All Amazing Babies

Valentina froze by the slightly open balcony door, listening to her husband’s phone conversation. The hot July air barely stirred the light curtains, and Dmitry’s voice came clearly and carelessly from the kitchen.

“Just one signature left — and the apartment is out!” her husband giggled into the phone. “Can you imagine, Svetka, how easy it all is?”

Valentina felt her breath catch. What apartment was Dmitry talking about? And who was Svetka?

“No, she’s a complete fool,” her husband continued. “She’ll sign anything I ask. The main thing is to present it correctly. Like, for tax benefits, for optimization…”

Valentina leaned against the wall, feeling her skin grow cold despite the summer heat. The three-room apartment in the city center had been inherited from her grandmother three years ago, before the marriage. Six months ago, Dmitry persuaded his wife to give him a power of attorney to manage the property. He said it would be easier to handle household matters if Valentina was at work or on a business trip. At the time, it seemed reasonable — trust between spouses should be complete.

“Listen, what if she wakes up to it?” the husband asked, apparently responding to the other person’s remark.

“It’ll be too late by then!” Dmitry laughed. “By that time, the apartment will already be sold. And we’ll start a new life with that money.”

Valentina closed her eyes, trying to process what she had heard. Dmitry was planning to deceive his own wife, lure her into signing some documents, sell the apartment, and then run away with his mistress.

“Don’t worry so much,” her husband soothed his lover. “Valya’s dumb, she won’t understand a thing. I’ll say it’s for re-registration, and she’ll sign. She trusts me completely.”

She did trust him. Three years ago, Valentina truly trusted Dmitry without limits. He seemed reliable, decent. He worked in a construction company, earned well, was attentive and caring. Or was skillfully pretending to be.

“No, the documents are almost ready,” Dmitry said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring them home, say they need to be signed urgently. Valya won’t even read them — she trusts me.”

Valentina quietly went to the bedroom, careful not to reveal her presence. Her heart was pounding so loudly it seemed her husband could hear it even from the kitchen. She needed time to think and decide.

“Alright, Svetik, see you tomorrow,” Dmitry ended the call. “Pack your bags. Soon we’ll be free and rich.”

Valentina heard her husband go to the bathroom. She quickly lay down on the bed, pretending to doze off. A few minutes later, Dmitry peeked into the bedroom.

“Val, are you sleeping?” he asked softly.

Valentina mumbled something unintelligible without opening her eyes. Dmitry nodded contentedly and went to the living room to turn on the TV.

Valentina didn’t sleep all night, thinking over what she had heard. The picture was grim. Her husband had taken a mistress, planned to sell the apartment and run away. And to him, his wife was just an obstacle to deceive.

In the morning, Dmitry was overly affectionate. He made breakfast, kissed his wife on the cheek, asked about her plans for the day.

“Valyush, I have a complicated paperwork day today,” he said, finishing his coffee. “Maybe I’ll bring something home for you to sign. The tax office requires re-registration of all deals.”

“What re-registration?” Valentina asked cautiously.

“Just a formality,” Dmitry waved it off. “New requirements introduced. All property owners have to update their papers.”

Valentina nodded, pretending to believe him. But in her mind, she noted: the deceit had begun. Dmitry was preparing the ground for his plan.

At work, Valentina found it hard to concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to yesterday’s conversation. How long had her husband been having an affair? When did he get a mistress? And most importantly — how long had this deception been planned?

In the evening, Dmitry came home with a folder of documents. His face showed business concern, but his eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“Val, these papers need to be signed,” Dmitry said, spreading the sheets on the table. “They’re urgent. By tomorrow.”

Valentina approached the table, carefully examining the documents. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and the stamps blurry. It was obvious — a forgery.

“What organization is this?” Valentina asked, pointing to the form.

“The tax inspection,” Dmitry answered without blinking. “They created a new department for working with real estate.”

Valentina took one of the sheets, pretending to read it carefully. In reality, she was just buying time, thinking over her next steps.

“Dim, why so urgent?” the wife asked. “Usually, they give time to study documents.”

“There’s a reform going on,” Dmitry explained. “Those who don’t manage by the end of the month will pay fines.”

Valentina put the papers aside.

“Know what, I’ll sign tomorrow morning,” she suggested. “I want to read carefully. What if I miss something important?”

Dmitry’s face darkened slightly.

“Val, there’s nothing to read. It’s standard procedure. The sooner you sign, the sooner they’ll leave you alone.”

“I still want to understand,” Valentina insisted. “It’s my apartment, after all.”

“Our apartment,” the husband corrected. “We’re family.”

Family. Valentina barely restrained a bitter smile. What family, if her husband planned to rob her and run away with a mistress?

“Fine,” Dmitry agreed after a pause. “But sign it tomorrow morning, definitely. Time’s running out.”

All night Valentina studied the documents. She had no legal education, but some points seemed suspicious. Strange wording, unusual requirements, dubious stamps.

In the morning, while Dmitry was in the shower, Valentina photographed the documents with her phone and sent them to her friend Oksana. Oksana worked in a law firm and could advise her.

“Val, have you signed yet?” Dmitry asked, coming out of the bathroom.

“Not yet,” Valentina replied. “I want to call the tax office first, clarify some details.”

Dmitry froze with a towel in his hands.

“Why call? It’s all clearly written.”

“For my own peace of mind,” Valentina explained. “The documents are serious, they concern real estate. Better to be safe.”

“But they’re urgent!” her husband objected. “Today’s the last day!”

“Then I’ll go to the tax office myself,” Valentina offered. “I’ll sign there, in front of an employee.”

Dmitry’s face turned pale.

“Val, don’t complicate things. Sign at home, I’ll take the documents myself.”

“Why don’t you want me to go to the tax office?” Valentina asked directly.

“It’s not that,” Dmitry stammered. “There’s no time to wait in line.”

At that moment, Valentina’s phone rang. It was Oksana.

“Val,” her friend’s worried voice sounded loud, “those documents are fake! No tax office uses such forms!”

Valentina looked at her husband. Dmitry turned even paler, realizing the deception was uncovered.

“What did she say?” he asked, trying to stay calm.

“She says the documents are fake,” Valentina answered calmly.

Dmitry tried to feign surprise.

“Can’t be! They gave them to me at the office, said they were from the tax office.”

“What office?” Valentina inquired. “Your construction company?”

“Well… not exactly…” Dmitry hesitated. “A friend gave them to me, he has connections.”

Valentina put down the phone and looked at her husband closely.

“Dim, let’s be honest. What are these documents?”

“I told you, they’re from the tax office!” the husband began to protest.

“Don’t lie,” Valentina interrupted. “I heard your phone conversation yesterday.”

Dmitry froze, realizing his wife knew the truth. For several seconds, they looked at each other silently.

“What exactly did you hear?” he asked quietly.

“Everything,” Valentina replied shortly. “About Svetka, about selling the apartment, that I’m a fool and will sign anything you ask.”

Dmitry sank into a chair, knowing the game was over.

“Val, it’s not what you think…”

“It’s exactly what I think,” the wife interrupted. “You wanted to cheat me, sell my apartment, and run away with your mistress.”

“I can explain everything…”

“Go ahead,” Valentina said, crossing her arms.

Dmitry was silent, apparently trying to invent a believable story. But the facts spoke for themselves.

“So, nothing to explain,” Valentina stated. “Then I’ll act on my own.”

The husband raised his head, anxiety flashing in his eyes.

“What are you going to do?”

“Protect my property,” Valentina answered, gathering the fake documents into a stack. “If you decided to rob me, then there’s no trust between us anymore.”

“Val, let’s discuss everything calmly…”

“It’s too late for discussion,” the wife interrupted. “You already decided everything for me. Now it’s my turn to decide.”

Valentina took her phone and dialed the Multifunctional Center (MFC). Dmitry silently watched as his wife made an appointment with a real estate specialist for the nearest time.

“I made an appointment for tomorrow,” Valentina reported, ending the call. “I’ll block any changes to the apartment documents without my personal presence.”

“Why such extremes?” the husband tried to object.

“Extremes are planning to steal your wife’s apartment,” Valentina answered. “I’m just protecting my property.”

Dmitry stood and approached his wife.

“Val, I understand you’re upset…”

“Upset?” Valentina repeated, moving away from him. “I found out I’ve been living with a crook for three years. It’s not upset, it’s shock.”

“But we can fix everything!”

“What exactly fix?” the wife asked. “Your mistress or the plan to steal my apartment?”

Dmitry froze, realizing the hopelessness of the situation.

The next day Valentina took a day off work and went to the MFC. The employee listened carefully and explained possible protection options.

“Can we revoke the power of attorney on the property?” Valentina asked right away.

“Of course,” the employee replied. “It’s your right as the owner. Revoking the power of attorney strips the agent of all authority over your property.”

“Please do it urgently,” Valentina requested. “As soon as possible.”

“I also recommend notifying the notary who issued the power of attorney,” the employee added. “Then the revocation information will be entered into the common database.”

“I have inheritance documents,” Valentina confirmed. “The apartment is entirely mine, and I foolishly gave the power of attorney.”

“Understood. After revocation, your property will be fully protected.”

From the MFC, Valentina went to a lawyer. The elderly woman with many years of family law experience studied the situation carefully.

“Your husband wanted to use the power of attorney to sell your apartment,” Antonina Petrovna concluded. “Good thing you found out in time and revoked it.”

“What should I do next?” Valentina asked.

“Gather documents proving your case,” the lawyer advised. “And prepare for a divorce. After such betrayal, trust cannot be restored.”

Valentina nodded. The decision had matured yesterday, but she wanted a professional opinion.

“Are proofs of fraud necessary?” the client inquired.

“Preferable,” Antonina Petrovna answered. “But even without them, your position is strong. The apartment is yours by inheritance, power of attorney revoked. Your husband has no rights to the property.”

Valentina returned home in the evening. Dmitry greeted his wife with a guilty look.

“So, how was the trip?” the husband asked cautiously.

“I went,” Valentina confirmed. “Both to the MFC and the lawyer.”

“And what did they say?”

“That my rights are protected and your plans failed,” the wife answered briefly.

Dmitry sank onto the couch, realizing the seriousness of the situation.

“Val, maybe not all is lost? We can try to save the family…”

“What family?” Valentina wondered. “You were going to run away with Svetka using my money.”

“That’s all nonsense,” the husband waved his hands. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“And where did the fake documents come from?”

Dmitry was silent, not knowing what to say.

“Listen,” Valentina continued, “I don’t want to discuss your affair details or play the victim. We’ll just divorce civilly.”

“But the apartment…”

“My apartment,” the wife reminded. “Inherited before marriage. And I already revoked the power of attorney. You have no rights to my property anymore.”

“And where will I live?” Dmitry asked, confused.

“Not my problem,” Valentina replied. “Maybe Svetka will take you in.”

The next week, Valentina filed for divorce. Dmitry did not object, realizing the futility of disputes. There was nothing to divide — the apartment belonged to the wife by inheritance, the power of attorney was revoked, and the couple had no joint savings.

“You can stay here until the divorce is finalized,” Valentina offered. “But with conditions.”

“What conditions?” the husband asked warily.

“No meetings with your mistress in my apartment. No attempts to sign or re-register anything.”

Dmitry agreed but stayed only a week. The atmosphere in the house became unbearable — the spouses barely spoke, avoided each other, lived like strangers.

“I’ll rent a room,” the husband announced one morning. “It’ll be better for everyone.”

“Probably,” Valentina agreed.

Dmitry packed and left, leaving the apartment keys to his wife. Valentina saw him off without regret. Three years of marriage had been a deception, but the main thing was she had learned the truth in time.

Immediately after Dmitry’s departure, Valentina called a locksmith and changed the locks. Then she changed all passwords for her bank, email, and social networks. Security was paramount.

The divorce was finalized in a month. Dmitry didn’t even come to the registry office, sending a power of attorney. Valentina received the divorce certificate and felt relief.

That evening, Oksana called.

“So, are you free?” her friend asked.

“Free,” Valentina confirmed. “And very glad about it.”

“Not sad?”

“No,” Valentina answered honestly. “It would be sad if he sold the apartment and ran away. But I only gained — got rid of a crook.”

“Smart girl!” Oksana praised. “Few act so wisely in such situations.”

“Just lucky to find out in time,” Valentina noted. “One or two more days, and I would have signed those fake documents.”

“Was it intuition?”

“Not intuition, just coincidence,” Valentina laughed. “I just overheard his phone call with his mistress one summer evening.”

Six months later, Valentina learned from mutual acquaintances that Dmitry never married Svetka. The girl left him after finding out there would be no money from the apartment sale — the plan failed. The man remained alone, in a rented room, without family and prospects.

Meanwhile, Valentina renovated her three-room apartment. She changed furniture, bought new things, arranged her life to her own taste. Without regard to others’ plans and opinions.

Sometimes she remembered that conversation she accidentally overheard on a summer evening. If not for that coincidence, life could have turned out very differently. But fate protected her from betrayal, giving her the chance to make the right decision in time.

Taking a deep breath as if gathering strength before a leap into an unknown depth, Yulia Sergeyevna stepped across the threshold of the office building, as if entering a new chapter of her life. The morning sunlight filtering through the glass doors played glints on her well-groomed hair, highlighting the confidence in her stride. She walked through the hall filled with the quiet hum of voices and the clicking of heels, feeling how each step brought her closer to something important—not just a new job, but a change, an opportunity to be herself outside the familiar walls of home.

Approaching the receptionist’s desk, she smiled—softly but with dignity.

“Hello, I’m Yulia. Today is my first day at work,” she said, trying to make her voice sound firm, betraying no inner nervousness.

The receptionist—a young, pretty woman with delicate facial features and an attentive gaze—raised her eyebrows, as if surprised by the very thought that someone would willingly come to work in this particular office with its tense atmosphere.

“You’re… joining us?” Olga asked hesitantly. “Sorry, it’s just… few people last more than a month here.”

“Yes, I was hired yesterday in HR,” Yulia replied, feeling slight bewilderment. “And today is my first day. I hope everything will be fine.”

Olga looked at her with such genuine pity that Yulia was momentarily taken aback. But immediately the receptionist stood up, walked around the desk, and gestured for her to follow.

“Come with me, I’ll show you your workspace. Here, by the window—your desk. Bright, spacious… but be careful,” she added in a lowered voice. “Don’t forget to lock your computer, better yet—set a strong password. Not everyone here welcomes newcomers. And your work… it shouldn’t be seen through other people’s eyes.”

Yulia nodded, glancing around. The office was spacious, but there was a strange tension in the air. Behind monitors sat women—heavily made-up, in tight dresses, with hairstyles as if they were preparing not for office routine but a fashion show. They looked about eighteen, though their age was clearly over thirty. Their gazes slid coldly over the newcomer, assessing her as if she had already lost without even starting.

