All Amazing Babies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Igor put down his phone and looked at his wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember something?” Igor asked.

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

Valentina Stepanovna stepped into the conversation:

 

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

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

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

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

The mother-in-law took offense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what case?”

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

“And where’s my safety cushion?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is a TV really needed?”

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

“You can watch everything online.”

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

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

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

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

“Forty thousand rubles,” Yana repeated.

“Yeah. Not that much.”

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

“Well… a lot, probably.”

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

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

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

“Well… sometimes I buy milk. Bread.”

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

“But I’m saving for a rainy day.”

“Whose rainy day? Yours?”

“Ours, of course.”

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

Igor fell silent. Valentina Stepanovna quieted down too.

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

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

“But he works!”

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

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

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

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

“I suggest everyone support themselves.”

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

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

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

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

 

“Not for myself—I’m saving it.”

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

“Exactly. Yours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but—”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“Sometimes.”

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

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

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

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

“For your future.”

The mother-in-law jumped back in:

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But her pension is small!”

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

“Well, you can afford it.”

“I can. But I don’t want to.”

Silence fell. Igor and his mother exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?” Igor asked.

“To take care of things.”

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

“What are you doing?” Igor asked warily.

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

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

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

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

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

Sensing trouble, Valentina Stepanovna jumped up from her chair.

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

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

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

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

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

In a steady voice, Yana said clearly:

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

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

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

“For Mom, yes!”

 

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

The mother-in-law rushed to her son:

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

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

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

“Well… we’re husband and wife.”

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

“But my salary is smaller!”

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

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

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

“Buy it with your own money.”

“My pension is small!”

“Ask your son. He has savings.”

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

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

“I am the family!” she shouted.

“But those are my savings.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For supporting the family.”

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

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

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

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

“Packing your things.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live here anymore.”

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

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

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“For now, yes. But not for long.”

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

“The keys.”

“What keys?”

“To the apartment. All sets.”

“Yana, are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

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

“Does your mother have keys?”

“Yes, she comes by sometimes.”

“Call her. Have her return them.”

“Why?”

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

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

“What does this mean?” she asked sternly.

“It means your son is moving out.”

“Moving out where? This is his home!”

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

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

“I dare. Hand over the keys.”

“What keys?”

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

“I won’t give them back!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But my son lives here!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yana, maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“There’s nothing left to reconsider.”

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

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

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

“But I love you!”

“Do you love me—or my wallet?”

“You, of course!”

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

Igor had no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Igor greeted her awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Great. And you?”

“Fine… I’m living with Mom for now.”

“I see.”

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

“You realized?”

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

“But you’ve got savings.”

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

“And? Does it hurt to spend it?”

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

“Now imagine doing that for three years straight.”

“I understand. Forgive me.”

“I already have. But that changes nothing.”

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

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

“But I’ve realized my mistake!”

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

Igor nodded. He knew Yana was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She leaned even closer, her eyes drilling into his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Igor was taken aback.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now — the final chord. Arson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grigory laughed bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s telling the truth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m listening.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in.”

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

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

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

And then it dawned on them. All of them.

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

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

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

Approaching his land, he no longer hoped for anything.

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

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

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

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

He gathered his strength and stepped into the light.

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

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

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

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

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

But peace was short-lived.

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

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

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

He swung his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew one thing for sure:

They hadn’t just found each other.

They had saved each other.

And now — together — they would build a future.

A big. Bright. Shared one.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He felt comfortable. But I didn’t anymore.

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

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

I began slicing the cake.

Then someone from distant relatives asked:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sure,” I nodded. “Worries.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took off my glasses and looked at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I slowly turned to her.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

He remained silent, unable to raise his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I grabbed my laptop bag from the chair.

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

I headed to the door, Misha stepped toward me.

“Lin… wait…”

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

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

Six months passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Another call came. This time — from my deputy.

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

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

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

Natalya carefully arranged the plates on the table, trying not to make the dishes clatter.

The workday had been unusually hard. At the supermarket where she worked as a cashier, the program was acting up again, causing lines to stretch halfway across the hall.

Oleg also came home very tired but, as usual, first asked the children how their day at school went.

“Dad, today we dissected a frog!” Alice babbled excitedly, waving her fork. Danila grimaced and demonstratively pushed away his plate of macaroni.

“Yuck, Aliska, I’m trying to eat!”

“You don’t understand anything! This is biology! When I grow up, I’ll be a doctor!”

“Then I definitely won’t come to you!”

The woman smiled, watching the kids’ bickering. In moments like these, she always thought how lucky she was with her family.

Her husband was just about to intervene in the argument when the doorbell rang.

Vitaly was standing in the doorway. Natalya immediately noticed something was wrong with her brother-in-law. Usually, he joked a lot and talked nonstop, bursting into the apartment with joyful shouts. But now he looked very downcast. Even his favorite red T-shirt seemed somehow wrinkled.

“Kids, go play in the room,” the woman gently but firmly sent Alice and Danila away. She quickly turned on the kettle and took out the festive cups from the top shelf. The couple used them only on special occasions or when they needed to discuss something important.

“Oleg, brother…” Vitaly sank heavily into a chair. “I’m in big trouble. I need help!”

The man explained that a few months ago he found an additional source of income: helping to drive expensive cars from China. Things were going well; he had even started planning how to pay off part of the mortgage. Then the accident happened.

 

“I was distracted for just a second. The phone rang. I lost control on a turn and crashed into a Lexus. New, luxury. Insurance won’t cover this damage.”

Natalya listened to her brother-in-law, unwilling to believe the reality of what was happening. And when he named the amount demanded by the car’s owner, her head started spinning. Even considering he had already borrowed half the money, the sum was overwhelming.

“I have nowhere else to turn,” Vitaly looked at his brother pleadingly.

Oleg was silent for a long time, spinning an empty cup in his hands.

“Give me a couple of days,” the older brother finally said. “I need to think it over.”

When the man left, the couple remained sitting in the kitchen. Only one thought was spinning in Natalya’s head: they had just yesterday made the last payment for their new bedroom set. Her parents had lent the missing amount; they hadn’t even handed over the IOU yet.

Where to find money now for Vitaly?

The woman looked at her husband. He sat holding his head in his hands. She knew this pose well. It always happened when some mess was brewing in his mind. And that made her uneasy: she instinctively felt that these thoughts would bring nothing good for her.

Laughter came from the children’s room. Alice and Danila were arguing about something while playing video games. How nice it was that everyone has moments when they don’t have to worry about anything.

After Vitaly left, Oleg couldn’t find peace: he would sit down on the sofa and immediately jump up, pace the hallway, grab his phone and put it down again. He didn’t even notice how the kids wished him good night and went to bed.

Natalya silently watched her husband’s pacing.

She understood him perfectly. Vitaly was his only brother; they had always been close. Since childhood, when their parents died in an accident, the brothers stuck together. Oleg helped his younger brother with studies, then with job hunting, was a witness at his wedding.

But the amount Vitaly named seemed simply unmanageable.

Closer to midnight, her husband finally sat down in the kitchen. His hands trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette. He only smoked in extreme cases, when his nerves were at the limit. The woman put a cup of hot tea in front of him and sat down nearby.

“Maybe you shouldn’t worry so much?” she cautiously began. “Vitaly is still an adult. Let him solve his problems himself. After all, there are banks, loans, his wife, his in-laws…”

Oleg sharply turned his head towards his wife. His eyes, red from fatigue and worry, flashed with rage:

“What are you saying?! What loans?! Do you even realize?! He has three kids to support! A mortgage! A car on credit! He’s like a hamster on a wheel trying to feed his family! And now this disaster!”

“I was just suggesting…” Natalya tried to explain.

“Better be quiet if you have nothing useful to say!” the husband cut her off, sharply stood up, and went out to the balcony.

The wife remained sitting in the kitchen, staring at one spot.

In ten years of marriage, she had learned to understand all the shades of her husband’s mood. Now he was on the edge. The last time she saw him like this was when his grandmother died.

The wife sighed heavily and decided not to interfere anymore. Let the brothers solve their problems themselves.

That night, the couple spent without sleep. Oleg never went to bed. She heard him pacing the apartment, mumbling to himself, dialing someone’s number several times. By dawn, he finally quieted down in the armchair in the living room.

