All Amazing Babies

The next day, closer to noon, Galina was standing by the stove making herself a light soup. She had planned to spend the day peacefully, without unnecessary conversations, but the doorbell shattered that quiet.

At first she thought it might be a neighbor asking for salt or a delivery courier, but when she peeked through the peephole, she saw a familiar face. Andrei.

He stood there with his usual cocky grin, holding an empty plastic container.

Galina opened the door but stayed on the threshold, not inviting him in.

“Oh, hi!” he said casually, as if nothing had happened. “I was just passing by. And… you know, I thought maybe you’re in a good mood, maybe you could spare something for the kids? You cook so well… Any chance you’ve got some meat left?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, holding the door slightly ajar.

“What’s this, a generosity crisis?” he continued with a smirk. “You’re not stingy, are you?”

“You know, Andrei,” Galina finally said, “was yesterday’s dinner not enough for you? And aren’t you ashamed to hide behind the kids? I’m not Sergey, you won’t melt my heart!”

“Well, come on, you’ve got plenty of food, more money than you know what to do with,” he repeated, practically quoting himself, “you won’t go broke.”

That phrase infuriated Galina. She wasn’t going to stay silent anymore.

“You’re wrong. I will go broke. But not because of food—because I let people like you treat my home as a free cafeteria.”

The smile slid off his face.

“What, you offended?” he tried to joke, but his voice had tensed.

“No, Andrei. I just stopped being convenient.”

Without another word, she shut the door right in his face.

Sergey, hearing the sound of the door, came out of the room.

“Who was that?”

“Your brother,” she replied calmly. “Came for seconds.”

Sergey frowned.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That we don’t have any more food for him.”

He was silent for a long time, then sat at the table and rubbed his face with his hands.

“Galya, you realize he’ll be upset now?”

“Let him. Better he be upset than me feeling like a maid in my own home every time. Explain that to your brother clearly.”

At that moment Galina realized she was no longer afraid of Andrei, nor of her husband’s displeasure. From now on, her house would run by her rules—period.

 

The next morning greeted her with the smell of coffee and the sound of a spoon clinking against a mug. Sergey was already in the kitchen. He sat at the table scrolling through his phone and, noticing her, pretended everything was fine. Galina greeted him curtly and silently poured herself some tea.

The events of the previous evening still played over in her head. Every phrase, every glance—like on repeat. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced: the conversation they started needed to continue. Without delay.

“Did you call Andrei today? Explain everything?” she asked, looking at the kettle.

“Yes,” he answered after a pause. “Told him it’s all fine, not to worry.”

Galina lifted her eyes.

“Fine? That’s what you call it?”

Sergey leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“Gal, I just don’t want fights. It’s family. So what if he took some meat? You can see they’re having a hard time.”

“I see only one thing,” she cut him off, “that it’s convenient for them to come and take, and it’s convenient for you to pretend that’s how it should be.”

Sergey fell silent. He clearly didn’t expect her to press so hard.

Galina stood up, walked to the sink, and set her cup down.

“From this day on,” she said quietly but distinctly, “there will be different rules in our house. If you want to help—help. But not at my expense and not by humiliating me.”

Sergey looked at her for several seconds, then lowered his eyes to his phone. It seemed like he was about to say something, but in the end he just shrugged.

That morning Galina felt different. For the first time in a long while, she felt not only resentment, but confidence. She was no longer going to bend to others’ expectations and endure things for the sake of someone else’s peace.

She grabbed her bag and keys.

“I’m going out,” she said on the way out.

“And dinner?” he asked.

“You’ll manage, the fridge is full of food,” she replied and closed the door behind her.

Outside it was fresh, a light breeze playing with her hair. She walked down the street, feeling she had taken the first step toward change. Maybe it would be painful. Maybe Sergey would resist. But she knew one thing: she could never go back to the way things were, where her opinion could be ignored.

Deep down, Galina understood—there were conversations ahead, decisions, maybe even a choice that would change their lives. But now, walking through the morning city, she felt stronger than ever.

She decided to stop by a shop to buy something for herself. Not for the house, not “for everyone,” but just for herself. While picking out a new handbag, she realized she hadn’t allowed herself such small joys in a long time. All her time had been spent caring for the house, her husband, and his relatives.

While she stood at the checkout, her phone vibrated in her bag. Sergey’s name flashed on the screen.

“Yes?” she answered, trying to keep her voice even.

 

“Galya… Andrei’s here,” there was noise and some laughter in the background. “Says he wanted to apologize…”

Her heart involuntarily clenched. That sounded far too unlikely. Andrei and apologies—those things didn’t mix.

“I’ll be home soon,” she said briefly and ended the call.

The walk home felt longer than usual. Possible scenarios spun in her head: either he came to smooth things over, or—again with some “request.”

When she entered the house, Andrei was sitting in the kitchen, leg casually thrown over his knee. In front of him on the table was a plate of sandwiches, and next to it—a bag, clearly not empty.

“Galya,” he drawled, “why’d you get so worked up yesterday? We’re all good… And anyway, your fridge is full, you won’t miss it.”

Galina silently took off her coat and set her bag in the corner.

“‘All good’ is when you ask before taking. When you take silently, it’s called something else.”

 

Andrei smirked, but a shadow of irritation flickered in his eyes.

“Listen, that’s how it’s always been in our family. What’s ours is everyone’s.”

“Maybe it was for you,” she replied calmly, “but here—this is my home, and the rules here are mine too.”

Sergey stood by the stove nervously twisting a mug in his hands. He clearly didn’t know whose side to take.