But Yulia didn’t flinch. For the first time in a long while, she felt alive. Home, family, endless worries about the child, cooking, cleaning—all that pressed on her like a heavy stone on her chest. She was tired of being “housewife,” “mom,” “wife.” Today she was simply Yulia, and she had the right to her own life, a career, recognition.

The first day flew by in a flash. Yulia threw herself into work: processing orders, filling reports, learning the system. She didn’t seek fame—she just needed to feel useful, that her work was valued. But behind her back, in the silence, whispers echoed. Vera—tall, with piercing eyes and a predatory smile—and Inna—her friend, with a cold voice and a habit of gossiping—exchanged sharp remarks, shooting each other glances.

“Hey, newbie!” Vera’s sharp voice rang out just as Yulia finished a difficult report. “Bring me some coffee. Black, no sugar. And make it quick!”

Yulia slowly turned, meeting her gaze. In her eyes—no fear, no submission.

“Am I a maid here?” she asked calmly, but with such strength that Vera was momentarily stunned. “I have my own work. And believe me, it’s more important than your coffee.”

The response was a malicious chuckle. Vera smirked as if she’d heard something amusing. But a flash of rage ignited in her eyes. She wasn’t used to being challenged. From that moment, Yulia understood: the war had begun.

Olga invited her to lunch break. The girl was kind, sincere, and her eyes showed pain, as if she herself had gone through hell.

“Nobody told you about lunch?” she asked with a smile. “No wonder. Few here care about newcomers.”

“To be honest, I didn’t even notice how time flew,” Yulia admitted, closing her computer.

They went down to the cafeteria, and on the way Olga talked about the layout of the offices, the rules, the people. But Yulia remembered almost nothing—her mind was occupied with other things. When they returned, they saw Vera and Inna sharply recoil from her workspace, as if caught doing something forbidden.

“Well, here it goes,” Yulia thought. “I’m not someone you can break.”

In the evening, she left last. The office emptied, but a sticky trace remained—not just from fatigue. Vera and Inna had already gathered “allies”—several female employees ready for intrigue. They decided: the newbie must disappear.

The next morning Yulia arrived early. Silence, empty chairs, only Olga was already sitting at the desk.

“You know,” she whispered when Yulia approached, “I worked in your place just a month ago. They transferred me because these two”—she nodded toward Vera and Inna’s office—“almost drove me to tears. They hacked my computer, stole documents, framed me to the boss. Started a whole campaign. And then… I just couldn’t take it. I left.”

“That’s terrible,” whispered Yulia. “But I think that won’t happen to me.”

Olga shook her head.

“You don’t know who’s behind them. Vera’s uncle works here. He’s a close friend of the boss. That’s why she thinks she’s above everyone. Does whatever she wants. And you… you’ve already been chosen as the victim.”

“So what?” Yulia smiled. “We’ll figure something out.”

But the day ended badly. Someone, taking advantage of her moment in the bathroom, poured sticky, glue-like stuff on her chair. Yulia, not noticing, sat down… and only realized when she tried to get up. She spent the entire evening sitting still, feeling humiliation burn her skin. Around her—quiet snickers, sidelong glances, restrained laughter.

She came home with stained clothes, head bowed. But not from shame—from anger. They thought they could break her? They were wrong.

Days passed. Intrigues intensified. Then the keyboard disappeared, then files went missing. Once Yulia discovered someone renamed all her documents with offensive titles. She had to call a technician.

Olga couldn’t take it. One day she just packed and left. Without settlement, without farewells. She was met by Elena Leonidovna—the strict but fair HR manager. Seeing Olga’s state, she immediately helped: found her a new place, provided support. Later Olga received her settlement and even a bonus for “service.”

But most importantly—she survived.

A few days later Olga returned—in a different office, in a different position. And to everyone’s surprise, she was iron-willed. When the same “hens” tried to mess with her, she didn’t hesitate. Fines for lateness. Strict warnings for rudeness. Reprimands for gossip. Soon everyone understood: better not to mess with her.

Elena Leonidovna was delighted. Finally, an administrator who keeps her finger on the pulse.

And Yulia kept working. Despite two hostile “sides”—those supporting Vera and Inna, and those who just silently watched. She did not engage in conflicts, did not respond to barbs, did not gossip. She simply did her job. Well. Honestly. With dignity.

But the gossip grew. And one day, during a break, Olga approached her with worry in her eyes.

“Yulya… there are rumors around the office. They say you… slept with the boss to get this job.”

Yulia froze. Then almost choked with indignation.

“What?! Who?! Me?!”

She looked at Olga as if seeing a ghost. And Olga immediately understood: it was a dirty provocation. Meanness. An attempt to destroy reputation.

Spring was approaching. And along with it—the corporate party. Sitting at home with her daughter in her arms, Yulia said to her husband:

“Dear, we have a celebration soon. We need to organize everything. I want everyone to come.”

Oleg Alexandrovich, the company’s head, smiled.

“Everything will be as you say, my love.”

No one in the office knew that Yulia was his wife. She came here not for money, but for herself. To feel that she was not only a mom and a housekeeper but a person. To prove to herself that she could.

And now, watching what was happening, Oleg and Yulia understood: it was because of people like Vera and Inna that employees quit.

The corporate party approached. Olga was upset—she had no suitable dress. Her entire salary went to treating her father, who suffered from a chronic illness.

“Olga,” Yulia said one day, “I want to give you a gift. You helped me a lot. Let’s go shopping together.”

Olga at first refused. Modesty wouldn’t allow it. But Yulia insisted.

When Olga saw Yulia’s car—a luxurious premium crossover—she gasped.

“Where did you…?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Yulia smiled. “What matters is that you deserve beauty.”

In the store Olga froze: the price of one dress exceeded her monthly salary. But Yulia didn’t let her refuse.

“This isn’t money,” she said. “It’s a token of gratitude. Let me make you happy.”

Women’s Day came. The office transformed. Everyone came dressed up. But Yulia and Olga were the stars of the evening. Luxurious dresses, exquisite hairstyles, confidence in every move. Vera and Inna looked at them like ghosts. Their faces twisted with envy, malice, and helplessness.

Then Oleg Alexandrovich took the microphone.

“Dear colleagues! Please give me a moment of your attention. Before we start the celebration, I want to introduce you to my wife—Yulia Sergeyevna!”

Silence. Then applause. Vera and Inna turned pale. They couldn’t believe it. The one they tried to humiliate was the boss’s wife! And had been for seven years!

Their eyes burned with hatred. But Yulia looked at them calmly. Without malice. Without revenge. Simply—with dignity.

Elena Leonidovna smiled. She understood everything.

The celebration was a triumph. Vera and Inna fled. The next day they submitted resignation letters. No one else left so quickly.

At home, Yulya told her husband about Olga’s father. Oleg immediately organized help. On the weekend, they came to her with a personal doctor. After the examination, the doctor smiled:

“No dangers. Your father has recovered. Treatment can be stopped.”

Olga cried with happiness. Thanked, hugged, vowed never to forget.

Good triumphed over evil.

Vera and Inna couldn’t get jobs anywhere else—their reputations were ruined. They were used to laziness, manipulation, and humiliating others. But the world does not tolerate meanness.

And Olga married an honest, hardworking employee. Became happy.

And all this—because one day Yulia Sergeyevna decided to leave her home and start a new life.

Because sometimes one brave woman can change everything.

Mom said again that you have to give us the bigger room!” Svetlana burst out right from the doorway, not even saying hello. Her face was burning with righteous indignation, and in her hands she clenched the apartment keys as if they were a weapon.

I froze with a cup of tea in my hands. It was Friday evening, which I had planned to spend in silence after a hard work week — clearly, that was not going to happen. Andrey sat on the couch, diligently studying his phone screen, pretending not to hear his sister’s words.

“Svetlana, we’ve already discussed this,” I replied as calmly as possible, though inside I was boiling. “Andrey and I live in this room because we pay for the apartment. You and Viktor have been living here for free for six months.”

“For free?!” shrieked my sister-in-law. “But we’re family! Or do you think that just because you bought the apartment, you can boss us around now?”

The story began eight months ago when I finally managed to buy a three-room apartment. Years of saving, giving up vacations and entertainment, endless overtime—all of this resulted in the coveted square meters in a residential neighborhood. Andrey was genuinely happy with me at the time, promising that now we would live well. We moved in, settled down, and for the first two months, we were truly happy.

Then came the “temporary situation.” Svetlana and her husband Viktor lost their rented apartment—the owners decided to sell. Of course, they were in no hurry to find new housing. Why bother, when there’s a “beloved brother” with a three-room apartment?

“Well, they’ll live here for a couple of weeks until they find something suitable,” Andrey tried to persuade me. “We can’t just throw out our own sister onto the street.”

A couple of weeks turned into a month, then two. Svetlana and Viktor took the smaller room and seemed in no hurry to move out. Moreover, their demands grew.

“Mom is right,” Svetlana continued, settling into a chair like the mistress of the house. “There are two of us, two of you. But we have more stuff, it’s cramped in the small room. It’s logical that you should swap rooms with us. Besides, Viktor snores, he needs good soundproofing, and the walls in the big room are thicker.”

I looked at Andrey. He continued pretending to be fascinated by his phone. A familiar sight—when a decision had to be made or he needed to stand up for me, my husband turned invisible.

“Svetlana, I’ll buy Viktor earplugs,” I replied, holding myself back with all my might. “But we won’t swap rooms. This is our apartment, and we have the right to live in any room.”

“Your apartment!” my sister-in-law shouted. “You keep banging on about that! You think you bought the apartment so now you’re queen? And what about us—we’re Andrey’s family, doesn’t that count?”

“I’m not banging on about anything,” I objected, feeling a pulse pounding in my temple. “But the fact remains—the apartment was bought with my money, registered in my name, and I pay the mortgage. You’ve been living here for free for six months, and I haven’t asked for a single cent, not even for utilities.”

“Ha!” Svetlana threw her hands up theatrically. “Hear that, Andryusha? Your wife is nagging us about utilities! Mom was right—she doesn’t appreciate you, only waves her money and apartment in your face!”

Andrey finally looked up from his phone. I looked at him hopefully—maybe now he would defend me? But no.

“Let’s not fight,” he muttered. “Maybe it’s really worth thinking about… After all, it’s cramped for the two of them in the small room.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My husband, the man who swore to support me, had just taken his sister’s side about my own apartment!

“Andrey, are you serious?” My voice betrayed a tremble.

“Come on, don’t be like that… I’m just saying we can consider options. After all, it’s family.”

Family. That word had become a curse for me over the past six months. Family demanded concessions. Family demanded patience. Family demanded my money, my space, my time. And what did it give in return? Reproaches, claims, and demands for new sacrifices.

“Exactly!” Svetlana jumped in. “Family! And you, Marina, clearly don’t understand that. Mom always said Andrey should have married a simpler girl, without your ambitions and apartments. One who would respect the family!”

Ambitions. That’s how she called my years of hard labor, saving on everything, giving up simple joys for the dream of owning a home. “Simpler” apparently means someone who would quietly serve all of her husband’s relatives and never dare to object.

“You know what, Svetlana,” I stood up, placing the cup on the table so hard the tea splashed out. “I really don’t understand this kind of ‘family.’ A family that only takes and demands. A family that doesn’t respect other people’s work and property. And you know what? I don’t want to understand it anymore.”

“Oh, oh, oh, you’re offended!” Svetlana also jumped up. “Andryusha, see? Your wife is going to kick us out! Her own sister-in-law and husband! Mom will be shocked!”

Mother-in-law. Another sore topic. From the first day we met, Tatyana Petrovna made it clear that I was unworthy of her son. Too independent, too ambitious, too… too much of everything. When I bought the apartment, her dissatisfaction only grew. “A proper wife waits for her husband to provide housing for the family,” she said. The fact that her son at 32 had no savings and lived with me in a rented apartment didn’t bother her.

“Let her be shocked,” I replied, looking Svetlana straight in the eyes. “And yes, I’m asking you to move out. I’m giving two weeks to find housing.”

“What?!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “Andrey, did you hear? She’s kicking us out!”

I turned to my husband. He sat pale and confused, clearly not expecting such a turn.

“Marina, why so abruptly… Let’s discuss everything calmly…”

“We’ve been discussing it for six months, Andrey. Six months I’ve tolerated your sister’s rudeness, her claims, her demands. Six months waiting for them to start looking for a place. Six months hoping you’d finally take my side. But you prefer to pretend nothing is happening.”

“I just don’t want conflicts in the family…”

“And I don’t want to be told in my own home which room I should live in!” My voice broke into a shout. “I don’t want to be reproached for the apartment I bought with my sweat and blood! I don’t want to support able-bodied adults who haven’t even said thank you once in six months!”

“Oh, so we should thank you too!” Svetlana was furious. “For living in this dump in the boondocks? For cramming into a tiny little room? We’re doing you a favor by agreeing to live here! Viktor has to commute across the city every day!”

“Dump in the boondocks.” That’s how she called the apartment for which I gave five years of my life. The apartment, every meter of which I earned with hard work.

“Then what’s the problem?” I smirked. “Find an apartment closer to Viktor’s work. I’m sure you can easily rent something downtown. Or buy, if my apartment is so terrible.”

“You… you…” Svetlana gasped in indignation. “Andrey, are you going to put up with this?”

All eyes turned to my husband. He sat slouched, looking like he wanted to disappear into the ground. The choice was simple—wife or sister. Me or mom with her eternal dissatisfaction. Our family or the clan that had coddled him all his life, decided for him, and now demanded payment for their care.

“Svetlana, maybe really…” he began uncertainly. “You’ve been living here for a long time…”

“Andryusha!” Svetlana looked at her brother as if he were a traitor. “Are you on her side? Mom said she’ll spoil you! Turn you into a henpecked husband! And she did!”

“I didn’t turn anyone into anything,” I said tiredly. “I just wanted a normal family. Where husband and wife support each other, not where the wife serves all her husband’s relatives. But apparently, I was wrong in my choice.”

Andrey flinched as if hit. He understood that I meant more than today’s situation. All those months when he was silent, pretending not to notice his sister’s rudeness, when he urged me to be patient—it all piled up like a snowball.

“Marina, don’t be like this…”

“How should I be, Andrey? Endure silently? Smile when I’m insulted in my own home? Pretend everything is fine when your sister demands our bedroom because her husband snores?”

“By the way,” Svetlana interrupted, “we have the right to live here too! This is my brother’s apartment as well!”