Natalya got up early to get the kids ready for school. She tried to move quietly so as not to wake her husband, but he was already awake.

Alice and Danila quickly ate and went to get ready. When the front door closed behind them, the apartment became eerily quiet.

The wife began clearing the table, trying not to look at her husband. Her intuition told her that Oleg was about to say something she didn’t want to hear. And she was right.

“Sell your car,” the man suddenly said.

Natalya froze, holding an unwashed cup in her hands, not believing her ears. She slowly turned to her husband, hoping to see a hint of a joke on his face. But Oleg was utterly serious. He wasn’t joking.

“What?” the woman asked cautiously. “Sell the car? My car? Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” her husband said calmly, as if talking about selling an old wardrobe. “Think about it yourself. It’s just gathering dust in the garage. When was the last time you used it? We only spend money on renting the garage and maintenance. Pointless!”

The wife leaned against the kitchen counter, feeling a wave of indignation rising inside her.

Yes, indeed, she had rarely gotten behind the wheel in recent months. Since she got a job at the “Vesna” supermarket across the street, the need for daily trips disappeared.

Before, she drove the kids to school, went to work downtown, and on weekends the whole family would go to the countryside. Now life had changed: school nearby, work a few steps from home. But that’s no reason to part with the car!

“Oleg, this is my car. A gift from my parents. I’m not going to sell it! You know how long they saved for it, how happy they were when they handed me the keys.”

“Listen,” the husband moved closer, trying to speak as convincingly as possible. “This is a way out. The car just sits idle, but at least it will be of some use. We’ll help Vitaly. After all, he’s family!”

“No!” the wife shook her head firmly. “Don’t even ask. I’m not going to part with the car for your brother. It’s my personal property.”

Oleg’s face changed at that moment. Calmness disappeared, giving way to fury and anger. The man started to “rev up.”

“Don’t you understand the situation? A person needs help! My brother! A blood brother! And you’re stuck on some piece of metal?!”

“Some piece of metal?” Natalya’s voice trembled. “It’s my car! My parents saved for it for three years! Remember how mom worked as a tutor in the evenings? How she denied herself everything? And why should I sacrifice my property?”

“Because it’s family! Because nothing is more important than close people!” Oleg was already shouting, his face crimson. “But what do you know! You’ve always been selfish! Only thinking of yourself!”

Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes. In ten years of marriage, her husband had never spoken to her in such a tone. She turned to leave, but her husband’s next words pinned her in place.

“So, here’s the deal,” his speech became very snake-like. “The choice is simple: either you sell the car and we help my brother, or pack your things and get out of the apartment.”

Natalya instinctively pinched herself, trying to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She slowly turned to her husband, not recognizing the man she had lived with for so many years. Before her stood a complete stranger, ready to trample their marriage for his brother and money.

“Are you serious right now?” the wife barely whispered.

“Absolutely!” Oleg snapped. “Decide. I give you until evening.”

The husband left the kitchen, leaving the woman completely stunned. Natalya sank into a chair, feeling as if something inside her had snapped. It wasn’t resentment or fear. It was the certainty of a woman who had nothing left to lose.

The wife looked out the window at the garage she rented. So many happy moments were connected with the car parked there: trips to the sea, picnics in the forest, shopping with friends…

 

And now she was being forced to give it up for someone who got into trouble on his own.

Natalya sat in the kitchen for another hour after her husband left. She couldn’t stop thinking about his cruel and unfair ultimatum.

The woman could never have imagined Oleg was capable of such treachery.

“Pack your things and get out!” Did he say that to her? The mother of his children, the woman who had always been by his side. Who cared for his grandmother in the hospital after her stroke. Who gave up her career for his children.

Bitterness gradually gave way to cold rage.

“Well, if he wants to play dirty, she’ll show him how it’s done!”

Since childhood, watching her father work as a lawyer, Natalya had learned one thing: any relationship must be backed up on paper. How many times had her dad told her, “Natashenka, husband or brother, no money without a contract.”

Now she knew exactly what to do. Her father’s lesson hadn’t been in vain.

“Oleg,” the woman called her husband. He reluctantly came out of the room, clearly showing irritation.

“I agree to sell the car,” Natalya said calmly, looking her husband straight in the eyes.

The man’s face brightened.

“Finally, you understand! I didn’t even hope for that!”

“But I have conditions! Actually, several conditions!”

“What conditions?” Oleg frowned, crossing his arms.

“Very simple. I sell the car and give all the money to Vitaly. Every last kopeck. But it will be a loan. For a year. Under an IOU notarized by a notary.”

The man smirked self-satisfied:

“That’s all? Well, fine, let there be an IOU. No problem!”

“I’m not finished. You will be the guarantor. And if Vitaly doesn’t repay the money in a year, your half of the apartment goes to me. I become the sole owner of our home.”

Oleg laughed loudly:

“Are you serious? Some spy games! Go ahead, write whatever you want! Vitaly will pay back, I’m sure. He’s not a crook; he’s my brother!”

“So, agreed?” Natalya looked carefully at her husband. “If yes, we’re going to the notary tomorrow.”

“Of course!” Oleg still couldn’t stop laughing. “Draw up your papers. The main thing is that you agreed to help. I knew you’d understand. Good girl!”

The husband left the kitchen whistling some tune, pleased that everything was resolved. The woman quickly took out her phone and called an old acquaintance, the best notary in town.

“Alla? Hi. I need your help. Yes, urgently. It’s about a loan agreement secured by real estate. It needs to be drafted as precisely as possible, so it can’t be contested.”

Natalya discussed the conditions with her friend and, smiling with satisfaction, thought: “You started this, dear. Now don’t complain.”

She perfectly understood that Vitaly would never repay the money. Couldn’t! The amount was too large, especially given his salary and loans. Which meant that in a year she would become the rightful owner of their three-room apartment in the city center.

 

“Let’s see how you’ll sing then!” the wife whispered.

Her heart was heavy. She never thought their marriage could come to this. But Oleg had made his choice, putting his brother’s interests above the family’s. Now he shouldn’t be surprised by the consequences.

Exactly one year later, Natalya put the loan agreement in front of her husband. The sun was shining brightly outside. Just like on the day they made the deal at the notary.

“What’s this?” Oleg didn’t even glance at the papers, continuing to watch TV and chew a sandwich.

“A year has passed. Where is the money your brother owes me? The repayment deadline was yesterday.”

“Come on,” the husband waved irritably. “Vitaly will pay when he can. You know, he’s going through hard times now. Why are you acting like a stranger?”

“So, no money?” Natalya clarified, surprised by his carelessness.

“No, of course not! Where would it come from? His youngest child got into hospital; all savings went on treatment. Let’s not talk about it, okay? Look, what an interesting movie.”

Natalya silently gathered the documents and left. Oleg didn’t even notice how her expression changed, how much determination was in her eyes. And a week later, the man was summoned to court.

“What are you doing?!” her husband burst into the house, waving a court summons. “It was a joke! You can’t be serious… We are family!”

“I can,” the wife answered calmly. “And I will. You wanted this yourself and agreed to it!”

The court proceedings were brief. The agreement was flawless; all terms were clearly written, every comma in place. When the judge announced the decision making Natalya the sole owner of the apartment, Oleg turned white as chalk.

“You won’t do this,” the man whispered. “Think of the children…”

But she did. That same day, Natalya filed for divorce and called a locksmith to change the locks. When Oleg came home from work, he found all his things neatly packed on the landing: suits on hangers, shoes in boxes, books in stacks.

“Natasha, open up! Let’s talk!” the husband banged on the door until neighbors gathered.

Natalya opened it and looked firmly at her husband.

“Why?” was all he could say.

“Never threaten a woman,” she said calmly. “All your threats will backfire on you. You told me to get out of the apartment. Now it’s your turn!”

The door slammed loudly. The man stood for a long time looking at his suitcases, trying to comprehend how his life had fallen apart in a few days. Then he silently went downstairs and dialed a phone number.

“Vitaly? It’s me. Can I stay with you for a while?”

A month later, Oleg went north for shift work. He wrote letters to the children, sent gifts, but didn’t return home.

