked bitterly at Anna:

“Well then… You’ve won. I didn’t know you were an heiress. Apologies if I went too far.”

She sighed:

“Gleb, it’s not about being an heiress. Any newcomer would have been treated the same way by you. I hope you understand: without respect for your colleagues, you won’t get far.”

He nodded, lowering his head:

“Yes, lesson learned…”

And he headed for the exit. Anna remained, watching as her colleagues greeted her. Of course, some began to flatter her, but the most important thing was that those who had sincerely supported her before remained true.

That evening, she held a short meeting:

“Friends, there will be no revolutions. Let’s just be more open to new ideas, agreed?” she smiled.

Her words were met with applause. In this way, a new approach was born in the department: the rejection of the “clan system” in favor of collaborative creativity. Anna realized that her experiment had succeeded. She had seen how arrogance functioned and found a way to counter it. Yes, she was the daughter of the company owner, but she had come not to command but to change the work culture for the better.

A few months later, “Grand-Ver” launched a new project focused on eco-friendly supplies, and the purchasing department under Anna’s leadership (after a transitional period) recorded record results. Seeing how she worked on the same level as them, her colleagues began to treat her with respect and trust.

When her father asked, “Well, Nastya, did you manage after all?” she smiled:

“Yes, Dad. It’s gratifying that we were able to change the mindset a bit. But if I had come in with a loud, high status from the start, nothing would have come of it.”

Her father nodded in agreement: “The main thing is that we set an example that in our company, it’s not about positions but about abilities and how you treat people.”

Thus, “the heiress with the secret surname” found her path, ridding the purchasing department of snobbery and proving to everyone that one must not judge a person by their title. After all, true values are revealed when you are seen not as a “high-ranking individual,” but as an equal colleague.

Valya, have you already made the mortgage payment? Today is the final deadline,” Denis said without even looking up from his phone as he continued scrolling through the news feed.

“Yes, as usual. Ninety-two thousand. And, as always, it was charged to my card,” replied Valentina as she set a cup of coffee in front of him and sat down across from him. “You know, I was thinking… Maybe we should finally take a look at the apartment documents? We’ve been paying for two years, and I haven’t seen the purchase agreement even once.”

Denis finally tore his gaze away from the screen, and for a moment, something resembling worry flashed in his eyes.

“Why? The bank has accepted our apartment as collateral, so the documents are in order.”

“I just want to take a look. After all, it’s our joint property,” Valentina said, watching his reaction carefully.

“Well… the documents are with my mom. I’ll ask her to find them,” Denis replied reluctantly, once again focusing on his phone.

“With your mom? Why are they with her?” Valentina felt a growing sense of foreboding inside.

“She keeps important papers better. Remember how I lost the car’s contract?”

Valentina nodded, yet the inner unease only increased.

April rain was tapping on the windows when Valentina arrived at her mother-in-law’s. Denis wasn’t there – he had some urgent business matters. Nina greeted her with her usual restrained smile.

“Come in, Valechka. Denis said you wanted to look at the apartment documents? Alexey has everything prepared; they’re in the living room.”

The father-in-law was sitting in an armchair, sorting through a stack of papers.

“Ah, Valentina!” he exclaimed as he rose and handed her a folder. “Here are all the documents for your apartment. We keep them in a separate folder.”

Valentina sat at the table and opened the folder. The purchase agreement, the technical passport, the extract from the Unified State Register of Real Estate… She began to examine the documents and suddenly froze.

“Alexey Ivanovich, there is some error here,” her voice trembled slightly. “You and Nina Petrovna are listed as the owners. It should be Denis and me.”

Her mother-in-law and father-in-law exchanged glances.

“Valya, this isn’t a mistake,” Nina Petrovna said softly. “The apartment is registered under our names, but it’s just a formality. You and Denis live there.”

“A formality?” Valentina felt the room start spinning. “And the mortgage is in my name! I’m paying for an apartment that belongs to you?”

“Didn’t Denis explain it to you?” Alexey Ivanovich looked surprised. “It was his decision. He has a business and risks. He wanted to protect the property in case of problems with creditors.”

“At the expense of me paying off the loan for your property?” Valentina felt her anger boil inside.

 

“Valya, don’t dramatize,” Nina Petrovna said as she sat next to her. “After all, we’re family. What does it matter whose name the apartment is in? The important thing is that you live in it.”

Valentina stood up, gathering the documents back into the folder.

“It matters a lot, Nina Petrovna. A great deal.”

“You deceived me!” Valentina slammed the folder with the documents onto the table as soon as Denis entered the apartment. “For two years I’ve been paying for an apartment that belongs to your parents!”

Denis sighed, as if he had been expecting this conversation.

“Please, sit down. I’ll explain everything.”

“Explain what? Why did you register the apartment under your parents’ names and put the mortgage in my name?”

“That’s not it,” Denis said as he sat on the edge of the sofa. “Listen, I have a business. You know what kind of times we are living in? One bad contract and I’d be bankrupt. I wanted to protect us.”

“Protect us?” Valentina gave a bitter laugh. “You protected yourself and your parents! And I, if something happens, will be left without an apartment but with a debt of twelve million!”

“That won’t happen,” Denis tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. “My parents would never claim the apartment. It’s just a legal formality.”

“A legal formality,” she repeated echoing his words. “So you don’t see a problem in deceiving me? In pulling off this… scheme behind my back?”

“I meant for the best,” irritation crept into Denis’s voice. “And don’t dramatize – it’s not deceit. I just didn’t go into details because I knew you’d start to panic.”

“Panic?” Valentina shook her head. “No, Denis. I’m not panicking. I just see things as they are. I’m paying for someone else’s apartment.”

Marina Viktorovna placed a cup of tea before her daughter and sat across from her.

“Dear, I’m so sorry,” she said, taking Valentina’s hand. “But you did the right thing by coming to me.”

“Mom, I don’t know what to do,” Valentina looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept in days. “Denis says this is to protect our property. But it turns out it isn’t even my property!”

“Of course it isn’t yours,” Marina Viktorovna shook her head. “And believe me, in my experience, this isn’t an accidental slip-up. It’s a well-thought-out plan.”

“A plan? You think Denis planned this from the start?”

“Not only Denis. I saw his parents at your wedding,” Marina Viktorovna frowned. “Especially his mother. Did you notice how she always says ‘my son’ instead of ‘your husband’? They never intended to let him go. And now they have an apartment that you’re paying for.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” Valentina’s voice trembled with despair.

“First, talk to a lawyer. Your friend Irina, isn’t she working in this field?”

“Valya, the situation is worse than you think,” Irina spread out some documents in a small café where they met during a lunch break.

“Worse? How much worse?” Valentina tried to joke, but her voice shook.

“Much worse,” Irina said seriously. “You are the co-borrower on the mortgage, but not the owner. This means that legally, you’re paying off a loan for property that isn’t yours. If Denis divorces you, the apartment will remain with his parents while you continue paying the mortgage.”

“That just can’t be! The bank couldn’t have agreed to such a scheme!”

“They could,” Irina pointed to the contract. “The bank doesn’t care who the owner of the collateral is. The important thing is that there’s a borrower with a good credit history and stable income – that’s you. If you keep paying, they have no problems. And if you stop, they’ll seize the apartment from Denis’ parents and sell it to cover the debt.”

“And what about me?” Valentina felt a lump rise in her throat.

“For you, the consequences are the most serious,” Irina squeezed her hand. “If Denis’ parents decide to sell the apartment, they have every right to do so. The bank will get its money from the sale, the mortgage will be closed, and any remaining funds will go to them as the owners.”

“And what about all my payments?”

“In the best case, you could try to claim compensation through court as a spouse. But that’s a long process, and success isn’t guaranteed.”

“What should I do?”

 

“First, stop the payments,” Irina said firmly. “Then talk to your husband and his parents and demand either the transfer of ownership or a legally binding agreement that protects your rights.”

Valentina sat in her office, staring blankly at the monitor. The report’s numbers blurred before her eyes.

“Val, are you okay?” Andrey from the adjacent department sat on the edge of her desk. “You don’t look well.”

“Everything’s fine,” she tried to smile. “Just some family problems.”

Andrey glanced around and lowered his voice:

“Listen, I accidentally found out something. I’m not sure if I should mention it…”

“Speak. What happened?” Valentina immediately became alert.

“Yesterday I ran into Oleg, your husband’s brother. We work out at the same gym.”

“And then?”

“He mentioned that Denis has big problems with his business. He owes a large sum to his partners. That’s exactly why the apartment is registered under his parents’ names – so that creditors can’t seize it.”

Valentina felt the color drain from her face.

“Are you sure?”

“Oleg said it himself. He mentioned that the parents are aware, and that Denis is afraid to tell you – he thinks you’ll stop paying the mortgage if you find out.”

The next evening, Valentina arrived unannounced at Denis’ parents’ place. Fortunately, there were guests there, including Nina’s sister, Alla, whom Valentina had never met before.

The apartment was noisy. Valentina apologized and intended to leave, but Nina Petrovna insisted that she stay for dinner.

At the table, Valentina remained silent, listening intently to the conversations at the edges of her hearing. Suddenly, a phrase from her mother-in-law made her start.

“…so, Alla, soon we’ll sell the apartment and buy a house outside the city. You know that cottage settlement in Sosnovka? They’re building such beautiful houses there! Denis will move in with us, and Oleg too, if he wants.”

“And the daughter-in-law?” Alla asked.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Nina Petrovna lowered her voice, but Valentina still caught every word. “She’ll keep her apartment. She has a job in the city, her mother is nearby. And honestly, they aren’t really a family. They’re just cohabiting…”

Valentina gripped her fork until her fingers ached.

Later, at home, she met Denis with an icy silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking concerned.

“When were you planning to tell me about your debts? And about your parents’ plans to sell our apartment?”

Denis paled.

“Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

“Valya, listen,” he tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. “I’m just having temporary business difficulties. I’ll manage, nothing’s really wrong.”

“And your parents’ plans to sell the apartment?”

“Mom is simply dreaming of a country house,” he said with a tentative smile. “She’s been talking about it for a long time.”

“Of course, you’ll move there and I’ll be left with a mortgage on a sold apartment,” Valentina said bitterly.

“What nonsense!” Denis protested. “No one is selling anything!”

“You know what,” Valentina said as she stood up. “From tomorrow, I’m not paying the mortgage anymore. Let your parents, as the owners, deal with the problem themselves.”

“Mikhail Borisovich, thank you for your time,” Valentina said, sitting in the lawyer’s office while nervously fidgeting with her purse.

“Irina explained the situation,” the lawyer, Mikhail Borisovich, nodded. “Let’s take a look at the documents.”

He examined the papers closely, making notes.

“The situation is indeed complicated,” he said finally. “You’re a co-borrower on the mortgage, but not the owner of the property. This could be considered an abuse of rights on the part of your husband and his parents.”

“What should I do? Irina advises me to stop the payments.”

“That’s risky,” Mikhail Borisovich shook his head. “You’re still liable to the bank. The best option is to officially demand the transfer of ownership or to sign an agreement that protects your interests legally.”

“And if they refuse?”

“Then we file a lawsuit to annul the transaction and recover all the payments you made, plus interest. And we’ll also claim moral damages. But going to court should be the last resort.”

Valentina organized a family meeting at their apartment. She invited her own parents, Denis, and his parents. Oleg, Denis’s brother, arrived uninvited, saying that he “wanted to support his brother.”

When everyone was gathered in the living room, Valentina spoke up:

 

“I have gathered you here to discuss the situation with our apartment,” she began calmly. “As it turns out, the apartment is registered under Alexey Ivanovich’s and Nina Petrovna’s names, even though I’m the one paying the mortgage.”

“Valya, we’ve already discussed this,” Denis started.