“No,” I cut her off. “This is my apartment. Only mine. And I decide who lives here. Andrey is here because he is my husband. For now. And you live here out of my kindness, which, as it turns out, was a mistake.”

“For now.” Those two words hung in the air like a guillotine. Andrey turned even paler. Svetlana opened her mouth but found no words.

“You… you’re threatening my brother with divorce?” she finally blurted.

“I’m stating a fact. If Andrey thinks the interests of his sister and mother are more important than his wife’s, then what’s the point of such a marriage?”

“Marina, let’s talk in private,” Andrey finally got up from the couch. “Svetlana, maybe you should go to your… room?”

“Yeah, right! So she can brainwash you? No way! Mom is right—people like her only need to be given an inch, and they’ll climb onto your neck!”

I laughed. Honestly, I laughed from the heart for the first time in many days. The irony of the situation was killer—they accused me of leeching off them, the people who had been living in my apartment for free for six months!

“You know what?” I took my phone. “I’m calling a taxi now and going to a friend’s. You all figure out your family issues here. Andrey, when you decide what’s more important to you—our marriage or your sister’s comfort—call me. You have until morning.”

“Marina, wait!” Andrey rushed to me, but I stepped back.

“No. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of hoping you will finally become a husband, not your mother’s boy. Tired of fighting for a place in my own home. So decide. Either Svetlana and her snoring Viktor start looking for housing tomorrow, or I will. But not housing—a good divorce lawyer.”

Svetlana shouted something after me, Andrey tried to stop me, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I threw on my jacket and left the apartment, leaving them to sort things out.

Outside, a fine autumn drizzle was falling. I lifted my face to the sky, letting the drops mix with unwelcome tears. It was painful. Painfully painful to realize that the person you love can’t protect you. That for him, his mother’s opinion and his sister’s comfort are more important than his wife’s happiness.

My phone vibrated. A message from Andrey: “Marina, come back, let’s talk calmly.”

I smirked. We could have talked calmly six months ago, when his relatives just moved in. Three months ago, when the first complaints started. A month ago, when Svetlana first mentioned the big room. But he chose silence, hoping everything would resolve itself.

The taxi arrived quickly. Settling in the back seat, I dialed my friend’s number.

“Ol, can I stay at yours tonight? Yeah, family stuff again. I’ll tell you when we meet.”

While driving, my phone was ringing nonstop—Andrey, Svetlana, even my mother-in-law got involved. I actually decided to listen to the last one—curious what Tatyana Petrovna would say.

“Marina, what circus did you cause there?” my mother-in-law’s voice was full of righteous anger. “Svetochka is crying, saying you’re kicking them out! Have you lost all shame? It’s family!”

“Tatyana Petrovna, this is my apartment,” I replied wearily. “And I have the right to decide…”

“Your apartment! You’re always on about that! Doesn’t it count that my son lives there? That his sister temporarily needs housing? When you got married, you should have understood you were taking not just your husband, but his family too!”

“Temporary means two weeks, not six months. And I didn’t sign up to support all my husband’s relatives.”

“Ungrateful! My son married you, and you…”

I hung up. I had no strength left to listen to these accusations. My son married you—as if that was a favor on their part, not a mutual decision between two adults.

At Olga’s, they met me with tea, cognac, and chocolates—tried and true remedies for family drama.

“Tell me,” my friend ordered, sitting me down on the couch.

I told her everything. About the apartment, the relatives, the demands for the big room, Andrey’s position. Olga listened, shook her head, and occasionally poured more cognac.

“You know what I’ll say?” she said when I finished. “You did the right thing leaving. Let your husband finally decide who he’s with—his wife or his mommy.”

“And if he chooses mommy?”

“Then be glad you found out now, not in ten years and with three kids. Imagine what would happen next? Mother-in-law would move in ‘to help with the grandchildren’? Then some distant relatives would show up?”

I shuddered. The picture was terrible, but realistic. If Andrey can’t stand up for us now, what will happen next?

My phone rang again. This time an unknown number.

“Marina?” came an uncertain male voice. “This is Viktor, Svetlana’s husband.”

Well, he joined the negotiations too.

“I’m listening, Viktor.”

“I… I wanted to apologize. For Svetlana, for myself. We really got carried away. We’re just… just used to it, you know. It’s convenient—not paying for housing. But it’s wrong. I told Svetlana we need to move out, find our own place, but she… Well, you know her character.”

I was speechless. The last thing I expected was an apology from my sister-in-law’s husband.

“Viktor, I…”

“Don’t say anything. We will move out. I started looking for options a month ago. Svetlana just thought we could keep living like this. For free, convenient. But I understand this is your apartment, your life. Sorry it turned out this way.”

“Thank you,” I exhaled. “Thank you for understanding.”

“No problem. We should be thanking you for putting up with us so long. I’ll try to find something within a week. And… talk to Andrey. He’s a good guy, just crushed by his mom and sister. It’s hard for him to say no to them. But he loves you, that’s for sure.”

Viktor hung up, leaving me completely confused. The last person I expected support from.

“So, what’s up?” Olga peeked from the kitchen.

“Sister-in-law’s husband apologized and promised to move out in a week.”

“No way! I thought they were united.”

I thought so too. But life, as always, turned out to be more complicated.

Around midnight, a message came from Andrey: “I choose you. I’ve always chosen you, just feared conflict. Sorry. Svetlana and Viktor will look for an apartment. Mom is furious, but that’s her problem. Come home. Please.”

I read the message several times. My heart skipped, but my mind demanded guarantees.

“This must not happen again,” I wrote. “No more relatives in our home without my permission. And learn to say ‘no’ to your mom.”

“I promise. I understand. Almost lost you because of my cowardice. Won’t happen again.”

“So, made up?” Olga read the exchange over my shoulder.

“We’ll try. But if it happens again…”

“Then no more tears, straight to the lawyer, right?”

“Exactly.”

I returned home in the morning. Andrey met me at the door—disheveled, eyes red, but determined.

“They’re already looking at apartments,” he informed me. “Viktor found several options. Svetlana’s sulking, but that’s her problem. And… I talked to Mom. Told her if she doesn’t accept you and stop interfering in our lives, we’ll communicate once a year on major holidays.”

“And how did she take it?”

“Called me an ungrateful son and hung up. But I won’t change my mind. You were right—either I’m a husband, or I’m Mom’s boy. I choose to be a husband.”

We hugged, and I felt the tension of the past months start to ease. Of course, one conversation won’t solve everything. We still have a lot of work ahead, learning to set boundaries, preventing such situations. But the important thing is—the beginning has been made.

A week later, Svetlana and Viktor moved out. Sister-in-law feigned injured innocence to the end, but I saw understanding in her eyes—the free ride was over.

Mother-in-law didn’t talk to us for a month, then started cautiously calling Andrey. I didn’t interfere—that’s his mom, let him build the relationship. The main thing is that relationship no longer affects our family.

We turned the big room into an office—put two desks so both of us could work from home when needed. No snoring, no complaints, just the two of us in our home.

The apartment became what it was supposed to be—a family nest, a place comfortable and calm. A place you want to come back to.

And you know what? It was worth it. All those years of saving, all the sacrifices—they paid off not only in square meters but in self-respect. I stood up for what I earned. Defended my home, my family, my principles.

And Andrey… Andrey is learning to be a husband. Not his mother’s son, not his sister’s brother, but a husband. My husband. And he’s succeeding. Slowly, with creaks, but succeeding.

We never talk about that night when I went to my friend’s. But we both remember. And both know—it won’t happen again. Because some lessons only need to be learned once.

And recently, I got a message from Viktor. They rented an apartment near his work, and he thanked me for pushing them toward independence. “We needed this,” he wrote.

Maybe we all needed it. Me—to learn to defend my boundaries. Andrey—to grow up and become a real husband. Svetlana and Viktor—to start living their own lives.

Sometimes conflict is not destruction, but cleansing. Like a thunderstorm that washes away the stuffiness and brings freshness. Our family storm has rolled away, leaving behind the clear sky of new relationships.

And in our big room, no one snores anymore. Only the clock ticks, counting the minutes of our calm, happy life in our home. The very home I gave five years for. And which has truly become ours—not just on paper, but in essence.

Anna slowly stirred her coffee, feeling the tension build in her shoulders. Familiar voices echoed from the kitchen wall—her husband Sergey was explaining something to his mother, and she, as always, interrupted him with her admonishments.

“Sergey, you must control the family budget!” Valentina Nikolaevna’s voice pierced the quiet of the apartment. “The man is the head of the household; he earns the money, so he decides how it’s spent.”

Anna gripped her cup tighter. Three years of marriage, and every Sunday was the same record playing. Valentina Nikolaevna seemed determined to turn family dinners into sessions of psychological pressure.

“Mom, we agree on everything,” Sergey replied quietly.

“Agree? — scoffed the mother-in-law. — Then why does your wife buy expensive cosmetics when she could get them for half the price? Why does she order groceries for delivery when she could go to the market and save money?”

Anna set the cup on the table. Inside, a storm was rising with every word. Expensive cosmetics—a cream costing a thousand rubles she bought two months ago. Ordering groceries saved her time, which was catastrophically short between work and household duties.

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna entered the living room, trying to keep her tone controlled, “I work from nine in the morning until seven in the evening. Ordering groceries saves me three hours a week.”

Her mother-in-law turned to her with an expression Anna knew well—a mix of condescension and barely concealed irritation.

“Anya, dear,” Valentina Nikolaevna said the word “dear” as if speaking to a disobedient child, “a woman must be able to plan her time. And her money, too. You do understand Sergey earns for the family, so he should know where the money goes, right?”

“Mom,” Sergey began, but Anna interrupted him.

“I also earn for the family,” her voice grew firmer. “And I earn quite well.”

“Of course, of course,” Valentina Nikolaevna waved her hand dismissively. “But the main income is Sergey’s salary. And your job… well, that’s just a side gig.”

Anna felt something painfully tighten in her chest. Side gig. Her position as a financial analyst at a large company, earning one and a half times more than her husband, was reduced to a “side gig.”

“I think you don’t quite understand,” Anna sat opposite her mother-in-law, “just how much I earn.”

“Anyechka,” Valentina Nikolaevna smiled that smile that never reached her eyes, “it doesn’t matter how much you earn. What matters is that the man must control the family budget. That’s the foundation of a stable relationship.”

Sergey sat with his eyes downcast. Anna knew that gesture—how he reacted to any family conflict, hoping the problem would resolve itself if he stayed quiet enough.

“So what exactly do you suggest?” Anna asked.

“I suggest transparency,” Valentina Nikolaevna leaned forward. “Sergey should know how much you spend and on what. Better yet—control those expenses. The family budget cannot tolerate chaos.”

“Mom,” Sergey finally spoke up, “we live fine, we don’t argue about money…”

“You don’t argue because you don’t know what’s going on with the money!” Valentina Nikolaevna flared up. “What if Anya is hiding something? What if she’s spending on things you don’t know about?”

Anna felt a fire ignite inside her. Every Sunday, the same thing. Every family dinner turned into an interrogation. Any purchase became a scandalous cause. A new blouse — “why waste money on rags.” Books — “you’d better buy something useful for the home.” Even a gift to a friend on her birthday provoked angry comments about “wasting money.”

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna stood, feeling her hands begin to tremble with anger, “I’m not going to report to you on every kopek I spend.”

“To me?” the mother-in-law also stood. “I’m not demanding you report to me! I demand you be honest with your husband!”

“I am honest with my husband!”

“Then why are you against him controlling the spending?”

“Because I’m an adult and can decide for myself how to spend the money I earn!”

Valentina Nikolaevna narrowed her eyes. There was something cold, almost malicious in them.

“Money you earned? Anya, dear, you forget you live in an apartment your son bought. You eat the groceries he buys. You use the car he pays for. Maybe it’s time to face reality?”

Anna felt the ground give way beneath her feet. They had bought the apartment together, contributing equal shares to the down payment. Groceries were purchased from a shared budget. The car was on a loan they paid off together.

“Valentina Nikolaevna, you’re distorting the facts,” Anna said, trying not to raise her voice.

“What facts?” the mother-in-law smirked. “The fact that my son supports the family? That he is a responsible man who doesn’t let his wife squander money left and right?”

“Mom, enough,” Sergey finally intervened. “We’re not starving, we live normally…”

“Sergey, you’re too soft!” Valentina Nikolaevna snapped. “You let your wife walk all over you! What will happen when we have children? Who will control the family budget then?”

“You know what,” Anna grabbed her purse, “I think this conversation should continue when everyone has complete information.”

“What information?” Valentina Nikolaevna became wary.

“About the real state of affairs in our family,” Anna headed for the door. “Sergey, I’ll be home by evening. We need to talk.”

She left the apartment, feeling her pulse pounding at her temples. Three years she had held back. Three years she allowed herself to be humiliated. Three years enduring this pressure, hoping the situation would change on its own.

But now Valentina Nikolaevna had crossed the line.

The office was quiet—it was Saturday, few were working. Anna turned on her computer and opened her data analysis program. Her professional financial analyst skills were more needed than ever.

Methodically, she reconstructed the picture of the family’s finances over the last two years. Every transaction, every purchase, every money transfer. Bank statements, receipts, invoices—everything that could be found in the bank app, their records, and archives.

The numbers formed an unexpected picture. Anna earned forty percent more than her husband. Their joint expenses on the apartment, groceries, and utilities were covered evenly. But there were other expenses.

Gifts to Valentina Nikolaevna on birthdays, New Year, International Women’s Day—each time ten to fifteen thousand rubles. Payments for her medical treatments—massage, cosmetology, dentistry. “Loans” the mother-in-law requested for new furniture, summer house repairs, trips to her sister in another city.

Anna added figure after figure, and the total grew at a frightening pace.

In two years, she had spent four hundred eighty thousand rubles on her mother-in-law. Nearly half of her annual salary. And that didn’t count indirect expenses—groceries for family dinners, gas for trips to Valentina Nikolaevna’s summer house, gifts for her friends and relatives.

Anna leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen. Valentina Nikolaevna demanded control over the family budget without realizing she was living off her daughter-in-law’s money.

But a simple table was not enough. Anna created a full presentation—bright and clear. Charts, graphs, detailed category-by-category expense analysis.

One slide was titled “Investments in Family Relations”—that’s how she labeled the expenses for Valentina Nikolaevna. Gifts, loans, medical treatments, entertainment. All neatly structured and supported by documents.

Anna worked late into the evening, perfecting the presentation. Every number was double-checked, every fact documented.

When she returned home, Sergey met her at the door.

“Anyechka, forgive my mom,” he looked tired. “She’s just worried about us.”

“Worried,” Anna repeated. “Sergey, we really need to talk. Seriously.”