And Natalya began a new life. She renovated the apartment, changed jobs for a more promising one, started smiling more often. The children were worried at first but gradually got used to the new routine. Especially since their father regularly sent money and visited on weekends.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Natalya experienced it firsthand. And now she knew for sure that sometimes you have to lose something valuable to gain something more important — for example, self-respect and freedom.

“Lenochka, dear, a little more salad for this wonderful lady,” said my mother-in-law Tamara Pavlovna, her voice sweet like jam but felt more like burning Tabasco — a scorching pretense.

I silently nodded, taking the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Slava’s third cousin, gave me a look full of irritation — the kind usually reserved for an annoying fly that has been buzzing around your head for ten minutes.

I moved quietly around the kitchen, trying to be invisible. Today was Slava’s birthday. Or rather, his family was celebrating his birthday in my apartment. The apartment I was paying for.
Family games

Laughter came from the living room in broken waves — the lively bass voice of Uncle Zhenya, the piercing bark of his wife. And over all of it — the confident, almost commanding tone of Tamara Pavlovna. My husband was probably sitting somewhere in a corner, forcing a tight smile and timidly nodding.

I filled the salad bowl, carefully decorating it with a sprig of dill. My hands worked almost automatically, while one thought kept spinning in my head: twenty. Twenty million.

Last night, after receiving the final confirmation by email, I just sat on the bathroom floor so no one could see me and stared at my phone screen. The project I had been working on for three years, hundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and almost hopeless attempts — it all boiled down to one number on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.

“Well, where are you stuck?” my mother-in-law called impatiently. “The guests are waiting!”

I took the salad bowl and returned to the hall. The celebration was in full swing.

“You’re so slow, Lenochka,” the cousin drawled, pushing her plate away. “Like a turtle.”

Slava flinched but said nothing. As long as there was no scandal — his favorite life principle.

I put the salad on the table. Tamara Pavlovna, adjusting her perfect hairdo, loudly enough for everyone to hear, said:

“What can you do, not everyone is meant to be nimble. Office work is not the same as running a household. There you sit at the computer — and then home. But here you need to think, be resourceful, fuss around.”

 

She swept the guests with a victorious look. Everyone nodded. I felt my cheeks burning.

Reaching for an empty glass, I accidentally knocked over a fork. It clattered to the floor.

Silence. For a split second, everyone froze. Dozens of eyes — from the fork to me.

Tamara Pavlovna laughed. Loudly, cruelly, venomously.

“See? I told you! Hands like hooks.”

She turned to the woman sitting next to her and added, still in the same tone, sarcastically:

“I always told Slavik: she’s not a match for you. In this house, you’re the master, and she’s… just background dowry. Serve and fetch. Not a mistress — a servant.”

Laughter swept the room again, now even more malicious. I looked at my husband. He averted his eyes, pretending to be very busy with a napkin.

And I… I picked up the fork. Calmly. Straightened my back. And for the first time that evening, I smiled. Not a forced or polite smile — a real one.

They had no idea that their world, built on my patience, was about to collapse. And mine was just beginning. Right now.

My smile clearly threw them off. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. Tamara Pavlovna even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in confusion.

I didn’t put the fork down. Instead, I went to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, took a clean glass, and poured myself some cherry juice. The very expensive one that my mother-in-law considered “nonsense” and “a foolish waste of money.”

With the glass in my hand, I returned to the living room and took the only free seat — next to Slava. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Lena, the hot dishes are getting cold!” Tamara Pavlovna snapped back to herself. Her voice again rang with steel notes. “You need to serve the guests.”

“I’m sure Slava can handle it,” I took a small sip without looking away from her. “He’s the master of the house. Let him prove it.”

All eyes shot to Slava. He went pale, then red. Nervously, he cast pleading looks between me and his mother.

“I… Yes, of course,” he muttered and stumbled toward the kitchen.

It was a small but sweet victory. The air in the room grew thick, heavy.

Realizing her direct attack had failed, Tamara Pavlovna switched tactics. She started talking about the dacha:

“We decided to go to the dacha with the whole family in July. A month, as usual. To get some fresh air.”

“Lenochka, you need to start preparing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready.”

She spoke as if this had been decided long ago. As if my opinion didn’t matter at all.

I slowly set down my glass.

“Sounds wonderful, Tamara Pavlovna. But I’m afraid I have other plans this summer.”

The words hung in the air like ice cubes on a hot day.

“What other plans?” Slava came back with the tray, plates with hot food teetering on it. “What are you making up?”

His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. He was so used to me agreeing that my refusal sounded like a declaration of war.

“I’m not making anything up,” I calmly looked first at him, then at his mother, whose gaze was full of rage.

“I have business plans. I’m buying a new apartment.”

I paused, enjoying the effect.
Groceries

“This one, you see, has become too cramped.”

A deafening silence fell, first broken by, of course, Tamara Pavlovna. She let out a short, cawing laugh.

“She’s buying? On what money, may I ask? Going into a thirty-year mortgage? You’ll work your whole life for concrete walls?”

“Mom’s right, Len,” Slava immediately joined, feeling supported. He slammed the tray down with a crash that splattered sauce on the tablecloth.

“Stop this circus. You’re embarrassing all of us. What apartment? Are you crazy?”

I glanced around at the guests’ faces. Each one wore a look of contemptuous disbelief. They looked at me like an empty space that suddenly thought it was something more.

“Why a mortgage?” I smiled softly. “No, I don’t like debts. I’m paying cash.”

 

Uncle Zhenya, who had been silent until then, snorted under his breath.

“Did you get an inheritance? Did some old millionaire lady die in America?”

The guests chuckled. They felt in control again. That upstart is bluffing.

“You could say that,” I turned to him. “Only the old lady is me. And I’m still alive.”

I took a sip of juice, giving them time to absorb the meaning.

“Yesterday I sold my project. The very one you think I was ‘just sitting around the office for.’ The company I built for three years. My startup.”

I looked Tamara Pavlovna straight in the eye.

“The deal amount — twenty million. The money is already in my account. So yes, I’m buying an apartment. Maybe even a little house by the sea. To make sure it’s not cramped.”

The room fell into ringing silence. Faces elongated. Smiles vanished, revealing confusion and shock.

Slava looked at me with wide eyes, his mouth opening but making no sound.

Tamara Pavlovna slowly lost her color. Her mask crumbled before our eyes.

I stood up, took my purse from the chair.

“Slava, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. I’m moving out tomorrow. You and your family have one week to find new housing. I’m selling this apartment too.”

I headed for the exit. No sound followed me. They were paralyzed.

At the door, I turned and threw one last look.

“And yes, Tamara Pavlovna,” my voice was firm and calm, “the servant is tired today and wants to rest.”

Six months passed. Six months I lived like a new life.

I sat on the wide windowsill of my new apartment. Through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window, the evening city shimmered — a living, breathing creature that no longer seemed hostile.

It was mine. In my hand, a glass of cherry juice. On my lap, a laptop with open blueprints for a new project — an architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.

 

I worked a lot, but now it was a pleasure because work filled me instead of draining me.

For the first time in many years, I breathed deeply. The constant tension I’d lived with for years disappeared. The habits of speaking quietly, moving cautiously, guessing other people’s moods were gone. The feeling that I was living as a guest in my own home was gone.

Since that birthday, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Slava went through all stages: from furious threats (“You’ll regret it! You’re nothing without me!”) to pathetic midnight voice messages where he sobbed about how “good their past was.”

Listening to this, I felt only cold emptiness. His “good” was built on my silence. The divorce went quickly. He didn’t even try to demand anything.

Tamara Pavlovna was predictable. She called, demanding “justice,” shouting that I “robbed her son.” Once she even ambushed me near the business center where I rented an office. Tried to grab my hand. I just walked around her without a word.

Her power ended where my patience did.

Sometimes, in moments of strange nostalgia, I would visit Slava’s page.

From the photos, you can see he moved back to his parents. The same room, the same carpet on the wall. A face with the expression of eternal offense, as if the whole world was to blame for his failed life.

No more guests. No more celebrations.

A couple of weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:

“Len, hi. This is Slava. Mom is asking for the salad recipe. She says she can’t make it taste so good.”

I stopped in the middle of the street. Read it several times. And suddenly laughed. Not angrily, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the best epilogue to our story. They destroyed our family, tried to ruin me, and now they wanted… tasty salad.

I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no place for old recipes or old grudges.