“No, Denis, we haven’t discussed it,” she said firmly. “You just said it was to protect us from creditors. But you didn’t mention that you already have those creditors! And even less that your parents plan to sell the apartment!”

“What nonsense!” Nina Petrovna exclaimed indignantly. “We’re not planning to sell anything!”

“Don’t say that, Mom,” Oleg suddenly interjected. “I saw the documents on your table. You’ve already consulted with a realtor about selling.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“We have no concrete plans,” Alexey Ivanovich finally said. “We’re just exploring the options.”

“You’re exploring options to sell the apartment that I’m paying off,” Valentina said coldly. “And in which we, you and Denis, live.”

“But officially, it’s ours,” Nina Petrovna snapped. “And we have every right to do with our property as we please!”

“Mom!” Denis tried to pull her aside.

“What’s the matter with that?” Nina Petrovna spread her arms. “It’s true! If needed, we’ll help you with the down payment for another apartment.”

Marina Viktorovna, who had been silent until then, stepped forward:

“So you’re admitting that you planned from the start to deceive my daughter? To force her to pay for your apartment?”

“No one deceived anyone!” Alexey Ivanovich raised his voice. “This was a business decision!”

“A business decision,” Valentina echoed bitterly. “Well, I have a business decision too. I’m stopping the mortgage payments. Either we transfer the apartment’s registration to Denis and me, or I file for divorce and demand all the money I’ve paid back.”

“Valya, you won’t do that,” Denis looked frightened.

“I will,” she stated firmly. “I have a lawyer’s opinion saying that your actions can be considered an abuse of rights.”

“What abuse?” Nina Petrovna demanded. “Denis, tell her!”

“Mom, it’s really not fair,” Oleg suddenly interjected. “Valentina will be paying for this apartment for six years and then be left with nothing? That’s not how things work.”

“Are you really taking her side now?” Nina Petrovna exploded. “Against your own mother?”

“I’m on the side of justice,” Oleg said firmly. “And if you truly cared about Denis, you’d help him solve his business problems rather than hide the property.”

Silence fell over the room once again.

“Then,” Valentina straightened up, “we have two options. First, Denis and I become the official owners of the apartment, continue the mortgage payments, and forget this ever happened. Second, I file for divorce and initiate legal proceedings.”

 

“Valya, wait,” Denis said, looking perplexed. “Let’s talk about this privately.”

“There’s nothing to discuss here!” Nina Petrovna snapped. “Denis, don’t let her manipulate you! We bought that apartment – we’re responsible for it!”

“You bought it?” Valentina said slowly. “Over two years, I’ve paid two million rubles out of my own pocket. That doesn’t even include the down payment!”

“Denis, it’s up to you,” Alexey Ivanovich turned to his son. “Either you’re with us, or with her. There’s no third option.”

The room fell silent as Denis shifted his gaze between his parents and his wife.

“I… I can’t decide right now,” he finally mumbled.

“Then it’s clear,” Valentina said bitterly. “Mikhail Borisovich,” she turned to the lawyer, who had been quietly observing, “please prepare the documents for filing a lawsuit. And also the papers for divorce.”

A month later, Valentina was sitting in the lawyer’s office, reviewing documents.

“So, the court has ruled that the transaction was made in violation of your rights as a spouse,” Mikhail Borisovich said with a satisfied look. “Denis’ parents are obliged to compensate you for all the mortgage payments you made, with interest.”

“And the apartment itself?” Valentina asked.

“It remains in their ownership, but with an encumbrance in the form of your lien. In effect, they cannot sell it until they have paid you the compensation.”

“And the divorce?”

“The divorce petition has been accepted for consideration. Given that you have no children and it’s by mutual consent, the process will be minimal.”

Valentina nodded. Over that month, she felt as though she had lived a new life. Denis tried to come back, pleaded with her, promising to fix everything. But his indecision at the crucial moment had already revealed everything. He would always be subservient to his parents, incapable of protecting even his own wife.

“You know, Mikhail Borisovich,” she said with a smile for the first time in a long while, “I think I’ve found an apartment I want to buy. A small one, but in a good neighborhood.”

“I approve,” the lawyer nodded. “Only this time, make sure it’s registered strictly in your name.”

“You can be sure,” Valentina replied confidently. “Now I’m going to read every single word in a contract very carefully.”

When she left the lawyer’s office, the April sun was shining brightly, playing off the puddles left by the recent rain. Ahead lay a new life – without Denis, without his manipulations, and without the feeling of being used. And that prospect, despite all the trials she had endured, filled her with nothing but joy.

Maria stood in the middle of the living room, silently surveying her surroundings. Everything looked foreign—even the walls on which she had once lovingly hung photographs. Now they were empty. Only hooks and the traces left by frames remained. In the corner were several boxes, fitting twenty years of her life.

And now her husband had a new life. With Nastya. With the secretary. Young, long-legged, beautiful. When Dmitry told Masha that he was divorcing her, Nastya smiled—triumphantly, as if she had won. Maria, however, had long since stopped fighting.

 

Over the past few months, she had lost almost eight kilos. Her cheeks had sunken, and under her eyes there were bruises that no concealer could hide. She hadn’t cut or colored her hair in ages. Her hands trembled—not from fear now, but simply from nerves.

Maria approached the mirror in the hall. She paused and looked at herself.

“Who are you now?” she asked her reflection.

Of course, there was no answer. In the mirror stared a tired woman she could barely recognize. Yet something new flickered in her eyes. Not hope—at least not yet—but something resembling anger.

“Enough. That’s enough,” she murmured to herself.

She switched off the light in the hall and walked into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, it was cool. Maria opened the refrigerator and stared deep into it, as if expecting to find answers to her questions there. On the top shelf lay a package of lightly salted salmon—she had once bought it “for a celebration,” although that celebration had never come to pass. Next to it, a jar of black caviar—a gift from colleagues for her fortieth birthday. She recalled that back then she had even burst into tears from the surprise—not because of the caviar, but because at least someone remembered, because at least someone cared.

Below, there was a bottle of sparkling wine. Dmitry couldn’t stand sparkling wine. But she, on the contrary, loved it—light and bubbly.

Maria brought everything out onto the table. Squinting as she assessed it, she muttered to herself, “Just right. For a farewell.”

She sliced some cheese and neatly arranged it on a wooden board. She fanned out the salmon on a dark plate, drizzled with lemon juice and a splash of olive oil. Her eyes caught sight of some greens—withered yet still alive, dill and basil—and she added them for garnish. Then she sat down and poured champagne into a tall glass. Looking at it all, she felt as if someone else had prepared it, not she.

Reaching for her phone, she played an old Zemfira album—the very record she and Dmitry had listened to during their first winter in this house.

She raised her glass and softly said, “To a new life,” and downed the champagne in one gulp.

Perhaps half an hour passed. The music continued, and the bottle had less than half its original amount left. Maria sat there, staring at the empty plate, when suddenly she felt—not intoxication, but a light, pleasant madness.

A thought came suddenly. Wild. Absurd. And yet, it seemed absolutely logical.

She got up, went to the sink, and grabbed a plastic container containing fish scraps—skin, a spine, and a couple of pieces of salmon that were too salty to eat. Something predatory flashed in her eyes.

Then she went into the living room. Dragging a chair to the window, she stood and removed one of the cornice caps. The metal tube inside turned out to be hollow. Perfect.

“Well then, Dmitry,” she whispered as she stuffed the fish pieces inside, “a keepsake for you.”

She replaced the cap and repeated the same with the second cornice—carefully, neatly, without hysteria. She did everything methodically, as if it had to be that way.

“From the bottom of my heart, my love,” she said as she stepped down from the chair, smiling.

 

And for the first time in a long while, her smile was genuine.

The first days in the “renewed” house were almost like a honeymoon. Dmitry woke up earlier than usual, feeling that he was finally living as he wanted. There was lightness, space, and silence—without reproaches or literary quotes. Nastya, wearing his shirt with her tousled hair, strolled barefoot across the parquet and said, “It’s easier to breathe here now, isn’t it?”

He simply nodded. Breathing indeed seemed easier—or so it appeared.

Nastya had burst into his life like a flash: bright, light, always in motion. After the move, she immediately set about rearranging the place. She took down bookshelves from the walls, rolled up the old carpet from the study, and declared, “I don’t understand how you ever lived here. Everything is soaked in melancholy. It’s not a home, it’s like a mourning library.”

When he tried to object, she grimaced, “Oh come on, Dim, don’t pretend you liked those ‘literary corners’ of hers. This place is like a museum. It used to be.”

Dmitry didn’t argue. In truth, Maria’s books had irritated him even before the divorce. Her habit of hanging quotes and affirmations in every room had given him a nervous tick—“Kafka, damn it, even in the bathroom.” But he had kept silent then. And now—no.

With Nastya, things were simpler. She wasn’t interested in “meanings”—she wanted scented candles, music, and wine in the evenings. They drank sparkling wine, watched TV shows, and made plans. She spoke of Bali while he talked about a new line of tiles he would soon launch. Everything seemed… right.

They threw out everything: the rugs, covers, even the chair where Maria used to read each evening. Nastya ordered a gray-beige sofa and a vase shaped like a head. She set up an aroma diffuser with a citrus scent. The house seemed to exhale.

“Now this looks like life,” she said, wrapped in his shirt with a glass of champagne in hand. “Not like before.”

Then a smell appeared.

At first, it was light, as if someone nearby had poorly cleaned the trash can.

“Do you smell that?” Dmitry stopped in the hall, crinkling his nose slightly.

Nastya sniffed and shrugged, “A bit… strange. Maybe it’s time to take out the trash. Or did you throw your socks under the sofa?”

He smirked, but inside something unclear stabbed at him. The next day, the smell grew stronger. It wasn’t just unpleasant—it was alarming, as if something was seriously wrong.

Nastya inspected the refrigerator. They discarded jars of expired sauces, half of the cheese, and two packs of cookies past their expiration date. Yet the smell lingered. It was everywhere—as if it had soaked into the walls. First, it was barely perceptible, almost abstract, like thin smoke from smoldering paper. Then it became obsessive, heavy, and sticky.

Dmitry then called a plumber. A man of about sixty arrived in a stained jacket with a black briefcase that looked like a Soviet-era tool case.

“Maybe there’s a rat nesting in the wall. Or the ventilation filters are clogged. Let’s take a look.”

He crawled around the entire house for about two hours. He disassembled half the siphons, removed the grilles in the bathroom, checked the drains, and even looked under the kitchen unit.

“Everything is clean here. No rats, no clogs…” he sighed.

The plumber left, but the smell remained.

That evening, Dmitry ordered a deep cleaning. A whole crew came—wearing masks, armed with steam cleaners, chemicals, and brushes.

They worked almost all day, scrubbing every corner and even steaming the kitchen backsplash.

The smell disappeared. For a little while.

The next evening, he returned. But now it wasn’t just a smell—it was a stench. Thick, like rotting meat left out in the heat.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Nastya declared, clenching her cheeks with her palms as if trying to squeeze her head from the inside. “I’ve had a migraine from this stench for a week. It really makes me nauseous.”

 

She stood in the middle of the bedroom in a tracksuit, with unwashed hair and red eyes. The playful lightness she once had was completely gone. Even her voice sounded irritated—flat, without flirtation or her signature mannerisms. She was simply exhausted.

“We’re leaving. Even if it’s just to a hotel, or to hell. It’s impossible to sleep here. It smells as if someone died right in the wall.”

They packed their things in silence. No quarrels, no discussions. Nobody was trying to prove anything anymore. At the hotel, everything was quiet and sterile—white sheets, air conditioning, a view of the parking lot. Boring, but safe.