“About what?”

“Our family budget. About who earns what and spends what. About the real state of affairs in our family.”

Sergey frowned.

“Are you planning something?”

Anna looked at her husband—the gentle, kind man who never knew how to stand up to his mother. Who let his wife be humiliated every Sunday, hoping the conflict would exhaust itself.

“I’m planning to tell the truth,” she answered. “The whole truth. With numbers, facts, and documents.”

The next Sunday, Anna came to her mother-in-law with a laptop and a folder of documents. Valentina Nikolaevna greeted her with barely concealed triumph—apparently expecting the daughter-in-law to come apologizing.

“Valentina Nikolaevna,” Anna said, setting the laptop on the table, “last week you spoke about the need to control the family budget. I prepared a full analysis of our finances.”

“What analysis?” the mother-in-law asked warily.

“A professional one,” Anna turned on the projector. “I’m a financial analyst, remember? It’s my job to analyze money.”

The first slide appeared on the wall: “Family Financial Status: An Objective Analysis.”

“What is this?” Valentina Nikolaevna squinted.

“This is what you asked for,” Anna calmly replied. “Full transparency of the family budget.”

The next slide showed the family’s income. Sergey’s salary, Anna’s salary, additional sources. The numbers were ruthlessly honest.

Valentina Nikolaevna was silent, staring at the screen. Sergey sat with his mouth open.

“Let’s continue,” Anna said, switching slides. “Mandatory family expenses: mortgage, utilities, groceries, transport. As you see, they are covered roughly evenly by our incomes.”

“Anna, why are you…” Sergey began, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Now, optional expenses,” a new slide. “Entertainment, clothing, gifts, travel. Here is some interesting statistics.”

Charts appeared on the screen showing the structure of expenses. Anna methodically went through each category, explaining who spent how much on what.

“And finally,” Anna’s voice grew especially calm, “the expense category ‘Family Support.’”

The new slide made Valentina Nikolaevna pale. On the screen were listed all gifts, loans, and expenses related to her—with exact amounts and dates.

“In two years,” Anna continued, “four hundred eighty thousand rubles were spent supporting Mom. That’s forty thousand a month. Or one hundred thirty percent of what remains from Sergey’s salary after mandatory expenses.”

A deadly silence fell over the room.

“Birthday and holiday gifts—one hundred twenty thousand rubles,” Anna switched to the details. “Loans that weren’t repaid—two hundred thousand. Medical treatments—eighty thousand. Entertainment and trips—eighty thousand.”

Valentina Nikolaevna opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water.

“Anna,” she finally managed, “this… this is unethical.”

“Unethical?” Anna turned to her mother-in-law. “Is it unethical to demand a report on every kopek spent? Or unethical to provide objective information?”

“You’re counting money spent on the family!” Valentina Nikolaevna protested.

“You’re right,” Anna agreed. “I’m counting money spent on the family. And here’s what it shows: in two years, I spent on you an amount equal to your son’s annual salary. While my income is forty percent higher than his.”

Anna paused, looking at her mother-in-law’s pale face.

“So who exactly should control the family budget, Valentina Nikolaevna?”

Her mother-in-law was silent. Sergey was also silent, shifting his gaze from his mother to his wife.

“And the last slide,” Anna switched the presentation. “Family budget forecast for the next year, taking into account expense optimization.”

A table appeared showing how much money the family could save by cutting “non-essential expenses.”

“Four hundred eighty thousand rubles a year,” Anna said. “Enough for a vacation in Europe, a new car, or a down payment on a summer house. The choice is ours.”

Valentina Nikolaevna stood up from the table. Her face was white as chalk, her lips trembling.

“You… you consider me a burden,” she whispered.

“I don’t consider you a burden,” Anna answered calmly. “I consider the numbers. That’s my profession. And the numbers show that the person demanding control over the family budget is herself the largest item of non-essential expenses in that budget.”

“Sergey!” Valentina Nikolaevna turned to her son. “Will you allow your wife to speak to me like that?”

Sergey sat with his head down. Anna saw him struggling inside—a lifelong habit of obeying his mother against obvious facts.

“Mom,” he finally raised his eyes, “numbers don’t lie.”

Valentina Nikolaevna stood in the middle of the room, looking at her son, then at her daughter-in-law, then back at her son. In her eyes, Anna saw something she had never seen before—confusion. Complete, absolute confusion.

“I… I meant well,” the mother-in-law muttered.

“I know,” Anna said, turning off the projector. “But control of the family budget is the responsibility of those who create that budget—not those who spend it.”

Valentina Nikolaevna silently gathered her purse and headed for the door. She paused there.

“Anya,” she said without turning, “you won.”

“This wasn’t a game,” Anna replied. “It was a necessity.”

After her mother-in-law left, Anna and Sergey sat in silence for a long time. Finally, her husband looked up.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked. “About the money you spent on Mom?”

Anna looked at him—the gentle, kind man who never knew how to say “no” to his mother.

“Because it wasn’t a problem,” she answered. “The problem was the demand for control over my spending while completely ignoring that a significant part of those expenses goes to your mom.”

“And now?”

Anna folded the documents into the folder. She felt a strange lightness—as if a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Now we live like a normal family,” she said. “Without weekly interrogations and demands to report every kopek. And with an understanding of who really controls our family budget.”

Valentina Nikolaevna never again brought up the issue of financial control. Moreover, family dinners became much calmer. Sometimes Anna caught her mother-in-law’s studying gaze—but it no longer held that aggressive superiority that once poisoned every meeting.

And one day, as she was leaving after another Sunday lunch, Valentina Nikolaevna stopped Anna at the door.

“Thank you for the birthday present,” she said quietly. “A very beautiful scarf.”

“You’re welcome,” Anna replied.

“And for… for not telling everyone else. About the presentation.”

Anna looked at her mother-in-law. In her eyes, she saw something new—recognition. Not gratitude, not apology, but recognition. Recognition that sometimes the truth, presented in an undeniable form, is stronger than any emotional manipulation.

“Family matters should stay in the family,” Anna said.

And at that moment, she understood: victory is not in humiliating a person. Victory is in restoring balance, showing the real state of affairs, and giving everyone the chance to draw conclusions. Sometimes the best way to respond to pressure is not an emotional reaction, but cold, objective facts.

Valentina Nikolaevna nodded and left. Anna remained standing by the door, finally feeling like an equal member of this family.

He sat on the cold metal bench, wrapped in a worn-out cloak—once worn while working as a master at the housing office. His name was Nikolai Andreevich. A pensioner, widower, father of a single son, and, as he had once thought, a happy grandfather. But all of that collapsed one day.

When his son brought Olga home, Nikolai felt a chill inside. Her energy was too sharp, her gaze too icy, hidden behind a charming smile. She didn’t shout or cause scandals—she simply and subtly pushed everything out of the man’s life that stood in her way. Nikolai felt it immediately, but by then, nothing could be changed.

First, his belongings disappeared: books were moved to the attic, his favorite chair became “unnecessary,” and then the kettle vanished. Then came the hints: “Dad, maybe you should go for walks more often? The air is good for you.” Soon, the suggestion came: “It might be better for you in a retirement home or with Aunt in the village.”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He simply gathered what little remained of his things and left. No accusations, no tears, no pleas—just pride and pain, buried deep in his heart.

He wandered the snow-covered streets, like an invisible man. Only one bench in the park became his support—a place where he once walked with his wife, and later with his young son. There, he spent hours, staring into the emptiness.

One particularly cold day, when the frost bit his face and his eyes blurred from the cold and sorrow, a voice called out:

— Nikolai? Nikolai Andreevich?

He turned. Before him stood a woman in a warm coat and headscarf. He didn’t recognize her immediately, but memory kicked in—Maria Sergeevna. His first love. The one he lost because of his job, and then forgot, marrying Lydia.

She was holding a thermos and a bag of homemade pastries.

— What are you doing here? You’re freezing…

That simple question, filled with care, warmed him more than any coat. Nikolai silently took the thermos of tea and the buns. His voice had long gone, and his heart ached so much that even tears wouldn’t come.

Maria sat down next to him as if no time had passed between them, as if it had frozen in place.

— I sometimes walk here, — she started gently. — And you… why are you here?

— It’s just a familiar place, — he smiled faintly. — This is where my son took his first steps. Remember?

Maria nodded. Of course, she remembered.

— And now… — Nikolai sighed, — he’s grown, got married, settled into an apartment. His wife said, “Choose—me or your father.” He chose. I don’t blame him. The young have their own worries.

Maria remained silent, only looking at his reddened hands, cracked from the cold—so familiar and yet so lonely.

— Come to my place, Nikolai, — she suddenly suggested. — It’s warm, we’ll eat, tomorrow we’ll figure out what’s next. I’ll make you soup, we’ll talk about everything. You’re not a stone, you’re a person. And you shouldn’t be alone.

He didn’t move for a long time. Then, he quietly asked:

— And you… why are you alone?

Maria sighed. Her eyes grew glassy.

— My husband died long ago. My son… passed away before he was born. After that—life, work, the pension, the cat, and knitting. All in a circle. You’re the first in ten years I’ve had tea with, not in solitude.

They sat there for a long time. The passersby thinned out, and the snow fell softly, as if trying to muffle their pain.

The next morning, Nikolai woke up not on the bench, but in a cozy room with daisy curtains. The air smelled of pies. Outside, the winter frost covered the trees. And inside, there was a strange sense of peace, as if someone had returned his right to life.

— Good morning! — Maria came in with a plate of cheese pancakes. — When was the last time you had homemade food?

— About ten years ago, — Nikolai smiled. — My son and his wife mostly ordered food.

Maria didn’t ask questions. She just fed him, covered him with a blanket, and turned on the radio in the background—so it wouldn’t be so quiet.

Days passed. Then weeks. Nikolai seemed to come alive again. He fixed chairs, helped around the house, and told stories about his work, how he saved a colleague from a gas explosion. And Maria listened. As she cooked him soup from his childhood, washed his socks, and knitted scarves, she gave him what he hadn’t felt in a long time—care.

But one day, everything changed.

Maria was returning from the market when she noticed a car at the gate. A man stepped out, and Nikolai would have called him his son. Valery.

— Hello… Excuse me… Do you know if Nikolai Andreevich lives here?

Maria felt her heart tighten.

— And who are you to him?

— I… I’m his son. I’ve been looking for him. He left, and I didn’t know… Olga left. It turns out, all this time… — he lowered his head. — I won’t lie. I was a fool.

Maria looked at him closely.

— Come in. But remember: your father is not an object, not furniture. He’s not obliged to come back just because you’ve become lonely.

Valery nodded.

— I understand.

At home, Nikolai sat in an armchair with a newspaper. When he saw his son, he immediately understood—he hadn’t come for no reason. His chest ached with memories—of years, of cold, of homelessness.

— Dad… — Valery rasped. — Forgive me.

Silence hung in the room. Then Nikolai spoke:

— You could’ve said this earlier. Before the bench, before the nights under the bridge, before all of this. But… I forgive you.

And a tear slowly rolled down his cheek—heavy, like a memory, but warm, like forgiveness.

A month later, Valery offered his father to come back home. But Nikolai refused.

— I’ve already found my little corner, — he said. — It’s warm here, here I have real tea and care waiting for me. I’m not angry, I’m just tired of starting over. Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting.

Two years later, Nikolai and Maria came to the park bench together. They held hands, brought bread for the birds, and drank tea from the same thermos. Sometimes they were silent. Sometimes they talked about everything.

One day, standing in the middle of the street, Nikolai looked up at the sky and quietly said:

— Life is a strange thing. They kick you out of your home, and it feels like everything inside has fallen apart. But then someone comes—not from the doorstep, but from the warmth of the heart—and gives you a new home—not of walls, but of love.

Maria hugged him.

— So it was worth it that we met. Even if it happened on a bench in the park.

Nikolai and Maria lived peacefully. They didn’t rush to register their relationship, they didn’t call each other husband and wife. But in their home, there was family—unseen but felt in everything. The morning began with the sound of a samovar, the smell of fresh tea, and Maria’s voice humming at the stove. Their connection wasn’t in words but in deeds—in every look, in every movement.

But one day, in the spring, Valery came to the house. Not alone—he had a boy, around eight years old.

— Dad… — he began cautiously. — This is Sasha. Your grandson. He wanted to see you.

Nikolai froze. The boy looked up at him trustingly and a little shyly. He held a drawing in his hands: an old house, a tree, two figures on a bench.

— This is you and Grandma Maria, — he said. — Dad told me. Now I want to have a grandfather.

Nikolai knelt down, hugged the child, and felt warmth return to his chest.

From that day, Sasha became part of their life. He didn’t just play in the garden—he brought the house to life. Nikolai started making things again: swings, a toy boat, even fixing an old radio. And in the evenings, he read fairy tales to his grandson, just as he had once done for his son.

One day, watching them, Maria quietly said:

— Kolya, you’re living again. Not just existing—living.

He took her hand tightly and pressed it to his cheek.

— Because of you.

In the fall, Nikolai took an important step. He brought a marriage application to the registry office. He and Maria got married in front of four people—Valery and Sasha were present. No pomp, no dress or banquet. Just two people who found each other after a long journey.

When the registry office worker smiled and remarked that it was a bit late, Maria answered:

— Love has no age. Either it’s there, or it isn’t. And for us, it is. And we made the right choice.

Years passed. Nikolai started writing. From old, worn notebooks, his life story was born—from childhood in a postwar yard to his work as a housing office master, from losing Lydia to exile, and then—meeting Maria. He wrote it all down for his grandson, so he would remember: life isn’t always fair, but there will always be light in it.

Sasha read these notes with bated breath.

And when he turned sixteen, he said:

— Grandpa, I want to make a book out of your notes. So people will know: you can’t abandon your loved ones, you can’t be blind to other people’s pain. You need to know how to forgive. And know how to leave when there’s pain.

Nikolai silently nodded. There was no greater pride for him.

One day, Olga unexpectedly came to the house. She had lost weight, with gray hair and empty eyes.

— I’m sorry, — she said. — I lost everything. The man I left for turned out to be nothing. Health left, well-being left… I thought back then that you were standing in Valery’s way. But now I realize: you were his foundation.

Nikolai stared at her for a long time.

— I’m not angry, — he finally said. — But I won’t invite you in. Because in this house, there is kindness. And you brought cold. And now you want to warm yourself where you never felt warmth. It doesn’t work that way. I wish you peace—but not here.

And he closed the door.

Ten years later, Maria left quietly. She didn’t wake up in the morning. The room smelled of lilies of the valley—her favorite flowers. Nikolai sat next to her, holding her hand, whispering words of thanks. He didn’t cry. He just whispered:

— Thank you. I’ll come soon. Wait for me.