I added the number to the blacklist. Without hesitation. Just removed it like a random speck of dust.

Then I took a big sip of juice. It was sweet, with a slight tart note. It was the taste of freedom. And it was wonderful.

Loud applause gradually died down, the glasses of champagne were half emptied, and the guests’ faces glowed with smiles. Fifty years of married life — a golden wedding anniversary. Around the long festive table gathered children, grandchildren, old family friends. They had all come to celebrate not just an anniversary, but a symbol of a strong family bond. At the center of the celebration were Mikhail and Valentina, the honored couple of the day. He wore a strict classic suit with a neatly tied golden tie; she wore an elegant cream dress, her hairstyle neat, smiling modestly.

“My dear ones!” — the eldest son raised his glass, his voice trembling with emotion. “You have become for us an example of true love and loyalty! Fifty years together — that’s rare! It’s a miracle!”

Toast after toast was made: memories of youth, funny stories from family life, warm words of gratitude, laughter and tears. Everyone asked Mikhail to speak. He slowly stood up, straightened his jacket, scanned the room with his gaze, then looked at his wife. A long silence fell, as if time itself froze.

“I want to tell the truth,” he said in a low, almost whispering voice. “These fifty years… I have not loved you.”

A dead silence hung in the room. Someone dropped a fork, the clang of metal echoed around the hall. Valentina went pale but stayed seated, not showing a single movement revealing her state. The guests exchanged glances, some even looked away, feeling awkward. The daughter-in-law wiped tears with a handkerchief; the grandchildren looked at the adults confused, not understanding what was happening.

“I have not loved you,” Mikhail repeated, not taking his eyes off his wife. “But the image you showed me on the very first day we met. That girl with the warm voice holding a volume of Akhmatova. The one who argued with me about Chekhov and laughed, with a candy clutched between her teeth. Since then, every day I saw that very her in you. Though years passed, though you changed — I have always loved that first you. And you know, you never betrayed her.”

Tears slowly ran down Valentina’s cheeks. She covered her face with her hands but did not sob — these were tears of relief, as if she had long awaited these words, wanted to hear them. The guests began to relax — now it was clear that the man was not talking about a breakup but about something much deeper. Someone smiled, someone sobbed, touched to the core.

Mikhail approached his wife, gently took her hand, like he did so many years ago when they had just started their journey.

“I did not love you — I loved everything real in you, and it was more than just love. It was — forever.”

The room burst into applause. Even the waiters, who were already ready to clear the tables, stood wiping tears secretly. The emotions were too strong to keep inside.

When the applause died down a little, Valentina still could not utter a word. Her lips trembled, her eyes were full of tears — not from resentment, not from pain, but from that strange, bittersweet feeling that arises when the heart suddenly remembers everything at once: the first meeting, the quarrels, peaceful evenings in the kitchen with tea, the birth of children, winter walks, illnesses, and joys.

She stood up, not letting go of Mikhail’s hand.

“And I…” she finally whispered, “all these years I was afraid you would stop loving that first me. That wrinkles, fatigue, illnesses would erase from your memory that girl with a candy in her mouth. But you kept her… Thank you.”

She turned to the guests, and confidence sounded in her voice:

“You know, I did not expect such words. He did not give compliments, did not give flowers without reason, forgot anniversaries… but once, when I had my gallbladder removed, he sat by my bed all night and whispered: ‘You will get better. I’m here.’ And I realized — that is love.”

The eldest grandson, a fifteen-year-old boy, suddenly jumped up from his seat:

“Grandpa, grandma! How did you even meet?”

Mikhail laughed, and that laugh sounded so light, as if he had become young again.

“She worked at the library. I came for a book, and left — with a life.”

The guests laughed again. The atmosphere became even warmer. The grandchildren began eagerly asking what grandma was like in her youth. Family friends recalled stories even the children didn’t know. It was as if the whole hall became a big family living room filled with memories and light.

Later, when almost everyone had left, Mikhail and Valentina sat on the veranda wrapped in blankets under twinkling garlands.

“What if you hadn’t come to the library then?” Valentina quietly asked.

Mikhail looked at the stars, was silent, then replied:

“I would still have found you. Because you are my only reality. No matter when and where.”

She smiled, leaned toward him and whispered:

“Then let’s meet in the next life at the library. In the same place.”

He nodded:

“And I will take ‘Anna Karenina’ again, to stay a little longer.”

But imagine a different version of this scene. Imagine that instead of tender words, Mikhail said something else entirely.

When Mikhail said:

“I have not loved you all these 50 years…”

—the room froze.

Valentina slowly lowered her glass. Her face showed nothing — no pain, no anger. Just cold, tired silence.

“I loved another woman,” he continued. “Since we were twenty… I met her before you. We planned to marry. But my parents insisted I choose a ‘practical’ one. And you… you were just that.”

Some guests began whispering among themselves. Some were already getting up from the table — awkward, frightened. Someone grabbed their phone to record what was happening. Some just sat stunned.

“Mikhail,” the eldest son intervened, “why are you saying this now?”

But the father just shook his head tiredly.

“Because I’m tired of living a lie. I lived my whole life with a woman I respected but did not love. And at the sunset of life, I want to say — I was wrong.”

Valentina did not scream. Did not cry. She simply stood up from the table, slowly approached him, and said:

“Thank you. For your honesty. Even if belated.”

She took off her wedding ring, carefully placed it next to the glass.

“And now you can be free. Late, but — free.”

Later.

The guests had left. The hall was empty. Only traces of the celebration remained — crumpled napkins, leftover food, overturned chairs.

Valentina sat on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of cooled tea in her hands.

Her granddaughter approached.

“Grandma, did you… did you love him?”

“Me?” Valentina smiled faintly. “Yes. At first — yes. Then — I got used to it. And then — we just lived. Like two people who lost the ability to speak heart to heart.”

“And what now?”

“And now…” she looked at the dawn, “I will live a little time for myself. Without illusions. Without masks. And maybe, for the first time — freely.”

Final scene

A few months later, on an early autumn morning, at the dacha where the whole family once gathered for barbecues, Valentina meets a neighbor — a widower, lonely and quiet, but with kind, attentive eyes. He hands her a jar of jam:
Family games

“Try it. Currant.”

“Thank you,” she smiles. “You know, Mikhail never liked currants. But I loved it.”

“Then we already have something in common,” he quietly laughs.

And in those eyes, for the first time in many years, Valentina felt… not just interest, but a promise. Small, but real. A promise of a new life. A life that will belong only to her.

Marina was going through the students’ notebooks when the phone rang in the kitchen. It was six o’clock on a Saturday evening—not the best time for calls. On the line was Anya’s worried voice, her neighbor from the stairwell.

“Marin, are you sitting down right now?”

“What’s wrong, Anya?”

“I saw Igor today near the real estate agency. He was talking to some woman. Then I heard him say something about your apartment.”

Marina froze. She and Igor had separated three weeks ago after twenty-four years of marriage. He had moved to his mother’s place but before leaving, he said he would come back when she “calmed down.”

“And what exactly did he say?” Marina tried to ask calmly.

“He said he wants to sell the apartment. Claimed it belongs only to him and that you and your daughter would be moving out soon.”

Marina put down the phone, the pen dropping from her hands in shock. The apartment belongs only to him? That can’t be!

The phone rang again.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me, Katya,” her daughter’s tired voice sounded. “Did Dad call you?”

“No. Why?”

“He texted me that he found cheaper housing for us in the Southern district. They want me to convince you—that now we don’t need a three-room place.”

Something inside Marina turned over.

“Katya, we’re not moving anywhere. Did he decide to sell the apartment behind our backs?”

“Seriously?! Has he completely lost his mind?”

“I think so too. After all, we bought this apartment together!”

“Mom, but don’t we have a joint ownership certificate?”

Marina hesitated.

“No, Katya. It’s only in his name. Back then he said, ‘Why waste extra money? We’re family.’ And I, fool that I was, believed him.”

“Did you hit him or what?”

“Yes, just pure anger! Mom, I’m coming home.”

“No, you’re in exams, study. I’ll handle this myself.”

Katya snorted.

“You always say that! And then Dad does whatever he wants.”

“Not this time,” Marina answered firmly, unexpectedly.