Meanwhile, the house stood empty. Every morning, Dmitry drove over, opened the windows, turned on the air purifier, and lit scented candles. But it was all useless. Lavender, vanilla, eucalyptus—all these fragrances only mingled with the main stench, making the air even more repulsive.

A month later, he sat at the hotel’s kitchen table with his laptop and said, staring at the screen, “That’s it. We’re selling. To hell with this house. We’ll buy a new one. Modern. Clean.”

Nastya, lying on the bed with a mask on her face, didn’t answer immediately. Then, lazily, she added, “And rightly so. Listen, maybe your ex buried a cat here? I’m serious, Dim.”

“Not funny,” he snapped, though he smirked nervously.

Three days later, the realtor arranged the first showing. A young couple, seemingly respectable—he was an IT guy, she a makeup artist or something similar. Dmitry mopped the floors, placed air fresheners in every corner, and played soft jazz. The windows were thrown open wide. Sunlight poured in, as if trying to illuminate the dark corners. He even spread a throw on the sofa—a bid to create ‘coziness.’

They entered, took a couple of steps, then stopped.

The man recoiled and covered his nose. The woman paled visibly.

“Excuse me…” he said, nearly coughing. “Does it always smell like this here?”

Before Dmitry could even open his mouth, the door slammed shut.

An hour later, the realtor called. “I understand everything, but honestly, with a smell like this, all you can sell is the land. No one will buy the house. People come in and immediately turn around. Even flippers won’t touch it—unless it’s for pennies and ready for demolition.”

“Maybe it’s the ventilation,” Dmitry began.

“It’s not the ventilation,” the realtor interjected wearily. “It’s… something else. I don’t know. But until you get rid of it, there’s no point in continuing the showings.”

Nastya wasn’t joking anymore. She now barely spoke; she just stared blankly while chewing gum. In the evenings, she scrolled through new-building listings and reposted memes about toxic exes.

Maria’s rented apartment was tiny—a two-room Khrushchev-era flat on the third floor, with a rundown front door and a view of a dreary square. She arranged her books in the corners—only a few, her closest favorites: Remarque, Murakami, and some old poetry with bookmarks. She bought cozy curtains—soft gray with delicate embroidery. She brought mint, rosemary, and three packets of marigold seeds from the supermarket. She planted flowers on the balcony, watering them in the evenings in her slippers and with a cup of green tea. From her perch, she observed the passersby below, and a few times, she caught the gaze of the neighbor’s little boy, who always waved at her. That brought her a small measure of joy.

Life didn’t settle immediately, but gradually it found its rhythm. No fanfare, no grand decisions—just a sudden ease. After work, she went to the swimming pool—not for exercise, but simply to feel her body. On Fridays, she met with colleagues: they laughed, discussed new students, and shared gossip. No one really asked about the divorce—except Dasha.

 

“Honestly, I don’t understand how you can be so… calm. After everything, he just kicked you out,” Dasha said, clinking her shot glass as she looked at Maria gloomily.

“I would have, at the very least, scratched his car. Or even pissed by his door. In a very human way.”

Maria simply smirked—without anger or resentment.

“I don’t need to scratch anything, Dasha.”

Dasha huffed in disbelief but didn’t pursue it further.

A month passed. Life proceeded steadily: school, the pool twice a week, Friday gatherings, warm evenings spent with a book and tea on the balcony. Then, on one such evening, the thought suddenly occurred to her: What about the house?

She decided to call—not with any special intent, just to ask.

After the third ring, someone answered.

“Hello.” The voice was strained and irritated, like someone who had been rudely awakened.

“Hi, it’s me. How are you? How’s the house?”

“Listen…” he hesitated, then sighed. “There’s something wrong with it. There’s a smell. A constant, harsh smell. They’ve checked everything, cleaned it all up. No one can figure out what’s wrong. People come in—and immediately leave. Even the realtor covers his nose.”

“A smell?” Maria raised an eyebrow, trying not to smirk. “Strange. When I lived there, everything seemed fine… Wait. You’re selling it?”

“We’re trying. But, damn… the smell…”

Maria paused, then said evenly, almost tenderly, “I miss our home so much. There was so much there…”

Dmitry brightened. “Want me to sell you my share? I’d buy yours, but I have a loan right now. I’m in the red. I’d rather give up my share and forget about it entirely.”

After a pause, Maria said, “Well… if the price is reasonable.”

“It will be. Alright, deal. I’ll call the notary.”

 

Within a week, everything was formalized. The deal went through quickly. Dmitry didn’t even argue about the price—he agreed to the first sum Maria proposed. The lawyer raised an eyebrow in surprise, “Are you sure you didn’t mistype the contract? This price is more like what you’d pay for a storage closet on the outskirts.”

Dmitry just waved his hand. “I don’t need this house. Just finalize it.”

Maria signed and carefully filed the contract in a folder. There was no triumph or anger on her face—just a light, barely noticeable satisfaction.

Now the house was hers again, entirely. And no one could stop her from coming back whenever she deemed it necessary.

Dmitry stood at the entrance of the house, squinting slightly from the bright sun. Two movers—two young guys in faded T-shirts with headphones—were carrying out belongings and loading them into the truck.

He looked at the house. Twenty years. Every step, every creak of the floorboards—he knew them by heart. And yet—he felt no regret, not even a little. This place had squeezed every last bit out of him. In recent months, he had felt as if he were living in a stinking hell: the smell was everywhere—in his clothes, in his hair, even seeming to cling in his nose. Exhausting nights in hotels, quarrels with Nastya, cleaners, and realtors who wrinkled their noses as soon as they stepped inside—it was all too much.

He remembered when Masha had called—so calm, even a little tired, as if she didn’t really care how he was doing. And then, that phrase of hers: “Maybe I would even buy your share if the price was reasonable…”

 

He nearly burst out laughing then. Well, now let her handle it herself.

“I wonder how long you’ll last there,” he thought, staring at the front door. “A day? A week? Good luck, darling. You’ll need it.”

The movers carried out the last of the boxes.

“Hey, be careful with these,” Dmitry shouted to them. “The cornices. Italian. Expensive. There’s a mechanism inside—don’t bend them.”

One of the guys—the older one—nodded and carefully handed the metal tube to his partner.

Dmitry sat in the car and, for a moment before starting the engine, glanced in the rearview mirror one last time. Then he shook his head.

“That’s it. Time to go.”

He pressed the gas and drove off, not looking back.

Maria entered the house, slowly closed the door behind her, and took off her shoes. She left her bag in the hall and paused for a couple of seconds, simply listening. There was silence—no rustle, no creaks. She walked into the living room, slowly, as if wandering through a museum hall. Everything was empty, as if a heavy downpour had just washed away all remnants of an old life. No dust, no smell. Just air.

Maria stopped by the window and ran her hand along the wall—the very wall where family photographs once hung in frames.

Light streamed through the window in stripes across the floor. Dust swirled faintly in the beams. The curtains were gone. With them, the cornices had vanished. Bare walls remained—smooth, with only faint marks from the wall plugs. There had once hung heavy gray-blue drapes, matching the color of the sofa, which was now also gone.

Cornices.

Dmitry had taken them after all—he hadn’t even bothered to be gentle. The very same ones in which she had once—no joke—hidden a “surprise.” He had left with them, not realizing what he was taking along. It was astonishing how literally he dragged the remnants of the past with him, convinced he was starting a new chapter.

She looked at the room one more time. The house was empty—but no longer foreign. It was no longer alien to her.

Svetlana realized she wouldn’t be able to carry all her purchases by herself. The market day had been so successful that she hadn’t restrained herself and had bought a huge amount of fruit. The shopping was done—but how to get it all home? She’d have to take a taxi.

Pushing through the crowd, she searched for a spot to set down her bags and pull out her phone. Just as she found a suitable place, a young man suddenly burst out of the shop, nearly knocking her over. The bags flew open, some tearing, and Svetlana let out a cry.

Pavel lunged to help, gathering the scattered fruit. He’d left in such a hurry after his latest quarrel with his father that he hadn’t paid attention to where he was going. Despite knowing how crowded the market was that day, his emotions had taken over.

“Please forgive me—I wasn’t paying attention. But how are we to carry all this to the exit and load it into a taxi?”

“Let me help. My car’s nearby; maybe I can at least partly make amends.” Pavel looked at the girl, wanting to shout, “Say yes!” She was surprisingly attractive—simple jeans and a T‑shirt, no makeup, yet her gentle air enchanted him.

There were other girls around him, but he didn’t even want to compare them. Noticing her hesitation, he hurried to add, “My name’s Pavel, and I promise I’m harmless.”

She laughed. “You’re reading my mind. By the way, I’m Svetlana.”

When they reached his car, they packed away the groceries and climbed in.
“Where to?” he asked. She gave him the address, and they set off.

Usually a fast driver, Pavel deliberately slowed down now, wanting to prolong the ride. “Would you think me too forward if I asked you to the movies?”
“I don’t mind—Saturday works for me.”
“Great, I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Pulling up at the mansion, Pavel whistled. “Impressive. You live here?”
“Yes—my parents just bought this house.”
“They must be well off.”
“I’d rather not discuss it. It’s not important.”

 

And that was true.

“I’ll come by at five on Saturday—does that suit you?”
“Yes. I’ll be waiting.”
“It was nice meeting you,” he said as she slipped behind the gate.

He drove home, thinking of the argument he’d had with his father just an hour before over his refusal to finance a seaside trip with friends.

“Pasha, what sea? You know I have four shops to worry about. At least help out during season—you’re 26.”
“Dad, do you want me cooped up in your shops in this weather?”
“That’s exactly what I want. Maybe you’ll finally learn to earn your own living.”

Pavel snapped, “It’s always money, money, money. I don’t want that.”
“If you don’t want work, I guess you don’t want money, either?”
“So you won’t give it? If I don’t need the job, I don’t need the funds?”

He stormed out—right into Svetlana. He’d dashed into the street without looking and bumped straight into her. When he got home, his father’s transfer notification pinged on his phone. His dad had sent the money—but Pavel decided to stay and help. That evening, his father was surprised to find him still at home.

“Why didn’t you leave? I sent the money.”
“I changed my mind, Dad—and I can help you until Saturday.”
“Seriously? That’s good to hear.”

“It’s hard for me to manage alone,” Pavel reasoned. Time would drag until Saturday; helping his father would make it pass more quickly. Working together for several days brought them closer. Since his mother had left, his relationship with his father had been purely business—and only beneficial to Pavel. He’d never cared about his father’s feelings.

When he told his dad about meeting Svetlana, he said, “They have a huge house—must be millionaires.”
“What if her parents forbid her to see you?”
“First, a million is still a million, even if it’s small. Second, why would they? Maybe they’re reasonable people.”
“You see, Pasha, it’s odd—a house like that, yet their daughter goes to the market and carries groceries home.”
“True, it doesn’t add up. We’ll see how it goes.”

On Saturday, Svetlana arrived right on time, wearing a light dress that made her look even more beautiful.
“Sveta, you look amazing!”
“Thank you.”

The evening was perfect—movies, dinner, everything so wonderful that he decided then and there never to let her go. He told his father he intended to propose soon but thought it wise to date a bit longer and learn more about her family.
“Yes, Dad, but even if her parents turn out to be recluses, I’ll marry her.”

Two months passed, and Pasha couldn’t wait any longer. He proposed, and Svetlana threw her arms around him.
“We need to meet your parents,” he said. She froze.
“Pasha, let’s wait—they’re away, and we don’t know when they’ll return. It doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s okay, really.”

They even planned to register their marriage soon. That evening, Pasha dropped her at her gate and drove home. Something nagged at him, though he couldn’t say what. Just before home he braked hard. He’d noticed Svetlana’s surname didn’t match the owners’—and now he was intrigued.