Neighbors, acquaintances, and children from the playground came to the funeral. Everyone knew Marusya—kind, quiet, always ready to offer tea and a shoulder to lean on.

Sasha wrote the book. He called it:

“The Bench Where Life Began”

He dedicated it to his grandparents. The book found thousands of readers. People wrote letters, thanking for the honesty, for the truth, for believing that even in old age, you can find love and a home.

And Nikolai… lived a little longer. One day, he just lay down on that same bench, where it all began. He closed his eyes. And saw: Maria was walking through the snow. Smiling. She said:

— It’s time to go home, Kolya.

He smiled and took a step toward her.

Epilogue.

Now, on that bench, there is a small plaque:

“Here everything changed. Here, hope was born.
Don’t pass by the elderly—they also need love.”

Every evening, grandchildren sit here, holding the hands of their grandmothers and grandfathers. Because love isn’t in grand ceremonies. It’s in saying:

“I found you. Now you’re not alone.”

Where’s my dinner?” came the hoarse voice from deep inside the apartment as soon as Marina stepped over the threshold.

She froze, still wearing her coat, and sighed heavily. The workday had been especially tough — her boss had overloaded her with reports, the bus had broken down, and she had to walk three stops in the cold autumn rain. And waiting at home was Viktor, who had been out of work for a month after a layoff and had been growing more irritable with each passing day.

“Vitya, I just got off work,” Marina replied tiredly, finally taking off her soaked coat. “Let me at least change and catch my breath.”

“I asked where my dinner is?” Viktor stood up from the couch, where he had been watching TV all day. “I’m hungry as a dog, and here you are with your excuses!”

Marina silently went to the kitchen and turned on the light. The fridge was empty — she hadn’t had time to buy groceries after work. In the sink, a mountain of dirty dishes piled up, which Viktor, as usual, hadn’t bothered to wash.

“Vitya, there’s nothing in the fridge,” she said, returning to the room. “I’ll run to the store…”

“Again?” he interrupted her, jumping up from the couch. “More excuses? I’ve been waiting all day, and you haven’t even bothered to buy food?”

He walked up to her, and Marina could smell the alcohol on him. Viktor had been drinking since lunchtime.

“I’ve been working,” she said quietly, stepping back. “And you could’ve gone to the store yourself, since you’re at home.”

Those words seemed to light a fuse. Viktor grabbed her by the shoulders and started shaking her.

“Are you giving me orders?” he hissed, spitting. “I said I need dinner! I’m hungry! Now!”

Marina broke free from his grip and backed into the wall.

“Touch me again, and I’ll tell my brother everything! And the last thing you’ll see, darling, will be the trunk of his car!”

Viktor froze. Fear flashed in his eyes. Stanislav, Marina’s brother, had a certain reputation in the city. A few months ago, he had already hinted to Viktor that he was watching how he treated his sister. And those hints had been pretty clear.

“You… You wouldn’t dare,” Viktor mumbled, but his voice no longer had the usual confidence.

“Think so?” Marina asked coldly. “Stas was just asking about us.”

Viktor stepped back, muttering something unintelligible. Marina walked past him into the bedroom, feeling her knees tremble. She knew she was playing with fire, but she couldn’t tolerate his behavior any longer. A month without work had turned Viktor into some kind of bitter beast, taking out his anger on her.

In the bedroom, she closed the door and pulled out her phone. Her finger hovered over her brother’s number. No, it was too early. But if Viktor tried to hit her again… Marina sighed and put the phone back. She didn’t want to involve her brother in her problems, but she wasn’t going to tolerate abuse either.

From the kitchen came the sound of breaking dishes — Viktor had apparently decided to take out his anger on the plates. Marina closed her eyes. She knew this was just the beginning. And the longer Viktor stayed unemployed, the worse the situation would get.

Friday evening came unexpectedly fast. For Marina, the week had passed in constant tension — every day coming home had become scarier. After that incident, Viktor had kept himself in check, but his eyes, full of hidden malice, spoke for themselves. He was waiting for the moment to get even.

That evening, Marina stayed late at work — finishing her quarterly report. She didn’t even have time to warn Viktor. When she returned home, the apartment greeted her with an unusual silence.

“Maybe he went somewhere?” she thought hopefully, carefully taking off her shoes at the doorstep.

On the kitchen table, there was a note hastily written by Viktor: “Went to Sergey’s. Don’t wait.”

Marina exhaled with relief. An evening without his complaining and demanding looks was a real gift. She quickly took a shower, changed into comfortable clothes, and settled on the couch with her phone. Finally, she could have a peaceful conversation with her friend Lena, who had been trying to reach her for a week.

“Marinka! I thought you disappeared!” Lena chattered happily as soon as she heard Marina’s voice.

“Sorry, been busy with work,” Marina didn’t want to get into the details of her home life. “How are you? How’s everything with Andrei?”

The conversation stretched on. For the first time in a long time, Marina felt relaxed, laughing at her friend’s jokes. She completely lost track of time and didn’t hear the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“…And then I tell him: ‘If you don’t stop your antics, you can forget about…’”

Suddenly, her phone was ripped from her hands. Marina jumped and looked up. Viktor was standing in front of her, flushed, with a wild gleam in his eyes. He reeked of fresh alcohol.

“So this is how it is?” he hissed, squeezing her phone in his hand. “I come home, and you’re here having fun? No dinner, no cleaning, just talking on the phone?”

“Vitya, give me the phone,” Marina said firmly, standing up from the couch. “And don’t yell at me. You wrote that you weren’t coming back.”

“I wrote ‘don’t wait’!” he yelled. “That means ‘don’t sit and wait for me, go do what you’re supposed to’! Where the hell is my dinner?”

“I’m not your servant,” Marina replied, trying to stay calm. “If you’re hungry, I can make something. But don’t you dare yell at me.”

Viktor scoffed, his face twisting into an unpleasant grin.

“Don’t dare?” he asked again. “Don’t dare?! Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”

He threw Marina’s phone onto the couch and took a step toward her, raising his hand. There was nothing human left in his eyes — only drunken rage.

“I’ll teach you some respect,” he growled.

But this time, Marina didn’t back down. In one swift motion, she grabbed her phone and jumped toward the window.

“Touch me, and Stas will be here in twenty minutes,” she said, already dialing her brother’s number.

“Drop the phone!” Viktor lunged toward her. “I said drop it!”

Marina shook her head and held the phone to her ear. She heard the dial tone, then a familiar voice:

“Marinka? What’s wrong?”

“Stas, come over,” she said, keeping her eyes locked on Viktor. “He’s at it again…”

“On my way,” her brother said shortly before hanging up.

Viktor stopped in the middle of the room. His face turned pale, and his hands dropped. It was as if he sobered up instantly.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” Marina answered, sitting back down on the couch. “Now sit and wait. Stas will be here soon.”

Viktor helplessly glanced around, as if looking for a way to escape. But he knew — he couldn’t hide from Stas. He would find him anywhere.

All that was left was to wait. Viktor collapsed into the chair, covering his face with his hands. Marina stared out the window, knowing that in a short while, her brother’s headlights would appear. She didn’t feel fear or regret — only exhaustion and the strange sense that the point of no return had already passed.

Twenty minutes of waiting felt like an eternity. Viktor sat in the chair, nervously tapping his fingers on the armrests. Marina stood by the window, watching the empty street. The apartment was silent, except for the ticking of the wall clock.

“Maybe you should call him?” Viktor suddenly said. “Tell him everything’s fine, that we’ve made up…”

Marina didn’t respond. She heard the tremble in his voice, but it didn’t move her to pity or sympathy. Too many times, she had forgiven his actions, too many times she had believed his promises to change.

“Marina, please,” he stood up and took a step toward her. “I won’t do it again. I promise…”

“Sit down,” she said briefly, not looking at him.

At that moment, the sound of a car horn broke the silence. Marina saw a black Toyota with tinted windows pull into the driveway. Viktor jumped to the window and immediately recoiled.

“They… there are three of them,” he whispered.

Marina nodded. She knew her brother wouldn’t come alone. He always brought people with him — for moments like this.

The doorbell rang like a gunshot. Viktor flinched and backed up to the wall. Marina calmly walked to the door and opened it.

Standing on the threshold was Stanislav. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a black leather jacket. Two figures loomed behind him — just as silent and threatening.

“Hello, sis,” Stanislav said, kissing Marina on the cheek. “Where is he?”

“In the living room,” Marina replied, letting her brother inside.

Stanislav entered, and his friends followed. Viktor, seeing them, tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Stas, hey,” he stammered. “I… I didn’t mean to…”

“Shut up,” Stanislav interrupted him. “I didn’t come here to listen to your excuses.”

He walked up to Viktor. Viktor tried to step back, but his back was already pressed against the wall.

“Do you remember what I told you last time?” Stanislav asked in a quiet, but frightening voice. “I said that if you ever raise a hand to my sister, I’ll find you. And here I am.”

“Stas, I was drunk,” Viktor started to defend himself. “I didn’t…”

Stanislav sharply grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

“Drunk?” he asked. “Is that your excuse? You think that changes anything?”

One of Stanislav’s friends stepped closer.

“Stas, maybe we should go outside?” he suggested. “The walls are thin, the neighbors will hear.”

Stanislav nodded and released Viktor.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Viktor tried to resist, but two strong guys had already grabbed him by the arms and were leading him toward the door. Marina stood aside, watching what was happening. She knew she should stop her brother, but something inside her wouldn’t let her. Maybe it was because she had been dreaming of this moment — when someone would finally put Viktor in his place.

“Marina!” Viktor screamed as they led him out of the apartment. “Tell them! Tell them I didn’t mean it! Marina!”

The door slammed shut. Marina walked to the window and saw Viktor being shoved into the trunk of the black Toyota. Stanislav spoke to his friends for a moment, then raised his head and caught her gaze. He nodded, as if saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

The car pulled away and left the yard. Marina was left alone in the empty apartment. She knew Viktor would return. But how he would be after that conversation with Stanislav — that was another question.

Marina didn’t know how much time had passed. She sat in the kitchen, aimlessly stirring the now-cold tea. Thoughts swarmed in her mind, but none lingered for long. What should she do next? How to live after this?

The sound of a key turning in the lock made her jump. The door opened, and Stanislav quietly entered the apartment. Alone.

“Where’s Vitya?” Marina asked, getting up to meet her brother.

Stanislav took off his jacket and walked into the kitchen. He looked calm, but Marina knew that expression — it was always like that after “serious conversations.”

“He’ll be here,” Stanislav replied shortly, sitting down at the table. “Give me some water.”

Marina poured her brother a glass of water and sat across from him.

“What did you do to him?”

Stanislav shrugged.

“Nothing he couldn’t handle. We just talked. Man to man.”

Marina knew what “man to man” meant. She didn’t want to imagine the details.

“He won’t raise a hand to you again,” Stanislav continued, sipping the water. “I made sure he knows what will happen if he does.”

“And what will happen?” Marina asked softly.

“You don’t want to know, sis,” Stanislav put the empty glass on the table. “And he doesn’t want to know either.”

There was no anger or threat in his voice — only the calm certainty of someone used to solving problems his way. Marina knew what her brother did for a living, but she never asked for details. It was easier that way for both of them.

“I’m thinking about a divorce,” she suddenly said.

Stanislav looked at his sister intently.

“Are you sure?”

Marina nodded.

“Yes. It can’t be left like this. Today, he didn’t hit me only because I managed to call you. What will happen next time?”

“There won’t be a next time,” Stanislav said firmly. “I guarantee it.”

“You can’t guarantee it, Stas,” Marina replied tiredly. “You won’t be here every day. And he’s getting worse. This job situation has really taken a toll on him.”

Stanislav was silent, thinking over her words. Finally, he nodded.

“It’s up to you. But know this — I’m always on your side.”

At that moment, the front door opened again. On the threshold stood Viktor. His face was pale, a bruise was swelling under his eye, and his lip was split. He stepped into the apartment hesitantly, holding his side.

Stanislav stood up.

“Well, I’ll be going,” he said, heading for the door. “Viktor, don’t forget our conversation.”

Viktor nodded, not lifting his eyes. Stanislav hugged his sister goodbye and left, leaving the couple alone.

Silence fell. Viktor stood by the door, unsure whether to move forward. Marina looked at him — and didn’t recognize him. Where had the self-assured man she once married gone? Before her stood a broken, pitiful man who couldn’t even look her in the eyes.

“Marina, I…” he began, but she raised her hand, stopping the flow of words.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I’m leaving.”

“Where?” Viktor asked, bewildered.

“To mom’s. For a couple of days. I need to think.”

She went to the bedroom and started packing her things. Viktor followed her like a shadow, but kept his distance.

“It’s all because of him, isn’t it?” he suddenly asked. “Your brother turned you against me?”

Marina turned to him, her eyes filled with a mixture of surprise and disdain.

“You still don’t get it,” she shook her head. “It’s not about Stas. It’s about you. About what you did. About what you’ve been doing to me.”

“I’ll change,” Viktor whispered. “I swear I will…”

“Yes, you’ll change, but what direction you’re going in is unclear. And I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

She left the bedroom, leaving Viktor standing in shock. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

Viktor slowly sank onto the bed, feeling the pain from the beatings mix with the pain of realizing that he had probably lost his wife forever. And what was worse — he knew he deserved it…”

Dima had dreamed of becoming a doctor for as long as he could remember. But life seemed determined to throw obstacles in his way. First, his father died unexpectedly — a loss that knocked the solid ground out from under his feet. Then his mother fell ill: nerves and the constant struggle of working two jobs took their toll. Naturally, he failed the medical school entrance exams. And now, for the second year, he was working as an orderly at the regional hospital, still hoping that someday he would don the white coat.

The day started as usual — cleaning, transporting patients, and endless running through corridors. But after lunch, he was unexpectedly asked to see the head of the therapeutic department — Andrey Pavlovich.

“Dima, there’s a delicate matter,” the doctor began without unnecessary words, looking closely at the young man. “There’s a woman here, Lidiya Semyonovna. Very ill. She has a grandson, also named Dima — your namesake. Only… he hasn’t seen her for a long time, and she would so much like to see him at least once before she leaves us. We thought… maybe you would agree to play his role? At least for her peace of mind.”

Dima froze. A lie? And not just a lie, but a full-on masquerade?

“Andrey Pavlovich, I’m not sure… It feels wrong,” he murmured.

“Sometimes a lie can be kind,” the department head answered softly. “Think about it. For her, this will be the last comfort. And you’ll just help someone to pass away peacefully.”