She immediately called Igor. The phone rang for a long time, but he didn’t answer. Then she sent a message: “I know about your plans for the apartment. Either we talk now, or in court.” No reply.

The next day Igor showed up at home. Unshaven, in a crumpled shirt, but with the same arrogance.

“What have you been spinning to everyone?” he barged in rudely.

“Is it true that you want to sell it?”

Igor grimaced.

“So what? It’s my apartment—my rules.”

“Yours? We bought it together! I’ve invested money my whole life!”

“Where are the documents?” He shrugged. “Only my name is on paper. I bought it before the wedding.”

“You’re lying! We got married and three years later took out a mortgage!”

“Prove it. Where are the papers? No? Then leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Marina gasped in anger. “Half of this apartment is mine!”

“Oh, scary,” he laughed. “Marish, if you could see yourself. A teacher with a miserable salary. Who needs you? And by the way, I’m helping—finding a place.”

“Get out of here!” she spat through clenched teeth.

“What?!”

“Out! This is my home! I’m staying here!”

Igor pointed a finger to his temple.

“I’ll come with a realtor in a week. Pack your things.”

After he left, Marina sank to the floor in the hallway and broke down crying. That was it—twenty-four years of marriage, twenty-one years in this house… And now what? Rent a room on her salary?

The phone rang again. Marina wiped her tears and answered.

“Marin, it’s Lena. I heard what’s going on. I’ll be waiting for you in an hour. My brother is a lawyer, he can help.”

“Lena, I don’t have any money…”

“No one asks for money right away. We’ll figure it out. But if you don’t come—I’ll come and drag you by the hand.”

“Okay,” Marina gave in. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

At the lawyer Sergey’s office—Lena’s brother—Marina nervously fiddled with a handkerchief. The room felt too small for all her worries.

“So, the apartment is only in your husband’s name?” Sergey drummed his fingers on the table. “And you contributed money?”

“Of course! I paid half the mortgage all these years!”

“Any proof?”

“What kind? We were a family… were.”

“Receipts, bank statements, contracts?”

“Not sure… Maybe some checks or papers survived somewhere?”

“Look around your home. Maybe old boxes in the attic?”

“I’m ready to search everything!”

“Good. Also, while you’re married, he can’t sell the apartment without your consent. We’ll file a counterclaim for property division.”

At home, Marina turned everything upside down. In an old box, she found yellowed documents—a payment schedule for the loan with the bank’s stamp, her signature on several forms.

That evening Katya called.

“Mom, news. Dad really filed a lawsuit. Grandma let it slip.”

“I know,” Marina replied quietly. “He demands that I vacate the apartment.”

“That bastard! I’m quitting my exams, coming home!”

“No, Katya, study. I have a lawyer. There’s a chance.”

The next day, a court summons arrived. Igor demanded the apartment be declared his sole property.

Calling Sergey, Marina was surprised by his calm.

“It’s even good he filed first. Now we have time to prepare.”

Three weeks flew by like a day. Marina barely slept, looking for documents, verifying every detail. At work, she mechanically conducted lessons, and during breaks ran to the bank or called her lawyer.

One evening Igor came.

“So, decided to move out quietly?”

“No. At court, I’ll prove the apartment is ours jointly.”

Igor laughed.

“You? Prove it? You can’t string two words together!”

“But I have documents.”

“What documents?..” He stopped. “Have you been digging through my things?”

“No. Our things.”

Something like fear flashed in Igor’s eyes, but he quickly recovered.

“Never mind. I have the ownership certificate. And a top lawyer.”

“I have a lawyer too,” Marina replied calmly.

“Who’s that?” Igor sneered.

“Sergey Vasilyevich Klimov.”

Igor choked on his sip of water.

“Klimov?! Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“Where does a poor teacher get money for such a lawyer?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped.

After Igor left, Lena called.

“How are you?”

“Okay, I think I scared him a bit.”

“Everyone knows Sergey in town. Of course, you scared him.”

“Lena, thank you. Without you, I’d be lost.”

“Come on! You’re much stronger than you think. And by the way, I’ll be a witness at the trial. I’ll confirm you always paid for the apartment.”

“Do you really remember?”

“Of course! You complained a hundred times about giving your whole salary to the mortgage!”

That evening Katya called.

“Mom, I finished early. Coming tomorrow.”

“Katya…”

“Don’t argue! I’m coming, period. I want to be at the trial.”

For the first time in a long while, Marina smiled—truly, from the heart.

The courtroom was small and stuffy. Marina sat straight, clutching a folder of documents. Sergey sat beside her, focused and confident. Behind them were Lena and Katya, both tense to the max.

Igor entered with a young, neatly dressed lawyer who whispered something in his ear. Both looked confident.

“Don’t pay attention to them,” Sergey whispered. “It’s just a show.”

The judge—a woman around fifty with a tired face—began the session.

“Plaintiff, state the claim.”

Igor’s lawyer stood and spoke. His voice was monotone and emotionless.

“My client demands the apartment be recognized as his sole property. He bought it before marriage. Here are the ownership documents.”

The judge examined the papers and addressed Marina:

“What does the defendant say?”

Sergey stood.

“Your Honor, we disagree. The apartment was bought during the marriage. There is a contract. Moreover, my client regularly made mortgage payments.”

Igor’s lawyer scoffed.

“Where is the proof? We don’t accept words.”

“We have it,” Sergey calmly said, pulling out a folder. “Bank statements, payment schedules signed by my client, and witnesses.”

The judge carefully examined the documents.

“Call the witnesses.”

Lena stepped forward, trembling slightly with nerves.

“I have known Marina for over twenty years. She constantly said she paid for the apartment. We often couldn’t go anywhere— all money went to the mortgage.”

“Are there specific facts?” Igor’s lawyer asked.

“Specific? I went with her to the bank several times. Saw her make payments. Once I even lent her money when she was short for the next installment.”

Igor whispered something angrily to his lawyer.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer interrupted, “the friend’s words mean nothing. My client claims the wife never contributed.”

“She’s lying!” Katya stood up.

“Silence in the court!” the judge hammered. “State your name.”

“Ekaterina Sokolova, daughter. I want to testify too.”

“What can you say?”

“Mom always paid. Dad said it was hard to carry the mortgage alone, and Mom gave him money.”

Igor’s face flushed.

“She’s lying! Katya, how can you?!”

“You’re lying!” the daughter shot back sharply. “You told me yourself: ‘Mom pays half, but we live like in a barn.’ Remember?”

The judge hit the gavel again.

“Silence, please! We continue.”

Sergey presented additional materials: old receipts, bank statements, photos of Marina and Igor together looking at a new apartment.

“Does the plaintiff object?” the judge asked.

Igor’s lawyer looked confused.

“Your Honor, the ownership is registered to my client. It doesn’t matter who paid.”

“If the apartment was bought during the marriage, it is considered joint property,” Sergey objected.

The judge called a recess. Marina felt her legs trembling.

“What do you think?” she whispered to Sergey.

“So far, everything is going in our favor.”

After the break, the judge announced the decision:

“Financial expertise on the mortgage payments is ordered.”

Igor jumped up:

“What expertise?! It’s my apartment! I bought it! She just wants to rob me!”

“Sit down, plaintiff!” the judge said firmly.

“I won’t! It’s a conspiracy! She arranged everything!”

Another gavel strike.

“One more word and you will be removed from the court!”

Igor collapsed into his chair, glaring angrily at Marina. She met his gaze without fear for the first time.

The expertise lasted three weeks. Marina barely slept; every day felt eternal. Igor sent a “generous” offer through his lawyer—he would take the apartment and give her a sum not enough even to rent a room.

“Don’t agree to anything,” Katya insisted. “We’ll break him.”

On the day of the final court hearing, heavy rain poured. Marina arrived soaked to the bone.

“How’s your mood?” Sergey asked, meeting her in the corridor.

“Fine,” she smiled weakly. “Just hope it’s all over.”

In the courtroom were only them, Igor and his lawyer, and the judge with an impassive face.

“According to the expertise results,” the judge began, “Marina Sokolova regularly made mortgage payments. Her share is 47%.”

Igor grimaced as if swallowing something bitter; his lawyer visibly tensed.

“The court rules: Igor’s claim is denied. The apartment is recognized as jointly acquired property. Shares are equal.”