“Why won’t she introduce me to her parents?” he wondered aloud that night. His father suggested: “Borrow a courier’s uniform and sneak in to see for yourself.”
“Okay, but what if it’s dangerous?”
“It’s not like they’re criminals.”

Three days later, Pasha donned a courier outfit—complete with a wig, glasses, a fake mole, and a mustache—and headed to Svetlana’s house with concert tickets in an envelope. He was trembling, as if sensing he was about to uncover something big. After a few routine questions, the guard let him in. Inside, he paused at the threshold and saw Svetlana in a maid’s apron dusting shelves.

A frail woman approached, signed the delivery papers, and looked at him.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he stammered—and bolted from the house.

Now it made sense: Svetlana was deceiving him. But why?

He wandered the streets before returning home. His father pressed him:
“Well?”
“She isn’t their daughter—she works there as a maid.”
His father whistled.
“Well, maybe she was afraid you’d reject her. Or maybe she has problems.”
“I would’ve noticed. We need to talk to her.”

 

That evening, Svetlana called.
“Where did you go?”
“Svetlana, when will your parents be home?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Isn’t it strange—we’re getting married soon, yet I’ve never met them?”
She hesitated. He pressed on: “I was at your place today. I know your parents are there…though they’re not really your parents. You work for them.”
“So you recognized me? All right—tomorrow at five, you and your father can come by.”

She hung up before he could object, and now everything was a tangled mess. “Guests? Me? When she’s the maid?”

“Dad says we’re going,” Pasha told him. “I’m his son—I want answers.”

At the gate they met a surprised guard, but Svetlana appeared and waved them in. In the main room sat the homeowners. The man looked furious.
“Svetlana, explain yourself—or you’re fired,” he barked.

“Don’t worry, Karl Andreyevich; I wasn’t going to work here tomorrow anyway.” The hostess watched in stunned silence.

“Everyone’s here, so I’ll start from the beginning. Twenty‑three years ago, an unwanted child was born into this family. Karl Andreyevich married an heiress for her money. His young wife, Olga, was ill, and he wanted to seize control of her fortune. While she lay recovering after childbirth, he put the baby in a sack and dumped her by a dumpster, telling his wife the child had died. Olga, in her grief, fell into depression—helped along by the sedatives he gave her. But an old man found the sack and took the baby in.

“For a year they kept silent, then formally adopted her. I spent years researching the case and got this job to take revenge. But when I saw my mother—Olga—I realized she didn’t deserve vengeance. Then I met Pasha, and falling in love wasn’t in my plans, but it happened.”

 

“I didn’t tell him to impress him, but to force myself to confess. Forgive me, Pasha, if you can.” She paused. Olga rose, approached Svetlana, and handed her a folder.
“These are all the documents: certificates, test results, everything the clinic provided.”

Olga turned to her husband.
“What are you staring at? I’m your death! You thought I’d die every day, yet here I am. You’ll prove nothing!”

Olga collapsed. Pasha’s father rushed to help her, while Karl tried to flee—but Pasha chased him down. “We can’t let the man who ruined so many lives just walk away.” Karl ended up in jail, overwhelmed by the weight of the evidence.

Two months later, Svetlana and Pasha had a grand wedding. She was the only bride with two mothers and a father who wasn’t really her father. During the reception, she whispered to Pasha, “Look at my mother and your dad—notice anything?”
He smiled. “Not only do I notice—I was consulting with your mom this morning.”

“Son, remember when you asked me for advice? Now it’s my turn. Should I propose to Olga? Wouldn’t it be old‑fashioned?”
“Dad, I’m happy for you! Let’s do it right now—make it a beautiful moment at this wedding.”

His father hesitated. Pasha reassured him: “Are you sure?”
“Darling, just five more minutes.” The slow dance had just ended, and the crowd parted, leaving Olga and Pasha’s father on the dance floor. Someone handed him a bouquet; he knelt, placed the flowers at her feet, and pulled out a ring.
“Olga, will you marry me?” Silence fell.
“Yes—of course, yes!” she cried, and the hall erupted in applause.

– Natasha, what are you thinking about? – Sveta nudged her friend with her shoulder. – Are you staring at Igor?

Natasha blushed and smiled uncertainly. The answer was obvious, but she had no intention of sharing her feelings. She knew full well that her dreams of happiness with him were nothing but fantasies. They came from different worlds, and that was clear to everyone, yet her gaze still seemed to drift towards him.

 

– No, I just remembered the plot of a book I read yesterday, – she lied, clutching her textbook and trying not to stare at the unattainable guy.

Igor Leonov was the true star of the university. His appearance, confidence, and charisma attracted almost every girl. To Natasha, he seemed like a character from another reality. Her heart would start racing just by seeing him, but she knew there was a chasm between them. He was the son of a wealthy businessman, while she was an orphan living with her guardian, Aunt Marina, whom she considered a mother. Natasha was grateful to the woman for her care and tried to help her around the house and with work. At the university, she studied on a budget, and in the evenings, she went with Aunt Marina to clean the hallways of luxury buildings where they were paid more.

One day, fate brought them face to face. Natasha was cleaning the stairs when she noticed Igor. She quickly turned away, hoping to remain unnoticed, but, of course, he recognized her.

– Natasha! I didn’t expect to see you here! – Igor grinned. – Although, I guess for you, this is probably the only way to get into an elite building.

– Hi… – she mumbled, feeling her cheeks flush.

– Well, hi! Decided to earn some money for a New Year’s dress? – he asked sarcastically.

Natasha felt hurt. She wanted to justify herself, explain that it was just a temporary side job, but then she thought: why bother? This was her life, and there was nothing shameful about it. She wasn’t selling herself, so she had nothing to be ashamed of.

– Daughter, what are you blabbering about? – Aunt Marina called out, working one floor above. – Hurry up, wave that rag! The sooner we finish, the sooner we get home. We still have three more hallways today!

– Good luck to you! – Igor smirked. – I would give you a tip, but I don’t have any cash – it’s all on the card. But you’re doing great! Working like a pro!

With these words, he called the elevator and disappeared, while Natasha’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to hide her sadness, but Aunt Marina always sensed her mood. She had raised Natasha since childhood after the child services took her from her parents, who preferred alcohol over their daughter. Aunt Marina had taught her to appreciate life, despite the hardships.

– Who’s that rich kid? – the woman asked as they left the building.

– Just a classmate… – Natasha shrugged.

– Just a classmate or the one? – Aunt Marina pressed on.

– He likes me, but we come from different worlds. He’s the son of a rich man, and I… I’m not his level, – the girl sighed.

Aunt Marina let out a loud breath and shook her head.

 

– So, he’s a worthless guy, not a human! These rich kids who live on handouts have no idea what real life is. When his father stops supplying him with pocket money or goes broke, we’ll see what kind of person he really is!

Natasha remained silent. She didn’t want to talk about Igor – inside, she could feel her heart tighten with the realization that her feelings were doomed. She knew: he was her “crush,” as the teenage girls would say. Unrequited love, nothing more.

But after that encounter, Igor started to talk to her more often. One day, he sent her a message inviting her to meet in the park after classes. Natasha arrived, floating on air. He suggested they go to the movies and then sit in a café. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She wanted to shout to the world that Aunt Marina was wrong: Igor was a real person.

– I’ve liked you for a long time, Natasha! Really like you! You’re hardworking, smart… What more could you want? – he smiled. – Will you go out with me?

Natasha’s head spun. She nodded, unable to say a word. Was there any need to think when her heart had already made the decision? She definitely wanted to be with him. He was the one she had been dreaming of.

He walked her home and kissed her goodbye. The moment felt like something out of a fairytale. Natasha ran home and cried into her pillow from happiness. She didn’t see any red flags. It seemed to her that he had really chosen her, even though he hadn’t spoken of love. And nothing suggested that trouble was ahead…

“I want to kiss you!” – a message from Igor arrived during the first class.

Natasha couldn’t focus on her studies. All her thoughts were about him. She wanted to run to him, hug him, kiss him.

– Why do you keep smiling? In love? – Sveta teased.

Natasha shrugged. Her happiness felt so fragile that she was afraid to tell her best friend. What if this was just a dream? Or what if Sveta started convincing her that this was strange and would end quickly?

After classes, Natasha rushed to the park and, unable to hold herself back, ran to Igor. But he pushed her away abruptly, looking at her with a cold, icy gaze.

– Don’t touch me with your dirty hands, queen of toilets and empress of hallways! Do you even know what a manicure is? Or did you really believe there could be something serious between us? – he said mockingly.

Natasha froze, as if struck by lightning. Her heart pounded, her head spun, and the pain in her temples became unbearable. She understood everything. Yes, this is exactly what she had thought – foolishly hoping for the impossible.

– How naïve you are! You’re scum, the pitiful daughter of a janitor! – Igor continued, turning to his friends who were watching the scene with sneers. – You should have seen how she was waving that rag, like doing kung-fu on the stairs! We just decided to have some fun, to play… It was clear that you were drooling over me. We thought you’d get it, that we’re not on the same path. Where are you, and where am I? Don’t even dream about a future! And you, Lyokha, give me five! I told you – she’ll throw herself at me…

Tears poured from Natasha’s eyes, burning her face and tearing her soul apart. It was a cynical joke, mockery. And she, the trusting fool, believed that she had managed to make him like her. How she got home, she couldn’t remember, but one thing was certain: she couldn’t continue studying at that university. It hurt too much to realize that those who had humiliated her were laughing behind her back and hurling insults.

Sveta tried to convince her not to withdraw from the university, but the decision had been made. Aunt Marina supported her choice, though she voiced her opinion about the “puppet masters.”

– I will always support you, my dear, – she said. – Whatever you decide. Although, personally, I’d break their backs – to let them know how dangerous it is to play with people’s feelings.

– No need… Let God punish them… And I’ll manage, even without a degree, – Natasha replied. – I just can’t bear their laughter.

She was grateful to her guardian for the support and understanding. Soon, Natasha found a job in an office. Of course, with an incomplete education, she couldn’t become an economist, but they offered her a manager position with a chance for career growth.

Natasha worked so hard that just a few months later, she received her first promotion. Over time, the owner of the company, Andrei, began to show interest in her. He was a successful and attractive man, and he courted her in a reserved and tactful manner. Despite the deep emotional scars, Natasha gradually started to trust him and allowed him to invite her on a date.

Their relationship developed slowly. There wasn’t fiery passion or dizzying emotions that usually ended in pain. Natasha loved Andrei with all her heart, and he confessed that he had fallen in love with her at first sight but hesitated for a long time before deciding to confess. He watched her, trying to understand if her feelings were genuine, and only then did he begin to act.

A year later, they got married, and four years after that, Natasha, after passing tests and improving her qualifications, became the director of one of Andrei’s subsidiary companies. They had enough money for her to take maternity leave, and Natasha often thought about having children. Aunt Marina promised to help, although she firmly refused to accept money from her foster child.

– I clean floors, and my figure is stunning! And if I stop moving, I’ll fall off! – she would say. – When you have grandkids, then I’ll quit this job and take care of them.

One day, a new economist came to the company. His simple clothes, bought at the market, sharply contrasted with the image Natasha remembered. It was Igor. She had heard from Sveta that his father had left the family for a young mistress, but she hadn’t expected to see him here.

Igor recognized her too. It was clear from his frightened look when he handed her his resume.

 

– I didn’t expect you’d rise from a cleaner to a director, – he muttered.

– Well, now we’ve switched places, – Natasha smiled.

She quickly scanned his resume and noted that he had little real work experience. Therefore, he wasn’t suitable for the economist position.

– You understand, there’s not enough experience. I need professionals. And you, as we know, skipped most of the classes. I can offer you a manager position with the potential for growth, but not soon… That’s your ceiling.

Igor didn’t dare to argue. After many interviews and rejections, this offer seemed like the best he could get.