Dima hesitated. His conscience whispered it was wrong. But the image of a lonely old woman waiting for her beloved grandson wouldn’t leave him alone. In the end, he nodded. The nurses quickly gathered information about the real Dima — his childhood hobbies, where he studied, favorite phrases. The strange play for the sole audience member began.

In the evening, exhausted after talking with the head doctor, Dima went to the store to buy bread and milk for his mother. She still needed help. On his way home, he unexpectedly bumped into Marina — a girl from the neighboring building who he had liked for a long time. Lighthearted, cheerful, with a smile that could melt even the grayest mood.

“Hi, Dima! Where have you been hiding?” she smiled.

The conversation started easily — about trivial things, about a movie currently playing in theaters. Unexpectedly, Dima suggested going together. To his surprise and delight, Marina agreed:

“Saturday — perfect!”

On the way home, he smiled. Just the thought of the date with Marina made the day brighter. Maybe a new chapter was really starting in his life? Maybe he would finally find his own true happiness? That thought gave him hope, helping him believe everything was still possible.

The next day, after finishing his shift and changing into civilian clothes, Dima went into Lidiya Semyonovna’s hospital room. His heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest. He was afraid they would see through him right away. But the woman — small, thin, but with lively eyes — looked at him with a long gaze and faintly smiled:

“Dimochka… you came, dear…”

Dima felt a weight lift from his heart — she believed him. He sat down next to her, and their first conversation flowed naturally. He didn’t expect to feel like anything other than an actor, but almost genuinely. Lidiya Semyonovna spoke about life, the past, death — calmly, without fear.

Each day he came more often. Brought water, adjusted her pillow, simply sat nearby. Once she asked if he had a girlfriend. Dima thought of Marina and felt a little embarrassed. Grandma smiled understandingly:

“Tell me later how the date went. I’m curious to hear about love, too.”

However, the Saturday date ended quite differently than he had dreamed. After the movie, they walked through the park, and Marina suddenly became serious.

“Dima, you’re a good guy, really. But we’re different. I want to leave, see the world, make a career… And you… you’re an orderly. It’s important work, of course, but… not for me.”

She didn’t finish, but Dima understood everything. His salary, his struggles, his uncertain future — all that had become a wall between them.

He silently walked her home. When he returned, his mother asked how it went. Dima just waved his hand:

“Nothing came of it.”

His mother sighed. She had never approved of his involvement in the “grandson” story.

“Dima, I understand you wanted to help, but it’s not our business. Other people’s hopes, other people’s expectations… Don’t take on more than you can handle.”

He was silent. Inside, he felt empty. Marina reminded him how far his life was from his dream, and his mother’s words only deepened his guilt toward Lidiya Semyonovna.

The next day, Dima came again to the old woman. He tried to look cheerful, but Lidiya Semyonovna immediately noticed something was wrong.

“What happened, grandson? Did the girl hurt you?”

And then he told her. About how he dreamed, how he was wrong, how he was too far from her dream. Lidiya Semyonovna listened, nodding, then said:

“Love, Dimochka, is different. Don’t chase the one that shines. You need the one that warms.”

Then she took out an old photo album from her bedside table.

“Take it. These are pictures of my son, Alexey… your father. Look — keep the memories. I don’t need them anymore.”

Her voice trembled, and Dima understood: today was their farewell. Not only with her, but with part of his illusions.

At home that evening, he began flipping through the album. A young man with an open smile looked out from yellowed photos. Alexey — a man he only knew by legend. Suddenly, his gaze stopped on one picture — a group photo, clearly from university. Among others stood a woman. Young, beautiful, with a broad smile… Dima froze. That was his mother.

He caught his breath. This couldn’t be a coincidence. So Alexey and his mother knew each other. So there was a connection. But if so — why had she never told anything? Why had she kept this secret all these years?

Thousands of questions swirled in his head. He had to find out the truth. Right now. He jumped up and ran home. Waiting was no longer an option.

Dima practically ran out of the hospital. What he would say to his mother — he didn’t yet know. Passing by the doctors’ lounge, he heard muffled voices. The door was slightly ajar, and he recognized Andrey Pavlovich’s tone.

“…yes, we’ll increase the dose gradually — no one will suspect a thing. We’ll blame it on worsening condition. She has a good inheritance, and this official grandson of hers is already nervous, waiting for her to ‘calm down.’”

Then another voice — sharp, nasty, clearly through a loudspeaker: “Just act decisively, Pavlovich. I’m fed up with the delays. The old woman’s time is long overdue.”

Dima’s heart stopped. A conspiracy! They were deliberately speeding her death. His own grandmother, to whom he had grown close, was in danger for the sake of an inheritance. A wave of panic overwhelmed him. But there was no time to be afraid — he had to act.

He shot out of the hospital like a bullet and rushed home. Bursting into the apartment, he immediately showed the photo to his mother:

“Mom, who is this?! Who is Alexey really?!”

Seeing the photo and noticing how pale her son was from excitement, the mother herself turned pale. Then words poured out of her like a broken dam.

Alexey was her first and only love. They were going to get married, but Lidiya Semyonovna, his mother, was categorically against the union. She believed her son deserved someone ‘above,’ not a simple girl from the outskirts.

When his mother became pregnant, Alexey offered to leave. He wanted to protect his beloved from family pressure. But their happiness was cut short by tragedy — he died in an accident when Dima was not yet a year old. Left alone, without means or support, she had to temporarily give the child to an orphanage while she looked for work and strength to start over.

She wrote to Lidiya Semyonovna, asking her at least to acknowledge the grandson, but the woman, crushed by the loss of her son and her pride, never replied.

Listening to his mother, Dima felt the old world crumble and a new one arise in its place. Lidiya Semyonovna — his real grandmother! And now they wanted to take her life!

“Mom, we have to help her!” he said decisively.

Late at night, when the hospital corridors emptied, Dima and his mother quietly entered Lidiya Semyonovna’s room. She was weak but clear-minded.

“Dimochka… And who’s with you?” she whispered, noticing the woman nearby.

“Lidiya Semyonovna… It’s me… Katya…” his mother said with a trembling voice. “You don’t remember me? I loved your Alyosha… And this is your grandson. Your real grandson — Dima.”

In a few minutes, they tried to tell everything: about the past, the conspiracy, the mortal danger. The old woman’s eyes widened in shock, then filled with tears.

“My dear grandson… And you’re here, Katyenka…”

But there was no time for explanations.

“Grandma, we have to leave. Right now!” urged Dima.

They quickly gathered a few things, gently helped Lidiya Semyonovna stand, and led her out through the service exit where a taxi awaited. Along the way, she didn’t let go of Dima’s hand, as if afraid to lose him again.

That night was crazy and at the same time happy for all three — a woman who had lost her family found it again, and two generations, separated by years and secrets, finally found each other.

Several months passed. Andrey Pavlovich and his accomplice were investigated — thanks to the testimony of a nurse whom Dima trusted with his suspicion.

Lidiya Semyonovna slowly but surely recovered. In the small apartment of Dima and his mother, she felt something she hadn’t known for many years — love, care, belonging. For the first time in his life, Dima understood the meaning of the word “family.”

In the evenings, grandmother told him stories about his father, showed childhood photos. That’s how he learned the face of a man who was so close to him, but had long remained only a stranger’s legend. His mother also seemed to come alive, freed from the secret she had carried for years.

One day, the phone rang. The screen showed the name — Marina.

“Hi, Dima. I was thinking… Maybe we could meet?” she hesitantly suggested.

Dima smirked a little.

“Sorry, Marinachka, I’m busy. I have a completely different life now.”

And indeed — he had not only found new love, but also met a girl who understood him — Katya, a student at the medical college. She didn’t demand much, only was ready to be by his side.

In the warm atmosphere at the family table in the evening: his mother fussed with tea, grandmother told a funny story, and Katya looked at Dima with understanding and warmth. He looked around at all of them — and felt what true happiness was.

Yes, he was still not a doctor, and the white coat hung in the closet as a symbol of an unrealized dream. But today he knew one thing for sure: true purpose is not a profession or a career, but the people who love you. And he had found his path — the path of family, faith, and truth.

He was no longer the lost boy he once was. He had become grown-up, steadfast, strong. And was ready to face each new day with hope, love, and an open heart.

Seven in the morning. Who the hell could be calling at seven on a Saturday morning? Marina groped for the phone on the nightstand without opening her eyes.

— Hello?

— Marinushka, dear, it’s me, Valeria Petrovna. Mikhail Semyonovich and I are already on our way up to you. Don’t worry, we have the keys.

Marina sat up in bed as if shocked by an electric current. Her mind wasn’t fully awake yet, but something in her mother-in-law’s voice made her uneasy. She sounded way too cheerful for such an early hour.

— Valeria Petrovna, who… who is Mikhail Semyonovich?

— Oh, dear, he’s the appraiser! We agreed with Igoryochka yesterday… Oh, it seems he didn’t tell you? Well, no worries, we’ll explain everything now!

The line went dead. Marina stared at the phone, feeling a tight knot form inside her. An appraiser? What kind of appraiser? And most importantly — why?

Next to her, Igor was snoring soundly after last night’s party. Marina shook him by the shoulder.

— Igor! Igor, get up immediately!

— Mmm… what… Marin, let me sleep…

— Your mother is coming here with some appraiser! What does this mean?

Igor opened one eye, and Marina saw something in it… fear? guilt? He quickly turned away.

— I don’t know… probably something about grandma’s inheritance…

— Igor, look at me. LOOK AT ME!

He reluctantly turned around. Marina had known her husband for five years and could easily tell when he was lying. And he was lying now.

The doorbell interrupted their conversation. Or rather, not a doorbell — a long trill, like someone decided to play Mendelssohn’s Wedding March on the doorbell.

Marina threw on a robe and went to open the door. Through the peephole, she saw her smiling mother-in-law and an unfamiliar middle-aged man with a briefcase.

— Marinushka, my sunshine! — chirped Valeria Petrovna as soon as the door opened. — How are you? How do you feel? Don’t worry, we’ll be quick and everything will be fine!

She walked into the hallway without asking permission and gestured for the man to follow her.

— Meet Mikhail Semyonovich Krylov, a real estate appraiser. A very experienced specialist, he’s been working for about twenty years.

Mikhail Semyonovich extended his hand and looked at Marina with an apologetic smile. It was clear he felt uncomfortable.

— Hello… Honestly, I thought you knew…

— Knew what? — Marina’s voice grew harsher. — Valeria Petrovna, please explain what is going on.

— Oh, what is there to explain! — waved her mother-in-law. — Igor and I decided to arrange a deed of gift. So that everything is honest, fair. The apartment is good, big, and what if something happens… God forbid, of course! But you never know…

Marina felt the blood drain from her face. The apartment was bought with her money. Money she had saved for three years working sixty hours a week in an advertising agency. Money from selling her mother’s jewelry after her death. Every ruble of that apartment was hers.

— Igor! — she shouted. — COME HERE!

Her husband appeared in the hallway, pulling on jeans. His eyes darted nervously, guilty.

“The apartment is mine!” — the mother-in-law brought an appraiser at 7 am. The daughter-in-law’s response shocked everyone

— Igor, dear, — the mother said softly, — tell your wife how we talked yesterday. She’s a smart girl, she’ll understand everything.

— Mom, I told you, we should’ve talked to Marina first…

— Oh, nonsense! What’s there to fuss about between family! And besides, Mikhail Semyonovich took the time and made an appointment with us…

Marina raised her hand, stopping the flow of words.

— Stop. Everyone stop. Mikhail Semyonovich, with your permission, I want to see the documents. Both yours and the appraisal request.

The appraiser glanced at Valeria Petrovna, then at Igor.

— Well… the request was submitted by your husband… as a co-owner…

— Co-owner? — Marina felt something break inside. — Igor, what did you tell them?

— I… well… we are married… it’s our common property…

— NO! — Marina shouted so loudly everyone flinched. — Not common! The apartment is registered in my name. In MY name alone. According to the purchase contract, with MY money!

She went to the bedroom and came back with a folder of documents.

— Mikhail Semyonovich, here is the certificate of ownership. See? The sole owner is Ivanova Marina Andreevna. Now show me the document that gives my husband the right to dispose of MY apartment.

The appraiser carefully examined the papers, then looked guiltily at Igor.

— I… Sorry, but here it really shows only one owner. If the spouse does not give consent…

— Marinushka, — Valeria Petrovna’s voice grew syrupy, — why are you acting like a stranger? We’re one family! And think about it yourself — what if something happens to you? You never know… Igoryochka might end up with nothing!

— What if something happens to Igor? — Marina retorted. — Am I supposed to go out on the street?

— Oh, come on! — her mother-in-law threw up her hands. — I’m his mother! I won’t let anyone hurt my son! And you… you’re young, beautiful, you’ll marry again…

Silence fell so heavy you could hear the ticking clock in the kitchen. Marina looked at her mother-in-law, then at her husband. Pain showed on his face, but he was silent.

— I understand, — Marina said quietly. — Mikhail Semyonovich, sorry for the trouble. No one will be appraising anyone. There will be no deeds of gift.

— But Marinushka…

— Valeria Petrovna, — Marina’s voice turned icy, — you brought a stranger into MY apartment at seven on a Saturday morning to appraise MY property without MY consent. To force me to give MY apartment to YOUR son. Am I right?

— Well… it’s not that categorical…

— Exactly that. And do you know what that’s called? Fraud. And extortion.

Valeria Petrovna flushed crimson.

— How dare you! I’m a mother! I care about my son’s future!

— You care about the apartment. A free apartment. — Marina opened the door. — Mikhail Semyonovich, all the best. Sorry for wasting your time.

The appraiser hurriedly gathered his papers.

— It happens… Goodbye.

When he left, Marina closed the door and turned to her mother-in-law.

— Now let’s speak frankly. Valeria Petrovna, have you ever invested a single kopek into this apartment?

— What does money have to do with it! It’s about family!

— Family? Fine. Igor, — she turned to her husband, — explain how you could make arrangements with your mother about MY apartment behind my back?

Igor swallowed.

— Marin, well… Mom worries… she thinks about the future…

— What future? About throwing me out of my own apartment?

— Not that! — Valeria Petrovna couldn’t take it anymore. — You see how he is! Soft, kind… Any woman would deceive him! And the apartment — it’s at least some guarantee!

— A guarantee from me, huh? — Marina laughed bitterly. — So I’m a threat?

— Well… things happen… divorces…

— Oh, I see! — Marina clapped her hands. — So you’re already planning our divorce! And want to protect your son in advance!

— Marinushka, what are you talking about! What divorce! We only want the best!

— The best? You want me to give the apartment, bought with my money, to your son. So I’ll live there like a tenant. Is that your “best”?