Marina sat in disbelief.

“We… won?”

“Yes, we won,” Sergey smiled. “Congratulations.”

Igor jumped up:

“This is absurd! I will appeal!”

“That is your right,” the judge said indifferently.

In the corridor, Katya screamed with joy and hugged her mother.

“You’re a real hero! Well done!”

“We did it together,” Marina whispered, holding her daughter close.

A month later, they officially divided the property: Igor got the car and the dacha; Marina got the apartment. He no longer shouted and looked subdued.

“Well, satisfied?” he grumbled, signing.

“I just wanted justice,” Marina answered calmly.

Six months passed. The apartment became cozy—new wallpaper, curtains, a comfortable kitchen table. Katya helped with the renovations. Friends came over, they laughed and drank tea.

“You seem to have blossomed,” Lena noticed one day. “You even carry yourself differently.”

“Really?” Marina smiled shyly.

“Seriously. Like a huge weight has lifted off your shoulders.”

Marina thought. It was true. She no longer feared tomorrow. No longer waited for someone to decide for her. Now she was in control of her own life.

The mirror in the bedroom reflected a familiar scene: I was adjusting the folds of a modest gray dress that I had bought three years ago at an ordinary store. Dmitry stood nearby, fastening the cufflinks on his snow-white shirt — Italian, as he never tired of emphasizing at every opportunity.

“Are you ready?” he asked, without looking my way, busily brushing off nonexistent dust from his suit.

“Yes, we can go,” I replied, checking one last time if my hair was neatly styled.

He finally turned to me, and I saw in his eyes the familiar expression of slight disappointment. Dmitry silently looked me up and down, lingering on the dress.

“Don’t you have anything more decent?” he said in a tone tinged with his usual condescension.

I heard those words before every corporate event. Each time they stung like a prick — not fatal, but unpleasant. I had learned not to show how much it hurt. Learned to smile and shrug.

“This dress is perfectly suitable,” I said calmly.

Dmitry sighed as if I had let him down again.

“Alright, let’s go. Just try not to stand out too much, okay?”

We got married five years ago when I had just finished the economics faculty, and he was working as a junior manager at a trading company. Back then, he seemed to me an ambitious, purposeful young man with brilliant prospects. I liked how he talked about his plans, how confidently he looked to the future.

Over the years, Dmitry really climbed the career ladder. Now he was a senior sales manager handling major clients. The money he earned went toward his appearance: expensive suits, Swiss watches, a new car every two years. “Image is everything,” he liked to repeat. “People need to see that you’re successful, or they won’t deal with you.”

I worked as an economist at a small consulting firm, earned a modest salary, and tried not to burden the family budget with unnecessary expenses on myself. When Dmitry took me to corporate events, I always felt out of place. He introduced me to colleagues with a light irony: “Here’s my little gray mouse out on the town.” Everyone laughed, and I smiled, pretending I found it funny too.
Family games

Gradually, I began to notice how my husband had changed. Success had gone to his head. He started looking down not only on me but also on his employers. “I’m selling this junk made by our Chinese,” he said at home, sipping expensive whiskey. “The main thing is to pitch it right, and they’ll buy anything.”

Sometimes he hinted at some additional sources of income. “Clients appreciate good service,” he winked. “And they’re willing to pay extra for it. Personally, I understand, right?”

I understood but preferred not to delve into details.

Everything changed three months ago when a notary called me.

“Anna Sergeevna? This concerns the inheritance of your father, Sergey Mikhailovich Volkov.”

My heart skipped a beat. My father left our family when I was seven. Mom never told me what happened to him. I only knew that he worked somewhere, lived his own life, where there was no place for a daughter.

“Your father passed away a month ago,” the notary continued. “According to the will, you are the sole heir to all his property.”

What I found out at the notary’s office turned my world upside down. It turned out my father was not just a successful businessman — he had built an entire empire. An apartment in central Moscow, a country house, cars, but most importantly — an investment fund owning shares in dozens of companies.

Among the documents, I found a name that made me shudder: “TradeInvest” — the company where Dmitry worked.

The first weeks I was in shock. Every morning I woke up unable to believe it was real. I only told my husband that I had changed jobs — now I worked in the investment sector. He reacted indifferently, only muttering something about hoping my salary wouldn’t be less than before.

I began to study the fund’s affairs. My economic education helped a lot, but most importantly — I was genuinely interested. For the first time in my life, I felt I was doing something important, something meaningful.

I was especially interested in the company “TradeInvest.” I requested a meeting with the CEO, Mikhail Petrovich Kuznetsov.

“Anna Sergeevna,” he said when we were alone in his office, “I must be honest: the company’s situation isn’t very good. Especially the sales department has problems.”

“Tell me more.”

“We have one employee, Dmitry Andreev. Formally, he handles major clients, turnover is large, but profits are almost none. Moreover, many deals are unprofitable. There are suspicions of violations, but not enough evidence yet.”

I asked to conduct an internal investigation, without revealing the real reasons for my interest in this particular employee.

The investigation results came a month later. Dmitry was indeed embezzling company money, arranging with clients for “personal bonuses” in exchange for lowered prices. The sum was substantial.

By that time, I had updated my wardrobe. But true to myself, I chose understated clothes — only now they were from the world’s best designers. Dmitry didn’t notice the difference. For him, anything that didn’t scream price remained “gray mouse-ness.”

Last night, he announced they had an important corporate event tomorrow.

“A reporting dinner for top management and key employees,” he informed me importantly. “The entire company leadership will be there.”

“I see,” I replied. “What time should I be ready?”

Dmitry looked at me in surprise.

“I won’t take you there; there will be decent people, not your level,” he declared, unaware that I owned the company where he worked. “You understand, it’s a serious event. There will be people deciding my fate in the company. I can’t afford to look… well, you know.”

“Not really.”

“Anyechka,” he tried to soften the tone, “you’re a wonderful wife, but you lower my social status. Next to you, I look poorer than I really am. These people must see me as their equal.”

His words hurt, but not as sharply as before. Now I knew my worth. And I knew his.

“Fine,” I said calmly. “Have fun.”

This morning Dmitry left for work in a high mood. I put on a new Dior dress — dark blue, elegant, which emphasized my figure but remained restrained. Did professional makeup and styling. Looking in the mirror, I saw a completely different person. Confident, beautiful, successful.

I knew the restaurant where the event was held — one of the best in the city. Mikhail Petrovich met me at the entrance.

“Anna Sergeevna, glad to see you. You look wonderful.”

“Thank you. I hope today we can sum up results and outline plans for the future.”

The hall was full of people in expensive suits and dresses. The atmosphere was businesslike but welcoming. I talked with heads of other departments, met key employees. Many knew me as the new company owner, although this was not yet public information.

I noticed Dmitry immediately as he entered. He wore his best suit, a new haircut, looked confident and important. He scanned the hall, clearly assessing those present and his place among them.

Our eyes met. At first, he didn’t understand what he saw. Then his face twisted with anger. He decisively approached me.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, coming close. “I told you this is not for you!”

“Good evening, Dima,” I replied calmly.

“Get out of here immediately! You’re embarrassing me!” He spoke quietly but fiercely. “And what’s this masquerade? Wearing your mouse rags again to humiliate me?”

Several people began looking our way. Dmitry noticed and tried to compose himself.

“Listen,” he said in a different tone, “don’t make a scene. Just leave quietly, and we’ll discuss everything at home.”

At that moment, Mikhail Petrovich approached us.

“Dmitry, I see you’ve already met Anna Sergeevna,” he said with a smile.

“Mikhail Petrovich,” Dmitry instantly switched to obsequious mode, “I didn’t invite my wife. Honestly, it’d be better if she went home. After all, it’s a business event…”

“Dmitry,” Mikhail Petrovich looked at him with surprise, “but I invited Anna Sergeevna. And she’s not going anywhere. As the company owner, she must be present at this reporting event.”

I watched how the information sank into my husband’s mind. First confusion, then realization, then horror. The color slowly drained from his face.

“Owner… of the company?” he asked barely audibly.

“Anna Sergeevna inherited the controlling stake from her father,” explained Mikhail Petrovich. “She is now our main shareholder.”

Dmitry looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. I read panic in his eyes. He understood that if I knew about his schemes, his career was over.