– Thank you… And I’m sorry for that joke. I was foolish to do that with the guys. I regretted it later. Thank you for giving me a chance.

Natasha understood perfectly that Igor was lying. His words were just an attempt to get a job.

– If there are mistakes, find another job. I need responsible people. I’ve long forgotten the past because I don’t take it personally.

Igor nodded and, thanking her again, went to complete the paperwork. Inside, he felt a bitter realization. He had humiliated a person, and now he was in a similar situation. Now, he had to go around companies looking for clients, or else he would risk losing his job again. Only now did Igor realize how disgusting he had behaved in the past. Now he wanted to become a better person, hoping that even if he succeeded, he would never return to the person he used to be.

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Lera, not those blueprints again! My mom already made the decision,” Dmitry waved dismissively without even glancing at the plans laid out on the table.

Valeria sighed and let her hands fall to her sides. Yet another attempt to convince her husband had failed. An architect with honors, she sat before the project of their dream house—created by her own hands—unwanted by anyone.

“Dima, in your ‘friend architect’s’ project, the load-bearing walls are positioned so badly that the roof could collapse after the first snowfall. Do you even understand that?” Lera tapped her pencil on the paper, pointing out the obvious errors.

“Mom says Stanislav Sergeevich is a professional. He’s built houses for half her acquaintances.”

“Your mother knows nothing about construction,” Valeria bit her lip, trying to keep calm.

The doorbell rang. Lera already knew who it was before Dmitry even opened the door.

“Dmitry! Valeria!” Antonina Pavlovna’s voice rang through the apartment. “Have you signed the contract with Stanislav Sergeevich yet?”

Without waiting for an invitation, the mother-in-law walked straight to the kitchen and froze at the sight of the drawings.

“What is this?” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re back with your ideas again?”

“Hello, Antonina Pavlovna,” Lera forced a polite smile. “I just wanted to show an alternative layout.”

 

“Sweetheart,” Antonina Pavlovna sat down beside her and placed a hand on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “You’re wonderful at drawing sketches for magazines, but a house is serious business. You need a real specialist.”

Blood rushed to Valeria’s face. “Sketches for magazines” — that’s how she referred to her architectural projects that had been recognized in professional competitions.

“Mom’s right, Lera,” Dmitry chimed in. “Let’s trust the professionals.”

Valeria silently gathered her drawings. After all, it was their joint money, their joint house. But arguing further was pointless.

Six months passed. Money flowed like water. Stanislav Sergeevich constantly demanded extra payments for “unforeseen work.” Valeria bit her lip each time but said nothing as she watched their budget melt away.

One evening, Dmitry came home pale.

“Lera, we’ve got a problem,” he collapsed onto the couch. “The builders are refusing to continue. They say the project has serious flaws. We need to redo the foundation.”

“What exactly did they say?” Valeria straightened instantly.

“Something about load-bearing capacity and groundwater levels. I didn’t catch the technical stuff.”

Valeria closed her eyes. This was exactly what she’d warned about six months ago.

“How much will it cost to fix?” she asked quietly.

“About a third of the budget. Which we don’t have anymore,” Dmitry rubbed his temples. “Maybe we take a loan?”

“No,” Valeria replied firmly. “I’ll fix it myself.”

“You?” Dmitry looked at her with disbelief. “Lera, this is a house, not a picture!”

“Dmitry, I’m a certified architect. I know what I’m doing.”

The next day, Valeria took a leave of absence and went to the construction site. After assessing the damage, she realized it was worse than expected. There was no money to hire a new crew. Only one option remained.

For the next three months, Lera was on site daily. She learned how to mix concrete, reinforce the foundation, work with rebar. At night, she studied construction forums and consulted specialists. Her hands blistered, her back ached, but each day brought small victories.

Dmitry rarely helped. He mostly spent time with his mother or “de-stressed after work.” Antonina Pavlovna visited the site to “inspect.” The money? All from Lera. She worked nights and spent her days at the build.

“My God, what are you turning this house into?” the mother-in-law gasped at the sight of Valeria with a trowel. “This won’t be a house, but a makeshift hut!”

“Mom, you know there’s no money left,” Dmitry shrugged.

“Couldn’t you have hired proper workers?” Antonina continued. “What will the neighbors think seeing your wife climbing the roof?”

“They’ll think your son has an incredible wife,” Valeria snapped. “One who’s not afraid of hard work.”

Antonina scoffed and turned away.

Months passed. The house slowly but surely took shape. Valeria plastered walls, painted ceilings, laid wiring. On weekends, holidays, any free moment—she was there.

A year later, the house was done. Cozy, warm, thoughtfully designed—exactly as Valeria had envisioned in her original plans.

They moved in. Dmitry looked around in awe.

“Amazing! I never thought we’d end up with such a house!”

Valeria raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“We?”

Soon Antonina Pavlovna showed up at the doorstep with a bag of goodies. She inspected the house with careful eyes.

“How lovely! So cozy! Who made it all so beautiful?”

“Lera,” Dmitry answered shortly. “She did everything herself.”

“Well done, dear!” Antonina hugged her. “I always said you had golden hands!”

Valeria just smiled. The house was her achievement, her triumph. No one could take that away.

They lived there for six months. Antonina visited every weekend, brought jams, rearranged trinkets, gave garden advice.

One day, Valeria’s friend Marina dropped by for tea.

 

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Most women can only dream of a mother-in-law like yours.”

Lera nodded, gazing out the window.

“Yes. Amazing how quickly she fell in love with the house. She used to call it a ‘makeshift hut.’”

Dmitry’s birthday was celebrated at the new home. Valeria spent all day cooking: baked meat, made his favorite salad, and baked a cake. His mother arrived first, with an expensive gift for her son.

“Dima deserves a celebration,” she kissed Valeria on both cheeks. “Such a wonderful house he built!”

Valeria said nothing. She was used to it by now. Used to her efforts being credited to others. As if she hadn’t built this house with her own hands.

Later, when the guests had left, Dmitry asked Valeria to stay in the living room. He looked unusually serious.

“Lera, we need to talk.”

“What happened?” Valeria tensed.

“Mom’s in trouble,” he lowered his voice. “She lost her apartment. Scammers tricked her into signing something.”

“Oh my God! We need to go to the police!”

“It’s too late. The apartment’s sold, the money’s gone. Mom’s homeless,” Dmitry sighed. “I thought… we should give her the house.”

Valeria froze.

“I built this house with my own hands! And now give it to your mother? What about us?”

“We’ll rent a one-bedroom. Temporarily, of course,” Dmitry avoided her gaze. “Mom’s elderly. She needs comfort.”

“Dmitry, I worked on this house for a year! No weekends, no holidays!”

“Lera, it’s just walls. But my mom—she’s family.”

“And what am I, Dima? Who am I to you?”

Antonina Pavlovna entered silently.

“Valeria, dear,” she began gently, “You’re young, beautiful. Your whole life is ahead of you. I’m an old woman. I don’t have much time left.”

“But this is our house,” Valeria said quietly. “We put all our savings into it. I put a year of my life into it.”

“Mother matters more than a bunch of walls,” Dmitry cut in.

That night Valeria couldn’t sleep. Something felt off. The story about scammers didn’t add up. The next morning, after Dmitry left for work, she went to the real estate agency where her friend Marina worked.

“Marina, I need information on Antonina Pavlovna Kovrova’s apartment,” she said, placing the address on the desk.

An hour later, she had the paperwork. The apartment hadn’t been sold. Under power of attorney from Antonina Pavlovna, it had been transferred to one Svetlana Igorevna Kovrova.

“That’s her daughter,” Marina explained. “Lives in another city. No scam. Just a family transfer.”

The room swam before Valeria’s eyes. Lies. All of it. And suddenly, everything clicked: the mother-in-law’s “admiration,” the frequent visits, Dmitry’s strange behavior.

At home, Valeria checked the documents for their house. Dmitry was the sole owner. She hadn’t interfered when construction started on that ridiculous plan. Pride had kept her silent. Now, it felt like a terrible mistake.

In Dmitry’s closet, she found a folder of documents. Among them—a draft of a deed gifting the house from Dmitry Kovrov to Antonina Pavlovna Kovrova. Date: next Thursday.

 

“So that’s it,” Valeria whispered. She understood everything. The apartment was given to her daughter, and now Dmitry wanted to give their house to his mother, so that in the event of a divorce, Valeria couldn’t claim anything.

Valeria acted fast. She gathered all receipts for construction materials she had bought. Collected photos of herself working on the house. Got written statements from neighbors about who had actually built it.

When Dmitry returned that evening, Valeria was waiting with a suitcase in the hallway.

“What’s going on?” Dmitry froze at the door.

“I know everything, Dima,” Valeria said calmly. “About your mom’s apartment. About the deed. About your plan.”

“What plan? You’ve lost your mind!”

“No, Dima. I’ve woken up. I’ve filed for divorce. And for division of property. This house is the result of my labor, and I will fight for it.”

Dmitry turned pale.

“You can’t prove anything! The house is in my name!”

“I have proof,” Valeria nodded to the folder. “And witnesses. Plenty of them.”

The trial lasted three months. Antonina never appeared. Dmitry claimed the house was his, and Valeria had just “helped a little.”

But the neighbors’ statements, photos, and receipts told a different story. The court acknowledged Valeria’s personal labor contribution and awarded the house to her, requiring her to compensate Dmitry for half the cost of the land.

A year passed. Valeria sat on the porch of that very house, watching the sun set. In the spacious living room worked three designers — her employees at her new firm, “Built by Hand.”

“Lera, a client’s here,” Marina, now her business partner, peeked in. “Says her husband hired an architect, but she doesn’t like the design.”

Valeria smiled.

“Invite her to the porch.”

A young woman with a folder of blueprints approached.

“Hello,” she said shyly. “I was told you help women create their dream homes.”

“Yes,” Valeria nodded, gesturing to the chair opposite. “Because sometimes, we have to build them ourselves. With our own hands.”

— “What is that supposed to be?” Valera pushed his dinner plate away, grimacing as though he’d found something inedible rather than stew.

— “Stew,” Kseniya looked up from her own serving, surprised. “The same one I’ve made dozens of times before. Is something wrong?”

— “The meat’s tough,” Valera shook his head. “And there aren’t enough spices. When Mom makes it, the meat melts in your mouth—and the aroma hits you as soon as you open the door.”

 

Kseniya froze, fork in hand. In three years of dating and a year of living together before the wedding, Valera had never once criticized her cooking. On the contrary, he always praised it, asked for seconds, and rejoiced when she made his favorite dishes. Yet now, barely two months into marriage, he’d suddenly grown picky.

— “You used to like my stew,” she reminded him, trying to stay calm.

— “I had nothing to compare it with back then,” Valera shrugged. “Mom cooked it again recently, and I tasted the difference.”

Kseniya set her fork down. Over the past few weeks this was the fifth or sixth dish Valera had compared to his mother’s—always to Kseniya’s disadvantage.

— “Funny you noticed only now,” she said without reproach. “We’ve been together four years. Were you suffering in silence all that time?”

Valera faltered, then recovered quickly:

— “Marriage changes how you see things. Now you’re my wife, not just a girlfriend—you should live up to that.”

— “Live up to what?” Kseniya frowned. “Or to whom?”

— “Well… to a certain standard,” he answered vaguely. “You’re the lady of the house now.”

She recalled how, just a week earlier, Valera had scolded her cleaning, and before that the wallpaper she’d chosen for the hallway—always citing his mother as the model.

— “You want me to be like Zinaida Mikhailovna?” she asked outright.

— “What’s wrong with that?” Valera seemed genuinely surprised. “Mom’s the perfect woman—she can do everything, looks after everyone, creates coziness. You could learn a lot from her.”