Valeria Petrovna pressed her lips tight.

— You’re ungrateful. Igor married you, gave you his last name…

— STOP! — Marina shouted. — That’s enough! Igor, — she turned to her husband, — you have two minutes to choose. Either you tell your mother right now that the apartment is mine and will remain mine, or you both get out of here.

— Marin, don’t be so hot-headed… let’s talk calmly…

— Calmly? CALMLY?! You burst into my apartment with an appraiser to take away my home, and I’m supposed to stay calm?

— Not take away, but… transfer the ownership…

— IN YOUR NAME! That’s taking it away!

Igor looked confused, glancing between his mother and wife.

— Mom, maybe it’s really not worth it… we can do it later…

— Later won’t come! — Marina cut him off. — Igor, I want to hear from you right now: whose apartment is this?

— Well… yours, of course…

— And whose will it be?

— Yours…

— And I won’t put anyone else on the deed?

— You won’t…

Valeria Petrovna looked at her son in horror.

— Igor! What are you saying! She’s wrapping you around her finger! You’re a man!

— He’s a man who respects his wife’s rights, — Marina said firmly. — Or should respect. Valeria Petrovna, it’s time for you to go.

— What — go? I’m his mother! I have the right…

— You have the right to visit us by invitation. At a time convenient for US. Not to barge in early in the morning with strangers.

— Igor, do you hear this? She’s kicking me out!

Igor fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.

— Mom, maybe… come later…

— Later? — Valeria Petrovna exploded. — I have been here for you all my life! I raised you alone! I sacrificed everything! And this… this bitch…

— OUT! — Marina yelled. — OUT OF MY HOUSE!

— Don’t you dare shout at me!

— I will shout! THIS IS MY HOME! And if you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the police!

Marina grabbed the phone.

— Hello, police? I have a domestic disturbance, unlawful entry…

— What are you doing! — Igor snatched the phone from her. — No police!

— Then get out with your mommy.

— What — get out? Marin, I live here…

— You lived here. Until you decided to take away my apartment.

— But I didn’t want to… Mom said…

— Mom said! — Marina mocked. — You’re thirty-two, Igor! Thirty-two! And you still listen to mommy!

Valeria Petrovna took her son by the arm.

— Igoryochka, let’s go. It’s not worth dealing with such… ungratefulness. I have a sofa at my place.

— Fine, — said Marina. — Make yourselves comfortable on the sofa. And leave the keys.

— What keys?

— The ones you used to get in here without permission.

Igor reluctantly put the keys on the nightstand.

— Marin, this is silly… where will I live?

— That’s your problem. My problem is to protect my property from encroachments.

— But we’re husband and wife!

— Husband and wife are a partnership based on trust. And you betrayed that trust.

Igor looked at her, confused.

— Marin, it can’t be like this… because of an apartment…

— Not because of the apartment. Because of lies. Because you decided my matters without me. Because your mother’s opinion is more important to you than your wife’s.

— But she’s my mother…

— And who am I? A servant?

Valeria Petrovna pulled her son toward the exit.

— Igor, don’t humiliate yourself! Look how she’s become! She’s lost her mind over the apartment!

When the door closed behind them, Marina leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. Her hands trembled, her chest burned. Five years of marriage. Five years she thought she had a family.

But it turned out — she had an apartment. And that was apparently the main thing.

The phone rang around eight in the evening. It was Igor.

— Marin, hi… How are you?

— Fine.

— Listen… I thought… maybe we argued for nothing?

— Igor, did you think that yourself or did your mother?

— Myself! Honestly! Marin, let’s make up… I didn’t mean to hurt you…

— What did you want then?

Pause.

— Well… Mom worries about my future…

— Uh-huh. So again mom.

— No, not again! I understand myself that I shouldn’t have decided without you…

— Igor, answer honestly: if I had agreed this morning to transfer the apartment to you, would you have minded?

Long silence.

— Well… I wouldn’t have minded…

— I see. Igor, until you understand the difference between a wife and a temporary tenant, we have nothing to talk about.

— Marin, it’s not like that…

— Exactly like that. Good night.

She hung up and turned off the phone.

Outside, the city lights burned. Somewhere in one of the apartments, Valeria Petrovna was explaining to her son what a bitch his wife was. Somewhere else, Igor was thinking about how to return to the warm apartment without losing his mother’s approval.

And here, in her apartment, sat Marina. Alone. But in her own place. Bought with her money, her labor, her sacrifices.

And for the first time in many years, she felt truly free.

In the morning, she would change the locks. Then call a lawyer — to find out how to protect herself from situations like this in the future. And also think whether it’s worth tying her life to a man who at thirty-two still can’t choose between his wife and his mother.

But that’s tomorrow. Today, she just sat in her apartment, drank tea, and thought that sometimes losing a family is the only way to save yourself.

Money, of course, isn’t the most important thing in life. But when it comes to protecting your own dignity, even an apartment can become a fortress.

And Marina was ready to defend her fortress.

Anya had always felt like a stranger in her own home. Her mother clearly favored her older sisters — Vika and Yulia — showing them much more care and warmth. This injustice deeply hurt the girl, but she kept her resentment inside, constantly trying to please her mother and get at least a little closer to her love.

“Don’t even dream of living with me! The apartment will go to your sisters. And you’ve looked at me like a wolf cub since childhood. So live wherever you want!” — with these words, her mother kicked Anya out of the house as soon as she turned eighteen.

Anya tried to argue, to explain that it was unfair. Vika was only three years older, and Yulia five. Both had finished university paid for by their mother; no one had rushed them to become independent. But Anya had always been the odd one out. Despite all her efforts to be “good,” in the family she was loved only superficially — if that can be called love at all. Only her grandfather treated her kindly. He was the one who had taken in his pregnant daughter after her husband abandoned them and disappeared without a trace.

“Maybe Mom is worried about my sister? They say I look a lot like her,” Anya thought, trying to find an explanation for her mother’s coldness. She had tried several times to have an honest talk with her mother, but each time it ended in a scandal or a tantrum.

But her grandfather was a real support to her. Her best childhood memories were linked to the village where they spent summers. Anya loved working in the garden and vegetable patch, learned to milk cows, bake pies — anything to delay going back home, where every day she was met with contempt and reproaches.

“Grandpa, why does no one love me? What’s wrong with me?” she often asked, holding back tears.

“I love you very much,” he answered gently but never said a word about her mother or sisters.

Little Anya wanted to believe he was right, that she was loved, just in a special way… But when she turned ten, her grandfather died, and since then the family treated her even worse. Her sisters mocked her, and her mother always sided with them.

From that day on, she never got anything new — only hand-me-down clothes from Vika and Yulia. They mocked her:

“Oh, what a fashionable top! Wipe the floor or for Anya — whatever’s needed!”

And if their mother bought sweets, the sisters ate everything themselves, handing Anya just the wrappers:

“Here, silly, collect the wrappers!”

Her mother heard it all but never scolded them. That’s how Anya grew up as a “wolf cub” — unnecessary, always begging for love from people who saw her not just as worthless but as an object of mockery and dislike. The harder she tried to be good, the more they hated her.

That’s why, when her mother kicked her out on her eighteenth birthday, Anya found work as a hospital orderly. Endurance and hard work became her habit, and now at least she was paid — though little. But here, no one hated her. If you’re not met with malice where you’re kind, that’s already progress. That’s what she thought.

Her employer even gave her a chance to get a scholarship and train as a surgeon. In the small town, such specialists were sorely needed, and Anya had already shown talent while working as a nurse.

Life was hard. By twenty-seven, she had no close relatives. Work became her whole life — literally. She lived for the patients whose lives she saved. But the feeling of loneliness never left her: she lived alone in a dormitory, just like before.

Visiting her mother and sisters was a constant disappointment. Anya tried to go as rarely as possible. Everyone would go out to smoke and gossip, and she would go to the porch to cry.

One day at such a moment, a colleague — orderly Grisha — approached her:

“Why are you crying, beautiful?”

“What beautiful… Don’t mock me,” Anya answered quietly.

She considered herself plain, a gray mouse, not even noticing that at almost thirty she had become a petite charming blonde with big blue eyes and a neat nose. The awkwardness of youth had disappeared, her shoulders straightened, and her light hair, tied in a strict bun, seemed to want to break free.

“You’re actually very beautiful! Value yourself and don’t hang your head. Besides, you’re a promising surgeon, and your life is shaping up well,” he encouraged her.

Grisha had worked with her for almost two years, sometimes giving her chocolates, but this was their first real talk. Anya cried and told him everything.

“Maybe you should call Dmitry Alekseevich? The one you recently saved. He treats you well. They say he has many connections,” Grisha suggested.

“Thanks, Grish. I’ll try,” Anya replied.

“And if that doesn’t work, we can get married. I have an apartment, won’t mistreat you,” he said jokingly.

Anya blushed and suddenly realized he was serious. He saw not a pitiful orphan, but a woman who deserved love.

“All right. I’ll consider that option too,” she smiled, feeling for the first time in a long time that she was not a “workhorse” or unnecessary, but a beautiful young woman with everything still ahead of her.

That same evening, Anya dialed Dmitry Alekseevich’s number:

“This is Anya, the surgeon. You gave me your number and said I could contact you if there were problems…” she began and hesitated.

“Anya! Greetings! How wonderful that you finally called! How are you? Although, you know, let’s better meet. Come over, we’ll have some tea and talk about everything. We, older folks, like to chat,” the man warmly replied.

The next day was Anya’s day off, so she went to see him immediately. She honestly told him about her situation and asked if he knew anyone in need of a live-in caregiver.

“You understand, Dmitry Alekseevich, I’m used to hard work, but now I feel like I just can’t take it anymore…”

“Don’t worry, Anechka! I can get you a surgeon’s job in a private clinic. And you’ll live with me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here now,” he said.

“Oh, of course, Dmitry Alekseevich, I agree! But your relatives won’t mind?”

“My relatives come only when I’m gone. They only care about the apartment,” the man replied sadly.

So they started living together. Two years passed, and a romance blossomed between her and Grisha, often continuing over cups of tea. But Dmitry Alekseevich didn’t like Grisha and never missed a chance to tell Anya:

“Sorry, dear, but Grisha is a good guy, just weak and too impressionable. You can’t rely on someone like that. Try not to get too attached to him.”

“Oh, Dmitry Alekseevich… It’s too late. We’ve already decided to get married. By the way, he jokingly proposed to me two years ago. And now I’m pregnant…” Anya joyfully announced, almost glowing with happiness. She had learned this news recently but immediately added, “But you’re still very important to me! I’ll visit every day. You’re like family to me.”

“Well, Anyutka… I’m not feeling well. Here’s what we’ll do: tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and I’ll register a house in the village in your name. You’ve always loved rural life. Maybe it will be your dacha… or you can sell it if you want.”

He hesitated, not finishing his sentence, and frowned.

Anya tried to object: it was too much, he would live a long time yet, better to leave the house to his children. Although in the last two years they had visited him only once. But Dmitry Alekseevich was adamant.

Anya was shocked when she found out that the house was in the very village where her beloved grandfather had lived! His house had long been demolished, the plot sold, and strangers lived there now. But the fact she now had her own little corner there stirred warm feelings and memories.

“I don’t deserve this, but thank you very much, Dmitry Alekseevich!” she sincerely thanked him.

“Only one thing: don’t tell Grisha the house is in your name. And don’t ask why. Can I ask this of you?”

He looked serious, and Anya nodded, promising to comply. How to explain the origin of the house to Grisha was still an open question, but she could say she had reconciled with her mother.

Later, Anya learned that Dmitry Alekseevich, besides suffering stroke consequences, also had cancer. He refused surgery. In the end, Anya helped organize his funeral and moved in with her future husband.

Problems began closer to the seventh month of pregnancy — by then they had already lived together for six months.

“Maybe you should work a bit? Before the baby is born,” Grisha suggested.

By that time, Anya had temporarily left the clinic where Dmitry Alekseevich had gotten her a job. She thought she could live on savings, counting on Grisha’s support. But his words surprised and hurt her.

“Well… maybe…” she answered uncertainly. It was unpleasant since she bought the groceries, and Grisha turned out to be stingy. But the child was growing in her belly, and she didn’t want to give up the wedding.

But a week before the scheduled celebration, while Grisha was not home, an unfamiliar woman entered their apartment with her own key.

“Hello. I’m Lena. Grisha and I love each other, and he’s just afraid to tell you. So I’ll say it: you’re no longer needed,” said a tall, skinny blonde confidently and assertively.

“What?! Our wedding is in a few days! We’ve paid for everything!” Anya stammered in confusion. She had taken on most of the expenses to hold a modest celebration at a café.

“I know. No problem. Grisha will marry me. I have connections at the registry office; we’ll arrange everything quickly,” Lena brazenly declared, as if it was already decided.

Lena didn’t plan to leave. When Grisha appeared, he only muttered:

“Anya, sorry… Yes, it’s true. I’ll help with the baby but can’t marry you.”

“We’ll do a paternity test,” Lena added, putting her hand on Grisha’s shoulder.

“What paternity test?! You’re my first and only!” Anya shouted and rushed at him with fists.

“She’ll scratch you up, silly! She’s almost thirty but acts like a little girl!” Lena scoffed.

Grisha stood silently, not defending Anya, just awkwardly looking down. It became clear: everything depended on Lena; he was just a passive observer.

Anya began packing her things. There was no point fighting for a man who easily gave up on her. Lena added that she and Grisha had dated long ago — she was married then but now free. Anya was just a temporary replacement until the “dream woman” was available.

She could have demanded explanations from Grisha, but what was the point if he let Lena come and do it for him?

“So the house came in handy after all,” Anya thought.

The house really was good, though it had no running water. But the stove was excellent — her grandfather had taught Anya everything needed for village life. It was livable. Only how to give birth alone? Well, there was still time; she would figure something out.

Firewood was stocked, the shed was sturdy, and even snow lay in front of the entrance, ready to be cleared. The woodpiles were full — a real find in such cold!

It was good Dmitry Alekseevich had introduced her in advance to the neighbors as the new mistress and wife of his son. No unnecessary questions.

Anya, of course, called her mother and sisters. As usual, they didn’t disappoint — they advised her to give the baby to an orphanage and “next time don’t get involved with just anyone before the wedding.” They also gossiped about how Grisha hadn’t returned the money for the wedding, half of which she had paid.

But no one knew about the house. Now Anya could hide from everyone and gather herself.

It was terribly cold; she didn’t even take off her down jacket. But when she began raking the coals in the stove, she noticed the poker hit something hard.