“Anya…” he began, and in his voice appeared notes I had never heard before. Plea. Fear. “Anya, we need to talk.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “But first, let’s listen to the reports. That’s why we’re here.”

The next two hours were torture for Dmitry. He sat next to me at the table, tried to eat, keep up conversation, but I saw how nervous he was. His hands trembled as he raised his glass.

After the official part, he pulled me aside.

“Anya, hear me out,” he spoke quickly, ingratiatingly. “I understand you probably know… I mean, maybe someone told you… But it’s all not true! Or not entirely true! I can explain everything!”

That pathetic, humiliated tone was even more repulsive to me than his former arrogance. At least then he was honest in his contempt for me.

“Dima,” I said quietly, “you have a chance to leave the company and my life quietly and gracefully. Think about it.”

But instead of accepting the offer, he exploded:

“What game are you playing?!” he shouted, ignoring that people were watching us. “You think you can prove something? You have nothing on me! It’s all speculation!”

Mikhail Petrovich gestured to security.

“Dmitry, you’re disturbing the order,” he said strictly. “Please leave the premises.”

“Anya!” Dmitry shouted as they escorted him out. “You’ll regret this! Hear me?!”

At home, a real scandal awaited me.

“What was that?!” he yelled. “What the hell were you doing there? Trying to set me up? You think I don’t know what that was — a performance?!”

He paced the room waving his arms, his face red with rage.

“You won’t prove anything! Nothing! It’s all your inventions and intrigues! And if you think I’ll let some fool control my life…”

“Dima,” I cut him off calmly, “the internal investigation at the company was initiated two months ago. Before you knew who I am.”

He fell silent, looking at me suspiciously.

“I asked Mikhail Petrovich to give you a chance to resign without consequences,” I continued. “But apparently, in vain.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice became quieter but no less angry.

“The investigation showed that in the last three years you embezzled about two million rubles. But probably much more. There are documents, recorded conversations with clients, banking operations. Mikhail Petrovich has already handed the materials over to law enforcement.”

Dmitry sank into the armchair as if weakened.

“You… you can’t…” he muttered.

“If you’re lucky,” I said, “you might negotiate compensation. The apartment and the car should cover it.”

“Idiot!” he exploded again. “Where will we live then?! You’ll have nowhere to live either!”

I looked at him with pity. Even now, in this situation, he thought only of himself.

“I have an apartment downtown,” I said quietly. “Two hundred square meters. And a house in the Moscow region. My personal driver is already waiting for me downstairs.”

Dmitry looked at me as if I spoke a foreign language.

“What?” he breathed out.

I turned away. He stood in the middle of the room — confused, broken, pathetic. The same man who that morning considered me unworthy to be seen with him among decent people.

“You know, Dima,” I said, “you were right. We really are different levels. Just not in the way you thought.”

I closed the door behind me and didn’t look back.

Downstairs, a black car with a driver was waiting for me. Sitting in the back seat, I looked out the window at the city, which now seemed different. Not because it had changed, but because I had changed.

The phone rang. Dmitry. I declined the call.

Then came a message: “Anya, forgive me. We can fix everything. I love you.”

I deleted the message without replying.

A new life awaited me in the new apartment. The one I should have started years ago but didn’t know I had the right to. Now I knew.

Tomorrow I would have to decide what to do with the company, the investment fund, my father’s inheritance. I would build a future that now depended only on my decisions.

And Dmitry… Dmitry would stay in the past. Along with all the humiliation, self-doubt, and feelings of inadequacy he had given me all those years.

I am no longer a little gray mouse. And I never was.

“Take him, I beg you!” The woman practically shoved a worn leather suitcase into my hands and pushed the little boy toward me.

I almost dropped the bag with food—I was bringing treats from the city to our village neighbors.
“Sorry, what? I don’t know you…”

“His name is Misha. He’s three and a half.” The woman grabbed my sleeve; her knuckles turned white. “In the suitcase… there’s everything he needs. Don’t leave him, please!”

The little boy pressed against my leg. He looked up at me with huge brown eyes, his blonde curls messy, a scratch on his cheek.
“You can’t be serious!” I tried to pull away, but the woman was already pushing us toward the train car.
“You can’t just do this out of the blue! The police, child services…”

“There’s no time to explain!” Her voice trembled with desperation. “I have no choice, do you understand? None at all!”

A crowd of dacha residents caught us and pushed us into the crowded carriage. I looked back—the woman stayed on the platform, hands pressed to her face. Tears streamed down her fingers.

“Mom!” Misha made a move toward the door, but I held him back.

The train started moving. The woman grew smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the evening dusk.

We somehow settled on a bench. The boy cuddled up to me and sniffled into my sleeve. The suitcase pulled my arm down—it was heavy. What was in there, bricks?

“Auntie, will Mom come?”

“She will come, little one. She definitely will.”

 

The fellow passengers looked over with curiosity. A young woman with a strange child and a shabby suitcase—a sight, to be honest, unusual.

All the way, I kept thinking: What kind of craziness is this? Maybe some prank? But what kind of prank—the child was real, warm, smelled of baby shampoo and cookies.

Peter was stacking firewood in the yard. When he saw me with the kid, he froze, holding a log.

“Masha, where’s he from?”

“Not where from, who. Meet Misha.”

I told him everything while cooking semolina for the boy. My husband listened, frowned, rubbed the bridge of his nose—a sure sign he was thinking hard.
“We need to call the police. Immediately.”

“Peter, what police? What will I tell them—someone gave me a kid at the station like a puppy?”

“So what do you suggest?”

Misha was devouring the porridge, smearing it over his chin. He was very hungry but tried to eat neatly, holding the spoon correctly. A well-mannered boy.
“Let’s at least see what’s in the suitcase,” I nodded toward it.

We sat Misha in front of the TV and turned on “Nu, pogodi!” The suitcase clicked open.

I caught my breath. Money. Stacks and stacks of cash, tied with bank bands.

“My God,” Peter exhaled.

I grabbed a bundle at random. Five-thousand ruble notes, a hundred bills. I estimated—there were about thirty such bundles, no less.
“Fifteen million,” I whispered.
“Peter, that’s a fortune.”

We looked at each other—and at the boy laughing, watching the wolf chase the hare.

Nikolai, Peter’s old friend, found a way out. He came a week later, we drank tea and talked.

“You can register him as an abandoned child,” he said, scratching his bald head. “Like found at the gate. A friend works at child services, will help with documents.”

Though… it will require some… organizational expenses.

By that time, Misha was already settling in. He slept in our room on Peter’s old folding bed, ate oatmeal with jam for breakfast, followed me around the household like a tail.

He gave names to the chickens—Pestrushka, Chernushka, Belyanka. Only at night did he sometimes whimper, calling for Mom.

“What if his real parents are found?” I doubted.

“If they’re found, so be it. But for now, the boy needs a roof over his head, hot food.”

The paperwork was done in three weeks. Mikhail Petrovich Berezin—officially our foster son. We told the neighbors he was a nephew from the city; his parents died in an accident. We handled the money carefully. First, we bought Misha clothes—his old things, though good quality, were too small. Then books, construction toys, a scooter.

Peter insisted on repairs—the roof was leaking, the stove smoked.

 

“For the boy,” he grumbled, nailing down shingles. “So he doesn’t catch a cold.”

Misha grew like yeast. At four, he knew all the letters; at five, he was reading and subtracting. Our teacher, Anna Ivanovna, exclaimed: “You’re raising a prodigy! He should study in the city, in a special school.”

But we were wary of the city. What if someone recognized him? What if that woman changed her mind and was looking?

By seven, we decided—he went to the city gymnasium. We drove him back and forth; thankfully, we had enough for a car. Teachers couldn’t praise enough:
“Your son has a photographic memory!” the math teacher exclaimed.
“And his pronunciation!” the English teacher added. “Like a native Brit!”

At home, Misha helped Peter in the workshop. My husband started woodworking, making custom furniture. The boy could spend hours with a plane, carving wooden animals.

“Dad, why do all the other kids have grandmothers, but I don’t?” he once asked at dinner.

Peter and I exchanged glances. We had expected this question and prepared for it.

“They passed away long ago, son. Before you were born.”

He nodded seriously and asked no more. But I saw he thought sometimes, looking closely at our photos.