Kseniya silently cleared the table. A year ago Valera had admired her independence and modern outlook, saying he was tired of girls who only knew how to cook borscht and mop floors, calling Kseniya “a breath of fresh air.” Where had that gone?

— “Mom’s coming over this Sunday,” Valera mentioned off-handedly, eyes on his phone. “She offered to show you the right way to cook.”

— “Really?” Kseniya paused with a stack of plates. “When did you two arrange that?”

— “We talked this afternoon,” he said without looking up. “She’s worried I’m not eating well.”

— “Because I cook badly,” Kseniya finished for him.

— “I didn’t say that.”

— “But you thought it,” she clattered the dishes into the sink so loudly Valera flinched. “And you told your mom, since she’s coming to teach me.”

— “Come on, Ksyusha,” he finally lifted his eyes. “Mom just wants to help.”

Zinaida Mikhailovna arrived on Sunday at noon sharp, lugging bags of groceries—an insult in itself, as though their fridge were empty.

— “Valera looks gaunt,” she declared, hugging her son. “You’re under-fed, my poor boy.”

Kseniya clenched her teeth but kept quiet.

— “Ksyusha, dear, I brought real beef from a trusted farmer,” her mother-in-law pulled out an impressive cut. “You have to tenderize it properly; then it’ll be soft. Watch and learn.”

The next two hours were torture. Zinaida commanded the kitchen like a general, criticized Kseniya’s every move, and lectured endlessly on how essential it was for a woman to please her husband at the table.

— “Valera likes more paprika in his stew,” she instructed. “And always add rosemary.”

— “Funny,” Kseniya couldn’t resist. “For four years Valera ate my stew without rosemary and never asked for paprika.”

— “He just didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Zinaida smiled sweetly. “Men are so delicate about a loved one’s feelings.”

Valera, lounging in the next room by the TV, offered no comment. That evening, after his mother left an immaculate kitchen and three containers of food behind, Kseniya felt utterly drained.

— “Your mom thinks I’m useless,” she told Valera.

— “She just wants you to meet our standards, help you out,” he waved it off. “By the way, the stew came out amazing. That’s what experience means!”

Kseniya said nothing. One thought spun in her mind: What’s happening to my husband?

Zinaida’s visits became a weekly ritual. Every Sunday she arrived with new groceries, recipes, and unsolicited advice. Soon the sphere of her influence spread from the kitchen to Kseniya’s wardrobe.

— “This sweater does nothing for your figure, dear,” she remarked one visit. “When I was your age I wore fitted dresses. Men like their wives feminine.”

— “I’m comfortable in a sweater,” Kseniya answered coolly, chopping vegetables.

— “Comfort and beauty are different,” Zinaida produced a bundle from her bag. “I brought you a dress. Valera will love it.”

The dress was an exact copy of one Zinaida wore in photos twenty years ago—beige, with a stand-up collar and three-quarter sleeves.

— “Very… conservative,” Kseniya laid it on a chair. “But it’s not my style.”

— “And what is your style? Jeans and baggy sweaters?” Zinaida pursed her lips. “Valera was raised differently. He expects elegance.”

— “He liked how I dressed before the wedding,” Kseniya objected.

— “Men tolerate a lot before the wedding,” the older woman retorted.

That night, after Zinaida left, Valera eyed his wife:

— “Why didn’t you try on the dress? Mom’s upset.”

 

— “I’m not a doll to be dressed up,” Kseniya crossed her arms.

— “Mom was being nice. She looked stunning at your age—I have pictures.”

— “And you want me to be a replica of her?” Irritation rose inside Kseniya.

— “I want you to listen to an experienced woman’s advice,” Valera raised his voice. “Mom built a perfect family, raised me, always supported Dad. And you keep resisting!”

— “Because I’m me!” Kseniya cried. “Not your mother, not anyone else’s copy! If you needed a housewife in a beige dress, why marry me?”

Valera left the room, slamming the door. That night they slept on opposite edges of the bed, not touching.

The next week passed in tense silence. Kseniya noticed Valera stayed late at work more often, calling his mother first thing on getting home. One day she came back early and found Valera and Zinaida rearranging their living room.

— “What’s going on?” she asked, staring at the new layout.

— “Mom helped me redecorate,” Valera said. “It’s cozier, isn’t it?”

The room Kseniya had arranged with love now mirrored Zinaida’s living room—same curtains, same furniture placement, even identical cushions.

— “You didn’t even ask me,” Kseniya felt a lump in her throat.

— “I wanted to surprise you,” he seemed bewildered by her reaction. “Mom says this harmonizes the space.”

— “And my opinion doesn’t matter? This is my home too!”

— “Of course, dear,” Zinaida inserted smoothly. “That’s why I’m helping. A woman should create comfort, and you—”

— “And I what?” Kseniya turned to her. “What’s wrong with how I set up our home?”

— “Nothing, just a bit… youthful,” Zinaida smiled condescendingly. “Experience will teach you that a home reflects the woman who keeps it.”

— “Or the man who owns it,” Kseniya shot back. “Or his mother who orders everyone around.”

— “Ksyusha!” Valera stepped forward. “Apologize this instant!”

— “For not wanting to become your mother’s clone?” Kseniya’s voice rose. “Every day you demand I cook like her, dress like her, furnish like her! What’s next—talk like her, style my hair like hers?”

— “Don’t exaggerate!” Valera clenched his fists. “Mom’s just showing how a proper wife behaves!”

— “So I’m not a proper wife?” Kseniya grabbed her bag. “Fine. I need air. Keep turning our apartment into a museum of your childhood.”

She left them standing in the living room.

Kseniya returned after midnight. The apartment was silent—Zinaida gone, Valera apparently asleep. In the bathroom she washed her face, staring at the stranger in the mirror: lost, cornered. When had she allowed herself to become this way?

— “Where were you?” Valera’s voice made her jump.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face stone-hard in the half-light.

— “Walking. I needed to clear my head.”

— “Until one a.m.? Do you realize how that looks? Mom was upset—she meant well, and you just walked out.”

— “Meant well for whom? For you? For her? Certainly not for me.”

— “You’ve become so selfish,” he shook his head. “You used to be different.”

— “No, Valera,” she passed him into the bedroom. “I’ve always been like this—you used to accept it. Even liked it. Now you want a silent doll—a replica of your mother.”

He followed her:

— “Mom just wants to teach you to be a good wife.”

— “And who decides what makes a good wife? Your mother? Maybe I have a say?”

— “You twist everything,” he raised his voice. “Mom has huge experience—thirty happy years of marriage!”

— “Wonderful for her,” Kseniya buttoned her pajamas. “But I’m not your mother. I have my own ideas about family.”

— “Apparently those ideas don’t include respecting your husband and his parents,” he sneered.

— “And yours don’t include respecting your wife and her individuality,” she shot back. “Remember? You loved my independence before. Now you’re forcing me into the very mold you once despised.”

Valera clenched his teeth:

— “After marriage things change—you need responsibility, maturity.”

— “Maturity, yes. Losing myself, no,” she sat on the bed. “Tell me honestly—was it your mother who pushed you to ‘re-educate’ me? Or did you decide I’m not good enough?”

He looked away—answer enough.

— “Thought so,” she said softly. “By the way, your mother called me today—wanted to talk ‘woman to woman.’ Did she mention that?”

Valera frowned:

— “No. What did she say?”

 

— “That I’m unworthy of you—too modern, too independent, not ‘right.’ She said I’d never make you happy unless I copy her.”

— “Mom would never—”

— “Oh, she would,” Kseniya stepped closer. “The worst part isn’t that she thinks so—it’s that you agree. You married me, then tried to remake me into your mother.”

— “Don’t be ridiculous!”

— “It’s the truth. And it became clear when she left town for two weeks and you started nitpicking three times harder—to prove you were following her orders.”

Anger distorted Valera’s face:

— “You’re just jealous of my relationship with Mom!”

— “No. I see I’m becoming a third wheel in my own marriage—after you and your mother.”

— “Stop insulting her!” he balled his fists.

— “I’m stating facts. You both decided what your wife should be and cram me into that mold. If I don’t fit—I’m the villain.”

— “You refuse to be a real wife!”

— “And you refuse to be a real husband!” Kseniya shouted. “A real man doesn’t let his mother interfere in his marriage! Doesn’t turn his wife into Mommy’s clone!”

Valera flushed deep red:

— “Shut up!”

— “No, I won’t! Want me to turn into Mommy? You’ll fail! Go hide under her skirt!”

His hand flew up but stopped a centimeter from her face. They froze, realizing how close they’d come to the edge.

— “You…” Valera lowered his hand, voice trembling. “You’ll regret those words.”

— “No,” Kseniya stepped back. “You’ll regret not accepting me as I am—letting your mother wreck our marriage.”

Valera left the room in silence. She heard him in the hallway, the rustle of clothes, a suitcase zipper. When she emerged, he stood at the door with a bag.

— “I’m filing for divorce,” he said coldly. “You’re right—we shouldn’t go on.”

— “Agreed,” Kseniya replied, surprised by her own calm. “It’s best for both of us.”

Six months flew by. The divorce was swift—he didn’t claim her apartment; she left his car. Zinaida tried to interfere—calls, angry texts, even showing up at the door—but Kseniya stood firm. No one would dictate her life anymore.

Spring brought warmth and new prospects. Kseniya was promoted, enrolled in photography courses—her long-time hobby Valera had called a waste—and completely redecorated the apartment: no beige curtains or tacky figurines, just bright colors, minimalism, comfort.

One sunny day she returned from a photo walk in the park, camera full of blooming trees. For the first time in ages, she felt genuinely happy.

— “Ksyusha?”

She turned to see Valera outside a café, a grocery bag in hand. He looked gaunt, drained—far from the confident man she’d known.

— “Hi,” she stopped, unsure how to react.

— “You… you look great,” he said in wonder. “You’re glowing.”

— “Thanks. How are you?”

— “Okay,” he shrugged. “Living with Mom until I move to a new place. Work’s steady.”

An awkward pause. He seemed restless, eyes darting.

— “Coffee?” he blurted out. “Just to talk. Like old friends.”

Kseniya hesitated. Six months ago she’d have refused, but now she felt strong enough to face the past.

— “Why not,” she agreed.

Inside they sat by the window with coffee. He clearly had something to say but struggled to start.

— “I’ve seen your photos online,” he began. “They’re beautiful. You’ve always had a good eye.”

— “Now I have time for what I love,” she stirred her drink.

— “Ksyusha, I…” he faltered. “I want to apologize. I behaved like an idiot.”

She met his gaze:

— “What changed?”

— “I did,” he said quietly. “I started therapy. Turns out I have a serious issue with boundaries—dependency on Mom’s approval.”

— “How did Zinaida Mikhailovna take that?” Kseniya asked.

— “Badly,” he chuckled sadly. “She says therapy’s nonsense. We argue a lot. I’m renting a place across town to see her less.”

She raised an eyebrow:

 

— “So you finally stood up to her?”

— “Not right away,” he admitted. “I kept blaming you, thought you ruined our marriage with stubbornness. Dated a couple of girls—same story: Mom interfered, I compared, demanded… they left. Just like you.”

He sipped his coffee, then:

— “Then I met Anya, a psychologist. First we talked, then she became my therapist. She helped me see the unhealthy bond with Mom—and how I destroyed our marriage.”

— “I’m glad you realized that,” she said sincerely.

— “Ksyusha,” he looked into her eyes, “I know I’m asking the impossible, but… could we try again? I’m different now. I won’t try to change anyone.”

Kseniya studied him. She saw genuine remorse. He had changed—but so had she.

— “Valera, I appreciate your honesty,” she said gently. “And your growth. But our paths diverged. I’ve found myself—learned to live how I want, without meeting others’ expectations. I don’t want to go back, even if it might be different.”