Anya took off her gloves and pulled out a wooden box that had been blocking the firewood. It was neatly sealed, with large letters on the lid: “Anya, this is for you.” She recognized the handwriting immediately — Dmitry Alekseevich’s.

Inside were photos, a letter, and a small box. Her hands trembled as she opened the envelope and began to read:

“Dear Anechka! You should know that I was your grandfather’s brother. And one of those he asked to take care of you.”

From the letter, it became clear: many years ago there was a serious rift between the grandfather and Dmitry, but before dying, the elder brother found him and asked him to find Anya after she turned eighteen. He also left her an inheritance that his daughter would hardly ever give away.

Dmitry could not find Anya immediately — her mother and sisters hid her address. But fate brought them together in the hospital when he was undergoing treatment and she was his doctor. He wanted to tell her everything earlier but didn’t have time. So he decided to give her the house that her grandfather had bought from him while alive, knowing his daughter would never leave anything to the granddaughter.

Another shock awaited in the letter: it turned out her mother was not her biological mother. Anya was the daughter of her late sister, whom she hated and envied. In the photo — young mother and father, smiling, hugging a little girl. Anya survived because she was with her grandfather on the day of the accident.

In the box lay five-thousand-ruble notes left by the grandfather. Touching them warmed her heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Now she and her baby were safe!

When Anya lit the stove, it seemed to her that all her fears, betrayals, and resentments disappeared in the flames. She would start over — for the baby and for herself.

Of course, in time she would forgive those who hurt her. But she was done with them. This house would be her refuge.

Dmitry Alekseevich always said a good house should belong to someone who values it. He said he built it in his youth with his own hands, from the best materials.

“Not a house, but a wonder! It will stand for two hundred years!” he often repeated. The village was reachable by bus — two stops away.

Yes, the pay was low, and help with the baby was still uncertain. But the main thing — she had a roof over her head, savings, a profession. She was young, beautiful, and she would have a son!

For the first time, Anya felt she was truly a happy person.

Lisa knew that planning a wedding was a nerve-wracking business. She had read articles about it, listened to friends. But no one warned her that the biggest problem wouldn’t be the cost of the restaurant or choosing a photographer, but her future mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna. The woman seemed to have made it her mission to turn every day of preparation into a test of endurance.

“This dress doesn’t suit you,” Valentina Petrovna declared when Lisa showed her photos of the wedding outfit. “It’s too revealing. In our family, brides dressed more modestly.”

Lisa clenched her phone in her hand, feeling her jaw muscles tense. The dress was quite decent—covered shoulders, floor length. But she didn’t argue.

“All right, Valentina Petrovna. I’ll think about it.”

“And this menu of yours…” the mother-in-law continued, flipping through restaurant printouts. “Who’s going to eat these foreign salads? People are used to proper food. Olivier, herring under a fur coat. Everyone understands that.”

Maxim, Lisa’s fiancé, sat nearby in silence. Sometimes he nodded to his mother, sometimes he gently stroked Lisa’s hand to reassure her. When Valentina Petrovna went to the kitchen to brew tea, he whispered:

“Don’t pay attention. Mom’s just worried. She wants everything to be perfect.”

“Maxim, your mother criticizes every decision we make,” Lisa replied quietly. “The dress, the menu, the flowers, the music. Only the guests are left, and I’m sure she’ll find something to say about them too.”

“Oh, come on. She means well.”

Means well. Lisa had heard those words a hundred times already. When Valentina Petrovna objected to fresh flowers in the bouquet—means well. When she demanded to invite her friends whom Lisa didn’t even know—also means well. Apparently, in Valentina Petrovna’s mind, doing good meant turning someone else’s wedding into an expression of her own ideas of how things should be.

The guest list became the next battlefield. Lisa had carefully put it together—relatives, friends, colleagues. Forty people, just as planned. But Valentina Petrovna made her own adjustments.

“And where is my cousin Klavdiya Ivanovna?” the mother-in-law asked, studying the list. “And neighbor Uncle Petr? He’s lived next to us for forty years.”

“Valentina Petrovna, we agreed on a small wedding,” Lisa explained. “The restaurant is designed for a certain number of people.”

“Then remove someone from your side. My relatives must not be offended.”

Maxim was silent again. Lisa looked at her fiancé, hoping for support, but he looked away. In the end, they had to exclude two of Lisa’s friends to make room for distant relatives of Valentina Petrovna, whom Lisa had seen maybe twice in her life.

The day before the wedding, when Lisa thought all major decisions were made, Valentina Petrovna called with new demands.

“Lisa, dear,” the mother-in-law’s voice was syrupy, but Lisa had learned to detect a catch in that tone. “I looked at the seating chart. They put me at the edge. That’s not right.”

“Where would you like to sit?”

“Next to the newlyweds, of course. I am the groom’s mother. The most important guest after you.”

Lisa closed her eyes and counted to ten. The seats next to the couple were given to the bride’s parents and the witnesses. Logical and traditional. But apparently, Valentina Petrovna thought traditions should bend to her wishes.

“All right,” Lisa gave in. “We’ll figure something out.”

“That’s my girl. I told you—it all must be right.”

“Right,” according to Valentina Petrovna, meant a complete reshuffle of guests. Lisa’s parents moved one seat over, the witness was moved across the table. It wasn’t very comfortable, but the mother-in-law was pleased.

On the morning of the wedding, Lisa woke up to a call. The clock showed half past six. It was Valentina Petrovna.

“Lisa, sorry for the early call. I have something important.”

Lisa sat up in bed, trying to fully wake up.

“I’m listening.”

“I was thinking about Maxim’s speech. He must thank me for his upbringing. And also say that without a mother’s blessing the family won’t be happy.”

“Valentina Petrovna, Maxim wrote the speech himself. We’ve rehearsed it several times.”

“Rehearsals don’t matter! Content is what counts. Write down what he must say.”

Lisa wrote it down. Then rewrote it when Valentina Petrovna called back in half an hour with additions. And the third time, the mother-in-law called from the hairdresser’s to check if Maxim would remember to mention family traditions.

“Did your mother call?” Maxim asked when they met at the registry office.

“Three times. With important corrections to your speech.”

“Oh, that. Well, I’ll say something suitable. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry. Another classic Maxim phrase. As if problems disappear if ignored. But today was the wedding, and Lisa decided not to worry—at least for a few hours.

The ceremony at the registry office was solemn. Lisa recited her vows, looking into Maxim’s eyes, forgetting for a few minutes all the problems with preparation. This was why they had started all this—to officially become a family. But when it was the bride’s turn to speak, Valentina Petrovna sighed loudly.

Not just sighed, but loud enough for everyone to hear. And shook her head as if doubting what was happening. Lisa faltered for a second but continued the vow. Maxim pretended not to notice.

After the ceremony, the guests went to the restaurant. Valentina Petrovna commented on the car decorations all the way.

“My niece’s flowers were prettier. And the ribbons wider.”

At the restaurant, the banquet began. Lisa hoped that her mother-in-law would behave more restrainedly at the table. But Valentina Petrovna clearly believed that a wedding was the perfect place to voice opinions.

“The salad is oversalted,” the mother-in-law announced after tasting the appetizer. “And what kind of sauce is this? Too spicy. Who came up with this?”

Guests nearby exchanged glances. Lisa felt her face flush. Maxim smiled, pretending his mother was just expressing her opinion about the food. Although everyone else heard the criticism clearly.

“Valentina Petrovna, would you like to try the fish?” Lisa offered, hoping to distract her mother-in-law.

“The fish isn’t bad. But the garnish is raw. The cook must be young and inexperienced.”

The toastmaster tried to entertain the guests with games and toasts. Valentina Petrovna participated actively, but each game was accompanied by comments about how such entertainment was done at weddings in their family. Naturally, better.

“Our toastmaster was a real actor,” the mother-in-law told the guest at her table. “Not like now. Young people don’t know how to organize celebrations.”

Lisa clenched a napkin in her hand, trying to keep smiling. Maxim leaned over to his wife from time to time and whispered:

“Hold on a bit more. It’ll be over soon.”

But it seemed Valentina Petrovna was just getting started. After the main courses, the toastmaster invited guests to give wishes to the newlyweds. Several friends gave warm speeches. Lisa’s parents wished happiness and mutual understanding. And then Valentina Petrovna stood up.

“May I have a word?” she addressed the toastmaster. “On behalf of the groom’s family.”

“Of course!” the host rejoiced. “The floor is given to the groom’s mother!”

Valentina Petrovna stood, took a glass, and scanned the hushed guests. Lisa felt her heart beat faster. Something in the mother-in-law’s expression suggested the speech would not be ordinary.

“Dear guests,” Valentina Petrovna began solemnly. “Today is a special day. My son Maxim has found a life partner.”

So far, so good. Lisa relaxed a little.

“Maxim is my golden boy. Smart, hardworking, caring. That’s the son I raised.”

Guests nodded in agreement. Maxim smiled modestly.

“And now he has a wife. Lisa.”

Valentina Petrovna turned to the bride, and something unkind flashed in her eyes.

“I hope Lisa will learn to cook with age. She can’t just sit in the office all the time. Family requires care, not a career.”

The hall froze. Lisa felt her cheeks flush. Valentina Petrovna continued, oblivious to the silence:

“A man needs a homemaker, not an office worker. To cook soup, clean the house, have children—that’s true female happiness. And these modern girls only think about work.”

Several guests exchanged confused glances. Someone nervously chuckled, unsure whether it was a joke or the mother-in-law was serious. Valentina Petrovna, encouraged by the reaction, went on.

“Of course, Lisa is still young and silly. But I will teach her right from wrong. Show her how a real wife should behave. The husband is the head of the family, the wife is his helper.”

Lisa’s friends sat with stone faces. The bride’s parents lowered their eyes to their plates. Maxim looked down at the table, clearly hoping his mother would stop herself. But Valentina Petrovna was in her element.

“I had university friends like that—all careerists. And where are they now? Lonely old maids. And I raised a wonderful son, created a strong family. Because I knew the priorities.”

Lisa slowly got up from the chair. The bride’s movements were calm, almost too calm. Valentina Petrovna, absorbed in her speech, didn’t notice what was happening in the hall.

“So I wish the young couple understanding. Maxim, be stricter with your wife. And you, Lisa, obey your husband and mother-in-law. Then the family will be strong.”

Lisa walked over to the table with the cake. The three-tiered beauty stood on a separate table, decorated with creamy roses and bride and groom figurines. The bride carefully removed the top tier with the decorative figures and took it in her hands.

The guests watched Lisa’s every move but didn’t yet understand what was happening. Valentina Petrovna finished the toast and raised her glass:

“To the newlyweds! To family traditions!”

At that moment, Lisa approached her mother-in-law and silently smashed the creamy top tier of the cake right into Valentina Petrovna’s face. White cream with roses smeared across the mother-in-law’s cheeks, nose, and forehead. Pieces of sponge stuck in her hair.

Valentina Petrovna screamed in surprise and recoiled so sharply that she fell back into her chair. Maxim turned pale and froze with his mouth open. The hall fell into complete silence for several seconds.

The first to clap was a young guy from Lisa’s friends. Then several others joined. Then the applause spread among the guests, exploding into an ovation mixed with whistles and cheers of approval.

“Bravo!” shouted someone from the table.

“About time!” added another voice.

Valentina Petrovna sat in shock, wiping cream from her face with a napkin. Cream had even gotten into her ears and on the collar of her dress. The bride and groom figurines lay on the floor next to her chair.

“Lisa! What are you doing?!” Maxim finally managed to say.

Lisa calmly put the rest of the cake on the table and headed for the exit. The bride’s movements were measured, without fuss or hysteria. The wedding dress rustled on the parquet floor, the veil fluttered behind her. Lisa reached the hall’s door, turned, and looked at the guests.

“Sorry for the disturbance. Please continue the celebration.”

The bride left the restaurant and stepped outside. The fresh evening air pleasantly cooled her heated face. Lisa sat down on a bench near the restaurant entrance and took a deep breath. Inside, she felt a strange relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

A few minutes later, Maxim ran out of the restaurant. The groom’s face showed a mixture of confusion, anger, and disbelief.

“Lisa! Are you crazy? How could you do that to my mother?”

Lisa looked at her husband calmly.

“If you wouldn’t stop your mother—I will defend myself.”

“But she’s my mother! You shouldn’t do that! In front of everyone! At our wedding!”

“Maxim, your mother humiliated me in front of the guests for half an hour. She said I was stupid, incompetent, that a career is bad. And you stayed silent.”

“But Mom didn’t mean to hurt you! She was just sharing her opinion!”

“Sharing her opinion?” Lisa stood up from the bench. “Maxim, your mother called me a silly girl who needs to be taught right and wrong. In front of all our friends and relatives. And you think that’s okay?”

“Well… maybe she didn’t express herself very well…”

“Not very well? Maxim, we plan to live together. If you can’t protect your wife from insults by your own mother, what kind of husband are you?”

Maxim was speechless and confused. Sounds and conversations of the guests came from the restaurant. The celebration continued—but without the newlyweds.

“Lisa, come back. Apologize to your mother, and everything will be fine.”

“Apologize? For what exactly?”

“Well… for the cake. It didn’t look good.”

“And who should your mother apologize to? For humiliating me at our wedding?”

Maxim was silent again. The answer was obvious—Valentina Petrovna was not going to apologize. And her son was not going to defend his wife from his mother’s attacks.

“I see,” Lisa said quietly. “Then I’m going home.”

“How home? We have a wedding! The guests are waiting! And the wedding night!”

“What wedding night, Maxim? After what happened today?”

Lisa called a taxi through an app on her phone. The car arrived quickly. Maxim stood nearby, not knowing what to say. The bride got into the car and left, leaving the groom alone near the restaurant.

At home, Lisa carefully took off her wedding dress, hung it in the closet, and changed into home clothes. She turned on the kettle, brewed herbal tea, and sat at the computer. Online she found information on how to annul a marriage in the first days after registration.

It turned out the procedure was quite simple. Lisa printed out a sample application and carefully filled in all the fields.

Maxim called several times, but Lisa did not answer. Then messages arrived:

“Lisa, what are you doing? Mom is shocked. The guests are asking where the bride is.”

“Mom says she’s ready to forgive you. Just apologize nicely.”

“Lisa, answer! We got married today!”

Lisa read the messages and turned off her phone. Tomorrow morning she would go to the registry office to file for annulment. And she would sell the wedding dress online—maybe she’d find a girl luckier with the groom’s family.

Outside, an ordinary evening of an ordinary day began. No one suspected that somewhere in the restaurant the wedding continued without the bride, while the culprit of the celebration calmly drank tea at home, planning a new life without her mama’s boy husband and his uncontrollable mother.