At fourteen, he won first place at the regional physics Olympiad. At sixteen, professors from Moscow State University came to persuade him to enroll in preparatory courses. They said: prodigy, future of science, a Nobel Prize winner.

But I looked at him and saw that scared little boy from the station. Frightened but trusting. I wondered—was his mother alive? Did she remember him?

The money was melting away. For studies, tutors, trips. We also bought a nice city apartment for him to live and study. The rest—about three million—was deposited in an account for university.

“You know,” Misha said on his eighteenth birthday, “I love you both very much. Thank you for everything.”

We hugged tightly then. A family is a family, even if it all started wildly.
Family games

A letter came exactly a year later. A thick envelope with no return address, inside handwritten pages and an old photo.
“To me?” Misha wondered, looking at the address. “I wonder from whom?”

He read silently for a long time. His face changed—pale, then flushed. I couldn’t stand it, peered over his shoulder.

“Dear Misha, if this letter has reached you, it means I am no longer in this world. Forgive me for leaving you then, on the platform. I had no choice—your father died, and his partners decided to take over our business. They wouldn’t have stopped at anything, even… I can’t write what threats they made. I watched the station for a long time, choosing. That woman seemed kind to me—a plain face, tired eyes, a wedding ring. And bags from the city—meaning she was going to the village, where it’s calmer. Your father, Mikhail Andreevich Lebedev, owned the investment fund ‘Lebedev-Capital.’ When he passed, I tried to hold the company, but your father’s partners started a real battle. Lawsuits, threats. Then they said—either I disappear, or something happens to you. I chose your life. I faked my death and left. All these years, I watched from afar—hiring people to send photos and reports on your progress. You grew into a wonderful person. Your foster parents are saintly people, may God bless them. Now those people are gone—their karma caught up. You can claim what belongs to you—52% of the fund’s shares, a huge amount of money. Find lawyer Igor Semenovich Kravtsov, firm ‘Kravtsov and Partners.’ He knows everything and is waiting for you. Forgive me, son. I loved you every day, every hour of our separation. Maybe someday you’ll understand and forgive me. Your mother, Elena.”

Attached was a photo—a young woman with a sad smile hugging a blond toddler. The same one from the platform. Only younger, happier.

Misha put the papers down. His hands trembled slightly.

“I suspected,” he said quietly. “Always felt something was wrong. But you became family to me. Real parents.”

“Mishenka…” I had a lump in my throat.

“That’s some inheritance,” Peter whistled. “No kidding.”

Misha stood, came to us, hugged tightly, like in childhood when there was a storm.
“You raised me. Took care of me. Spent your last. If anything comes, we split it three ways, period. You are my family. Real family.”

A month and a half later, the lawyer confirmed—Mikhail Lebedev really was the main shareholder of the huge fund. Former partners of the father sued and threatened, but all their claims were dismissed.

“Mom was right,” Misha said at the celebratory dinner. “On that entire station, she chose the best people. Who weren’t afraid to take in a stranger boy with a suitcase of money.”

“What stranger?” Peter objected. “Our own!”

And we hugged again. A strong family, created not by genes but by love—and a desperate act of a woman on a twilight platform.

“I won’t let that money be divided among three,” lawyer Kravtsov cut in, adjusting his glasses. “Mikhail Andreevich, you are an adult, but such sums… the tax office will be interested.”

We sat in his office—me, Peter, and Misha. Outside the window, a Moscow street buzzed, and we couldn’t believe the reality of what was happening.

“And what about my parents?” Misha leaned forward. “They should get their share.”

“There are options,” Kravtsov pulled out a folder. “You can make them consultants of the fund with a salary. Or transfer shares gradually. Or buy real estate in their name.”

“Let’s do it all at once,” Peter smirked. “Consultants, real estate, and shares later.”

We went home silently. Each thought of his own. I—how our quiet village life would change.

Peter—about his workshop, which could now be expanded. And Misha… he stared out the train window as if saying goodbye to the past.

The first changes began a month later. Some people in expensive suits came to the village, walking the streets, photographing our house.
“Journalists,” our neighbor Klavdiya guessed. “They smelled out your wealth.”

We had to hire security. Two strong guys now stood guard by the gate, checking all arrivals. The villagers first sneered but then got used to it.

“Mom, maybe we should move?” Misha suggested at dinner. “To the city, closer to the office.”

“And what about the household? Chickens, garden?”

“We can buy a house in the suburbs. With a yard.”

Peter poked his cutlet silently. I knew he didn’t want to leave. His workshop was here, established customer connections, friends.
“Let’s live here for now,” I said. “Then we’ll see.”

 

But we couldn’t live in peace. Journalists climbed over the fence, some ‘partners’ called with offers. And then the thing we feared happened.

“Mikhail Andreevich?” A woman about fifty in a mink coat stood at the door. “I’m your aunt, Larisa Sergeevna. Your father’s sister.”

Misha froze. In all these years, no living soul had looked for him, and suddenly—relatives.

“I have no aunts,” he said coldly.

“Oh, come on!” The woman rummaged in her purse, pulling out yellowed photos. “Look. This is me with your dad, about twenty years old.”

In the photo, indeed two young people, and the man looked like Misha—the same cheekbones, same eye shape.
“What do you want?” Peter stood behind Misha.

“What do you think?” the aunt huffed. “I’m blood! I searched for my nephew all these years, couldn’t find peace!”

“Sixteen years and no luck,” I muttered.

The woman threw up her hands:

“But Elena deceived everyone! She said the child was gone long ago! We believed, mourned… Then I read in the papers—the heir Lebedev appeared! My heart told me—this is my Misha!”

Misha silently turned and went into the house. The three of us stayed.

“Leave,” Peter said firmly. “Where were you when the boy cried at night? When he had angina in the hospital? When he went to Olympiads?”

“I didn’t know!”

“Now you know. When the money showed up. Convenient.”

The aunt left but came back the next day with a lawyer. Then some other ‘relatives’ showed up—cousins, nephews. All with photos, all with proof of kinship.

“We’re moving,” Misha decided after the next visit. “We’ll find a house in a gated community near Moscow. We can’t live here anymore.”

Peter surprisingly agreed:

“I’ll open a workshop there. More orders in the capital.”

The move took two months. We found a great house—three floors, a hectare of land, an hour from Moscow. Peter immediately claimed the outbuilding for the workshop, I chose a spot for greenhouses.
“Chickens?” I asked Misha.

“Of course, Mom. Whatever you want.”

Life in the new house was different. Misha went to the office, got involved in fund affairs. It turned out he had real talent for investments—increased capitalization by twenty percent over time.

“Genes,” Kravtsov said. “Your father was a genius financier too.”

Peter opened a furniture factory. First small, about twenty people. Then expanded—exclusive handmade furniture was in high demand. And me… I just made our new house cozy. Planted a garden, a rose garden. Got decorative chickens with crests. In the evenings, we gathered on the veranda, drank tea, talked.

“You know,” Misha said once, “I want to find Mom’s grave. The real mom. To lay flowers and say thank you.”

“That’s right,” Peter nodded. “We have to.”

We found the grave in a small town by a lake. We went there together. On the gray stone was a simple inscription: “Elena Lebedeva. Loving Mother.”

Misha stood silently for a long time, then laid a bouquet of white roses.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For choosing to trust me to them.”

We flew back in silence. The circle closed—the boy from the station became who he was meant to be. But he remained our son.

“Listen,” Misha turned to us on the plane. “Let’s create a fund? For orphaned children. So everyone has a chance at a family.”
Family games

“Let’s,” I smiled. “Call it ‘Platform of Hope’?”

“Exactly!” Misha blossomed. “And the first contribution—the money from the suitcase. Well, what’s left.”

Peter chuckled:

“The whole suitcase went on you, fool. For the apartment.”

“Then we’ll fill a new suitcase. And not just one.”

So that’s how we live now. A big house, a successful business, a charity fund. But most importantly—we stayed a family.

The very one that started with a strange meeting on a train platform.

Sometimes I think—what if I had been scared then? Hadn’t taken Misha? But my heart tells me—everything happened as it was meant to.

That woman on the platform didn’t make a mistake in her choice. And we didn’t make a mistake opening our doors to a stranger child.

Who became the dearest in the world.