He dropped his gaze:

— “I figured. But I had to ask.”

— “You know,” she smiled slightly, “you gave me an odd gift. If you hadn’t tried to mold me into your mom, I might never have learned to stand up for myself. So… thank you.”

— “Glad someone benefited,” he smiled wryly.

They finished their coffee, chatting about mutual friends. At the door he asked:

— “Are you happy, Ksyusha?”

She thought a moment, then nodded:

— “Yes. For the first time in a long while, truly happy. And you?”

— “I’m learning to be,” he replied. “Learning to be myself, not an extension of Mom’s ambitions. It’s hard—but worth it.”

They went their separate ways. Walking home, Kseniya reflected on how strangely life works: sometimes you must lose something to find yourself; the most painful lessons often prove the most valuable.

Next day Valera messaged: “Thanks for meeting. I’m glad you’re happy. You deserve it.”

Kseniya smiled and replied simply: “You too.”

Vera was sitting on the edge of the bed, sorting through the children’s clothes that she had recently dumped out of the closet. It was time to update her daughter’s wardrobe. She was growing so fast, and most of her clothes were already too small. Time flew like sand slipping through one’s fingers… too quickly and imperceptibly. It slipped away, leaving behind only memories. Sometimes they were unpleasant, but they remained part of our lives.

“Verusik, are you here? Need help?” her husband asked, crouching beside her.

“No, I’ve got it. While Lesya is with her grandma, I decided to sort through her wardrobe and tidy up the room.”

“I can help. And then we can spend some time together.”

“If you want to spend time together, just say so. I can postpone the cleaning. After all, how would you sort the necessary things from the unnecessary? You’re the one who gets confused,” Vera laughed.

Oleg blushed slightly.

 

“What’s there, what’s there. You’re such a clever woman. I don’t even know what I’d do without you.”

Two years ago, Vera had run away from her first husband with their three-year-old child. She was tired of the endless drinking and tantrums that the man threw at her, each time getting so drunk that he lost all sense. Attempts to reason with him never led to anything good. Fearing that her husband might completely lose control and start laying a hand on her or their daughter, Vera left. She took a one-way ticket and hoped for the best. Almost immediately, she managed to rent an apartment, enroll her daughter in kindergarten, and find a good job. It was there that Vera met Oleg. She told herself that she would never again wear a wedding ring, but Oleg turned out to be persistent. He didn’t rush his beloved, yet he never refused his intent to charm her. Lesya grew accustomed to him and, from time to time, began calling him “daddy.” Six months ago, Vera finally agreed to become his wife. And she hasn’t regretted it once. Even though Oleg’s parents were against his marriage to a woman who had already been married and had a child, he didn’t ask for permission and made it clear to everyone that he wouldn’t let anyone control his life. Oleg didn’t allow anyone to speak ill of his beloved, quickly setting everything in its place. Her mother-in-law couldn’t sway his decision to marry.

Putting off the cleaning for later, Vera agreed to go for a walk with her husband. They didn’t spend much time together, but today was a day off, and the weather outside practically sang that it was time to seize the moment and go out.

“By the way, my parents have invited us to my father’s birthday celebration. They’ve decided to celebrate at a restaurant. They’ve booked a separate area with entertainers for the children. A lot of relatives will be there. Shall we go?”

Even though her mother-in-law didn’t really like her daughter-in-law, Vera tried to befriend the woman. She believed that in time Valentina Stepanovna would come to terms with it, see that her son was happy, and stop nagging him. If they were invited to a family celebration, that could be taken as a step toward establishing a relationship.

“But it’s your father! How could I refuse? Besides, he seems to treat Lesya well.”

Her father-in-law indeed welcomed his son’s choice and treated her daughter kindly. He said that it was Oleg’s life with Vera, and if he was happy, then he would be happy for his son.

“Well, that’s great! Then in a week we’ll go. And if you need a new dress, just say the word.”

“Where would I get new dresses? Let the money accumulate. What if we suddenly need to buy a stroller for the baby, children’s furniture… you know how many expenses come with a small child. With Lesya, it’s already a lot, and the second baby will demand even more at first.”

Oleg smiled. He loved Lesya like his own daughter, yet he was comforted by the thought that he and Vera might have a child together. Sometimes doubts crept in—would he end up loving his own child more? But he quickly dismissed them. Besides, how can one divide the love for children?

The week flew by. Vera had already picked up her daughter from her mother’s. Olesya was happy to return home to her beloved toys.

“Mom, do we really have to go somewhere?” Lesya frowned as Vera braided her long hair, getting ready to go to the restaurant.

“Grandpa Gena’s birthday. We need to go and congratulate him. Besides, Oleg said there would be other children and entertainers there. Don’t you want to have some fun?”

Lesya merely shrugged. Her reluctance was evident. Children are such sensitive beings, so Vera understood that her daughter also found it difficult to interact with a stepmother. Valentina Stepanovna had immediately forbidden the girl from calling her “grandma,” insisting that she be addressed by her first name and patronymic. This wasn’t a problem, of course, but the child didn’t understand why she was being pushed aside.

After getting ready, Vera hoped that everything would go well. If her husband’s parents had invited them, they should behave appropriately. She wanted to believe that everything would end without a scandal, but… inside there was still a sense of anxiety. Her intuition rarely failed her, so Vera tried to keep her finger on the pulse whenever that sinking feeling appeared.

Her mother-in-law cast a disdainful look at Vera and Lesya as soon as they approached to congratulate the celebrant, and spoke to her daughter-in-law in a strict tone:

“Let’s step aside for a moment so we can talk.”

Vera and Oleg exchanged glances. Oleg squeezed Lesya’s little hand and smiled. The mother promised that she would try to behave well and apologize to his wife. Oleg hoped that would indeed happen. He nodded to Vera, signaling that she shouldn’t worry.

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” Valentina Stepanovna demanded as soon as they stepped aside.

“Humiliate? Why do you say that? I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. If you don’t like the way we’re dressed…”

“Why should I care how you’re dressed? Your daughter doesn’t belong at a family celebration! She’s a stranger to us! Why did you bring her along? I invited you and my son, not this… daughter of an alcoholic.”

Vera felt her hand begin to itch. She wanted to smack her mother-in-law and force an apology for her carelessly thrown words, but the woman swallowed her pride. If a scandal broke out, everyone would condemn her. In the end, her words carried no real weight. It became clear—befriending her was impossible. The woman would never stop insisting that her son had chosen an unworthy wife. No matter how hard Vera tried, she would never be seen as good in the eyes of someone who had already judged her solely on the fact that she had a child.

“You know, I’ve endured your insults for a long time, always hoping that something in your stone heart would soften. Lesya is just a small child. She doesn’t understand why you hate her so much. For Oleg’s sake, I tried to build a relationship with you, but everything has its limits. I’m tired of crawling on my hands and knees before you, of enduring your sidelong glances at me and my daughter. Knowing that Oleg will support me and could even cut you off, I endured, but now I’m tired. I see that no matter how hard I try, I can never be good in your eyes, so I won’t tolerate it any longer. Valentina Stepanovna, know that if your son stops speaking to you, it won’t be my fault.”

Vera wanted to leave, but her mother-in-law grabbed her hand, squeezing her wrist so tightly that the skin ached with pain.

“Are you threatening me? How dare you utter such words? A son will never abandon his mother. Soon he’ll understand that such cheapness isn’t worthy of being his wife, and he’ll leave you! Didn’t you think that one day he’d get fed up and leave you? There are so many young and innocent girls around! Why would he need a wife with someone else’s child? He can marry someone who will bear him his own child! And then he won’t have to spend money on someone else’s child.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Perhaps Valentina Stepanovna thought her words would hurt Vera, but Vera trusted her husband. She hadn’t become his wife for nothing. She was confident in Oleg, as much as in herself, and knew he didn’t make empty promises. Her husband loved her and his daughter. The mother-in-law didn’t see how, in the evenings, Oleg would read fairy tales to Lesya, how he would cover the girl with a blanket and kiss her on the forehead. He treated his daughter better than her biological father ever did. He had become a true father for Lesya. And Vera never doubted this sensitive, understanding man. Because of her mother-in-law, she didn’t want to quarrel with her husband, but she could only smile through her disdain. She had already done enough trying to please her mother-in-law, yet the woman didn’t appreciate it. It was time to put an end to it, if an ellipsis had turned out to be the wrong punctuation mark.

 

Vera left, not allowing her mother-in-law to say any more hurtful words. Getting closer to her husband and daughter, she apologized to Gennady Dmitrievich, citing poor health—even though everyone clearly understood the real reason—and hurried away with her family from that stifling place.

Only when Lesya had fallen asleep did Oleg approach his wife and squeeze her hand. He had hoped that his mother would keep her promise and apologize to his wife, but he had trusted in vain.

“Did she say something bad again?”

“Why pretend that everything is fine if it isn’t? I don’t want to turn you against your mother, but you have to understand my feelings. Valentina Stepanovna hates my daughter. That won’t change. Every time she says she can’t stand Lesya, that she doesn’t belong at family events. Olezhka, I love you, but I can’t keep trying to mend things with your mother. What’s the point if with every attempt she lets out more barbs? It’s better to leave it as it is and stop trying. You can keep in touch with your parents—I don’t mind at all—but I’d rather not. It’s too hard. I tried not to take it to heart, but when you’re hurt more and more each time, it’s hard to hold on.”

Oleg just nodded and pulled his wife close. He understood perfectly and was disappointed by his mother’s behavior. The man couldn’t accept her nasty behavior. Deciding that there was no point in talking to his mother any longer, Oleg began to distance himself from the family.

One evening, Valentina Stepanovna met Vera as she was returning from work. The woman tried to provoke a scandal, but the daughter-in-law did not respond to the provocations. She simply ignored her words and remarks, pretending not to notice them at all. Oleg kept in touch with his father, but he rarely called his mother, and even less often answered her calls. When Valentina Stepanovna asked what was wrong, the son plainly stated that he wouldn’t allow anyone to insult his wife and daughter, and if his mother had any issues, she could permanently cut him out of her life.

A year later, Vera shared joyful news with her husband—she was pregnant. Oleg took on preparing Lesya for school so that his wife could rest more. However, his mother decided that she wouldn’t accept a grandchild… even if it was his own, since the child was to be born to the woman who had ruined her relationship with her son. Valentina Stepanovna still bore a grudge against Vera and refused to communicate with her. Deep down, she hoped that one day her son would realize everything, take his child, and divorce her, even though she understood that would never happen. Oleg loved his family too much, and his mother could not influence his life, for the chick had long since flown from the nest.

Olya came to after an excruciating headache. With great effort, she managed to pry her eyes open, and she had no idea where she was or how she had ended up there. Her memories seemed to have been wiped clean. Pitch darkness surrounded her, and nearby, sounds could be heard. These cries cut through her aching head like the toll of a bell.

Summoning all her strength, she got up from the bench and decided to find out what was causing the noise. Rounding the corner, Olya saw two young men trying to snatch a purse from an elderly woman’s hands.

 

«Hey, what are you doing?» she shouted with all her might.

«Bro, check it out—here’s another one,» one of the young men said as he headed toward Olya. The other followed him.

Taking advantage of the moment, the old lady pulled out her phone and dialed 112: «Hello, please come quickly to Lenin Alley, house 25. I was attacked—they tried to rob me—and now they’re harassing the girl.»

«A patrol is already on its way to your address. Someone from the area already called,» the operator replied.

After hanging up, the grandmother decided to take matters into her own hands: «Hey, isn’t my purse of any interest anymore?»

«Back off, old woman. We have more important business here,» one of the attackers snapped.

Finding nothing better to do, she picked up a stone from the ground and threw it in their direction. The guys got distracted from Olya and turned to face her.

At that very moment, the police arrived. The culprits were detained, the pensioner’s statement was taken, and they left.

«What’s your name, my savior?» asked the old lady as she came closer.

«Olya.»

«And I’m Svetlana Vasilievna. Dear, you don’t look well. Come with me, I’ll make you some tea. I live here.» She pointed to the nearest house.

«What savior? Someone did call the police.»

«Yes, but you weren’t afraid to intervene, even though it could have ended badly. Come with me.»

Ascending to the second floor, Olya squinted at the bright light in the apartment.

«Don’t be afraid, come in,» said the hostess, gasping as she saw her guest in the light. «Quickly take off your shoes and let’s go to the bathroom. We need to treat your wound. My goodness, what happened to you?»

In the bathroom, Svetlana Vasilievna began treating the wound on Olya’s head. «Vitka, bring my little suitcase from the bedroom!» she called.

A few minutes later, a little boy of about seven appeared.

«Don’t just stand there like a post. This is Aunt Olya—she saved me. Help out, come on, I’ve taught you everything.»

Twenty minutes later, they were having tea in the kitchen.

«Svetlana Vasilievna, I remember nothing. Only my name, and nothing else. I don’t even know how I ended up here.»

«You were hit hard on the head. Perhaps there are some documents in your pockets?»

«I didn’t even check.»

The boy quickly fetched Olya’s jacket from the hallway. After rummaging through the pockets, she found only a photograph. It showed her with a young man. On the back, it read: «Never give up, sis. Kostik.»

«I have a brother.»

«That’s good. That means someone will be looking for you. Tonight you’ll stay with us, and tomorrow we’ll decide what to do.»

Olya couldn’t sleep for a long time. She tried to remember something about herself, but to no avail. The headache worsened from the tension, and eventually, exhaustion took over.

When she woke up, the clock showed noon.

«Awake, beautiful.»

«I’m sorry—I didn’t think I’d sleep this long.»

«Don’t apologize; there’s no rush. I’ve already called some acquaintances. There are no reports of missing women with the police, but they’ll be checking. I left your description. And we need to show you to a doctor. I’ve arranged something at the hospital.»

«But I don’t have any documents.»

«That’s not important. Many people in our town owe me a little,» Svetlana Vasilievna smiled.

«You know how many lives my grandmother saved. She worked as a surgeon,» Vitia added proudly.

«Shh. One doesn’t boast about saving lives—it’s every doctor’s duty. But over the years, one does accumulate acquaintances. Now I’m retired. I’m looking after him while his father is away working.»

Olya decided not to ask about the boy’s mother, deciding it wasn’t her business.

After a hearty lunch, Svetlana Vasilievna and Olya went to the hospital. Olya was taken to various offices, underwent examinations and tests. The final diagnosis came like a sentence: amnesia caused by a head injury. The doctors assured her that her memory would eventually return, but that treatment needed to continue for now.

 

«You’ll stay with us for now,» said Svetlana Vasilievna at dinner. «I’ll provide you with medical care no worse than what you’d get in a hospital.»

«Thank you, Svetlana Vasilievna. You know, when we were at the hospital, I somehow knew the names of the medical equipment. Although that doesn’t mean much—anyone could know the names. Maybe I worked in a hospital?»

«Time will tell. Don’t worry or stress. The main thing right now is to take care of your head.»

It had been two weeks since Olya had been living with Svetlana Vasilievna and Vitia. During that time, they had grown very close. Olya tried to help around the house. She learned that Vitia’s mother had abandoned them two years ago after finding a wealthier man who didn’t want to be a stepfather. After the divorce, Dmitry—Vitia’s father—discovered that his ex-wife had left enormous debts. Now he was working off those debts in shifts. According to Svetlana Vasilievna, his hardship was not so much financial as it was emotional—he had loved his wife very much.

«Svetlana Vasilievna, I feel perfectly fine. I can’t keep depending on you all the time. I need to find a job. But how can I do that without any documents?»

«Well, we’ll figure that out, Olenka. But only if the doctors permit.»

Olya did not feel burdened by Svetlana Vasilievna at all. On the contrary, she became an indispensable helper, and the elderly woman was very grateful to her. Moreover, the holidays were about to end soon, and Vitia would start school—bringing even more responsibilities.

When the doctors gave the green light for her to work, Svetlana Vasilievna took her to another department of the hospital.

«Here, Olenka, meet my old friend Andrey Pavlovich. You’ll work as a cleaner in his department. Do you agree?»

«Of course, I agree. Thank you very much. Nice to meet you. When can I start?»

«Tomorrow. And today, familiarize yourself with the department and get your uniform.»

That evening, upon seeing a cake on the table, Vitia became delighted:

«Are we having a celebration?»

«Yes. I got a job. More precisely, your grandmother helped me with that,» Olya smiled.

«And now you’ll leave us?» the boy asked sadly.

«No one is going anywhere. Who would let her go? She is now like family to us.»

Their cheerful laughter was interrupted by a knock on the door. Olya hurried to open it—neighbors often visited with requests for Svetlana Vasilievna. Sometimes they came to have their blood pressure checked, sometimes to ask for advice. Although she always grumbled that they should go to the doctor instead of her, people still came, knowing they would receive help.

This time, a man with a bag stood on the doorstep. Olya didn’t recognize him immediately, only when a joyful Vitia shouted:

«Dad’s here!»

The boy immediately started telling his father about Olya, and she blushed at his praises of her as a heroine.

Later, when Dmitry put Vitia to bed, the adults gathered in the kitchen.

«That’s the story, son. Now you know everything.»

«Why didn’t you at least warn me over the phone? I looked so foolish when Olga opened the door.»

«You’re always in a hurry. You didn’t even inform me of your arrival. Are you staying for a long time this time?»

«What, are you tired of me already?» the man laughed.

«You’ll get your come-uppance soon enough!» said Svetlana Vasilievna, pretending to wave a towel.

Dmitry was set up to sleep on a folding bed in Vitia’s room.

«Svetlana Vasilievna, maybe I could sleep there?» Olya asked timidly.

«He’s the father and hasn’t seen his son in a long time. And we girls need separate rooms as well. So that’s not up for discussion,» Svetlana Vasilievna replied sternly, making it clear that the discussion was over.

Days passed unnoticed. At first, work was difficult for Olya, but then she found special pleasure in talking with the patients. Listening to their stories about life and illnesses, she often caught herself thinking that she knew how to treat various ailments. But she attributed that to overheard conversations among the doctors. No one complained about her, and even the usually strict Andrey Pavlovich stopped reminding her that she could be fired at any moment, despite Svetlana Vasilievna’s recommendation.

The only thing that troubled her was the complete absence of any memories about herself. She often looked at the photograph and wondered why her brother hadn’t been looking for her.

On weekends, the four of them often went out together for walks. It felt to Olya as though she had always lived with this family. Vitia had become especially attached to her. She feared that the boy would grow too attached—because sooner or later she would remember everything and leave. And although she tried not to admit it to herself, that too would feel like a loss.

Today, work was a bustle. From early morning, everyone was running around doing something. Olya received countless orders. Later, she learned that an important guest was expected for an inspection, so everyone strove for perfect order. Olya wasn’t too anxious about the arrival of this person—she always conscientiously did her job.

Only one last ward needed cleaning. Today, a new patient had been admitted there. As she was cleaning, several doctors entered the ward. Ignoring Olya, they began discussing the patient’s diagnosis and symptoms, arguing and trying to prove each other’s points. The noise made Olya feel a bit dizzy, and she sat down. As usual, no one paid her any attention.

When the dizziness subsided, she approached the patient. Acting almost on instinct, Olya checked the patient’s pupils, measured the pulse, examined the monitor readings, and reviewed the nearby test results. The doctors fell silent as they watched her actions.

Then, turning to them, she said, «You’re all mistaken. This patient must be urgently transferred to the neurology department and undergo additional tests.» She scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to one of the doctors. «Here is the probable diagnosis.»

Her supervisor was the first to regain his senses.

«How dare you even touch a patient? You’re just a cleaner who knows nothing about medicine! Get out of here, and I never want to see you here again!»

Realizing her mistake, Olya decided to leave the ward as quickly as possible—in fact, to leave the hospital altogether.

Svetlana Vasilievna was extremely surprised to see Olya home earlier than expected.

«What happened?»

Olya lowered her gaze and recounted everything.

«Hold on. There’s some rationality in what you’re saying—I mean about the diagnosis and the patient. I’ll make a few calls now. Which doctor did you give the note to?»

Twenty minutes later, Svetlana Vasilievna returned to the kitchen.

«I have both good and bad news. Which should I start with?»

«Let’s start with the bad.»

«That old codger won’t take you back to work. And the others will be afraid too.»

«And what’s the good news then?»

«You turned out to be right. The doctor decided to verify your assumptions and conducted additional tests. The patient is already significantly better. And that means your memory has started to return.»

Olya smiled. Those words of hope truly outshone the bad news. She would find a job.

That evening, Dmitry cheered his mother: he had found a job in the city and no longer planned to leave. «Enough wandering,» he said. Then he asked if he could temporarily live there, while continuing to rent out his apartment. «After all, it’s not easy to be alone with Vitia.»

Of course, Svetlana Vasilievna was pleased with this decision. She hoped that it wasn’t only she and her grandson who would keep her son in the city.

Three days later, there was a knock on the door. Standing on the doorstep was a young man whom Svetlana Vasilievna recognized immediately—he was Olya’s brother. She invited him in.

Upon seeing her brother, Olya felt dizzy. She instantly recognized him—after all, she had looked at his photo many times during the day. He jumped up and supported her so that she wouldn’t fall.

«Sis! Forgive me! I didn’t know anything!»

«Don’t spout off so quickly—you see, she’s not feeling well. She’ll take a pill now and then we’ll talk calmly.»

Later in the kitchen, Kostik recounted his story:

 

«I went abroad to negotiate contracts for the supply of medical equipment. We inherited a clinic from our parents, where Olya worked as the chief physician. We split the duties: I handle the documentation, and she deals with the patients. I called the clinic—they said Olya had taken leave. When she didn’t answer my calls, I assumed she wanted some time alone after breaking up with her fiancé, whom I caught in the bedroom with another. And when I returned, it turned out that her assistant had unilaterally arranged her leave since Olya hadn’t shown up for work. I got so angry! I started calling all our acquaintances and raised an alarm about her disappearance. When I was about to contact the police, Ivan Alekseevich called. He had recently been in your city and suspected he’d caught a glimpse of Olya in a hospital—though, oddly, in the uniform of a cleaner. So I headed here immediately. I found out from the chatty nurses about the cleaner who made the exact diagnosis on a difficult patient. I showed them a photo—they recognized her. And finding the address wasn’t hard at all.»

«I came here to clear my head and check out the city. I wanted to open a new branch in another city and escape my burdensome memories. And while I was walking in the city, someone struck me from behind,» Olya said softly.

Four months passed.

«Dad, is Olya really coming today?»

«Definitely, son. Don’t disturb me—I’m getting ready for her arrival.»

«Oh, look at him getting ready! As if stuffing a chicken in the oven and wearing a clean shirt is something special!» laughed Svetlana Vasilievna.

«Dad, is she never going to leave again?» Vitia persisted.

«If your dad is more decisive, then no.»

«Mom, stop! I already said—I’m getting ready.»

That evening, everyone gathered together in the kitchen as before, only now Kostya was also there.

Raising her glass, Olya said, «I am endlessly glad that fate brought me together with such wonderful people. We have decided to open a clinic here, and I’m staying.»

«Hooray!» Vitia immediately shouted, and Olya ruffled his hair.

«I’ve missed you very much too, and now I’m not going anywhere. I promise.»

«And you all promise to take care of her,» said Kostik, winking at Dmitry. He, like Svetlana Vasilievna, had understood everything long ago.