Andrei got up, grabbed his bag and tossed out:

“I see how you live, I’m not taking your last bite. Fine, live how you want. Just don’t complain later if you don’t get any help. Bad times happen to everyone. And you, brother, I’ll say this: you’ve spoiled your wife, she’s got too much temper, you’ll suffer.”

When the door closed behind him, Galina turned to Sergey.

“You heard everything. Next time, if you can’t support me, I’ll do it myself.”

Sergey slowly nodded. Something new flickered in his eyes—maybe understanding, maybe fear of losing her.

Galina took the cup of cold tea from the windowsill, poured it into the sink, and felt a wave of relief inside. This wasn’t the end of the conflict, only the beginning, but now she knew: her voice in this house would no longer be quiet.

In the evening, as dusk settled outside the windows, Sergey walked into the kitchen. He looked tired, but there was a kind of caution in his movements, as if he were walking on thin ice.

“Galyunya,” he began, sitting on a stool, “I understand that yesterday and today were… well, ugly. I just… I don’t know how to be tough with them. They’ll take offense.”

“Let them,” she interrupted. “I’m tired of being convenient.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away.

“And if it leads to us not talking anymore?”

“Then so be it. I’m not going to sacrifice myself so someone can take half the fridge and then call me stingy.”

Doubt flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he got up and quietly went to the living room. Galina stayed alone in the kitchen, listening to the sound of the TV turning on in the next room.

She understood that change wouldn’t happen overnight. Andrei and Lida would most likely try to go back to the old scheme. There might be talk behind her back, attempts to turn Sergey against her. But now she had a solid foundation inside—a readiness to defend her boundaries, even if it cost her the peace in her home.

A couple of days later, the phone rang—Lida’s name on the display. Galina looked at it but didn’t answer. Let her call three times—the conversation would happen only when Galina wanted it.

That evening she lit a soft light in the kitchen, took fresh pastries out of the oven, and for the first time in a long while felt the taste of food cooked for herself. Not to impress guests. Not to please her husband. Just because she wanted to.

Sergey came in, sat across from her, and without looking at her took a piece.

“Tasty,” he said quietly.

“I’m glad,” Galina replied, then added, looking straight into his eyes: “This is our home, Seryozha. And I’m the mistress here too.”

He nodded, and at that moment she noticed—there was no longer the old confusion in his gaze. Rather, there was an understanding that from now on everything would be different.

Inside her was a quiet feeling of victory. Small, but hers. And that victory was more important than any meat, container, or ingratiating words. She knew: the road to respect began right there, at their kitchen table.

 

Three months passed. Galina sat at the kitchen table with a cup of hot coffee, watching the snow melt on the roof of the neighboring house. The house was quiet—Sergey was still asleep. Much had changed over these months. Andrei and Lida never showed up again, though they called Sergey a couple of times. To Galina’s surprise, he didn’t invite them over, limiting himself to short “see you on the street” conversations.

At first it felt strange. The absence of constant tension, the anticipation of uninvited visits—as if not only the noise, but also the shadow that had always hung over their marriage had left the house. She realized she was living more easily.

And her relationship with Sergey… changed too. Not perfect—he still tried to smooth out rough edges, but now not at her expense. He asked her opinion more often, consulted with her before making decisions affecting them both.

One evening he admitted:

“You know, I thought that if I pleased everyone, they’d respect us more. But it turned out that’s the very thing that makes them stop respecting both me and you.”

Galina didn’t say anything then. She just smiled—not that strained smile she used to wear, but a genuine one.

Now, looking at the morning light streaming through the kitchen, she understood: it all started that evening when someone brazenly scooped up the meat into a container and said, “You won’t go broke.” And with her firm “no,” spoken for the first time in a long while.

Inside, there was a quiet, confident feeling: boundaries, once set, cannot be broken. And if she had to defend them again in the future—she was ready.

Why didn’t you go to my mother’s today?”

Vadim’s voice—sharp and stripped of all warmth—struck Valeria in the back. She was in the entryway, just slipping off her shoes, savoring the relief of freeing her aching feet from narrow office pumps. All day she’d dreamed of this moment: coming home, changing into a soft T-shirt, and stretching out on the couch. The smell of lasagna reheating in the microwave already filled the small apartment, promising modest but well-earned peace. His question shattered that fragile idyll in an instant.

She didn’t turn around.

“I was at work, Vadim. I forgot to tell you—the quarterly report. I stayed till the end,” she answered, trying to keep her voice even and not as tired as she felt.

He didn’t move, still blocking the doorway, massive and displeased. His jacket was unzipped but not taken off, as if he’d popped in for a minute just to deliver a complaint and leave. Lately this had become his habit—starting a conversation with an accusation, not giving her a chance to catch her breath.

“Working. Everyone works. And she was there waiting alone. We agreed you’d stop by every evening after your office.”

 

There was no question in his words, only a statement of her guilt. Lera finally straightened and looked at him. That same expression of righteous anger she’d been seeing more and more often was stamped on his face. As if he were a prosecutor and she the perpetually guilty defendant.

“I called her in the afternoon and told her I wouldn’t make it. She said it was fine,” Lera took a step toward the kitchen, instinctively trying to move out of the line of fire. “A social worker visited her this morning and brought groceries. I didn’t abandon her to her fate.”

“What else would she tell you?” Vadim followed her, his voice gaining force. “That she feels bad and can’t make it to the bathroom? She won’t complain—she’s proud. You’re supposed to understand that without words! You, as the future lady of our house, as my wife, should anticipate these things!”

He planted himself in the middle of the kitchen, filling all the free space. The microwave beeped to announce the lasagna was ready, but no one paid attention. Valeria looked at him, and her exhaustion slowly began transforming into something else—cold, sober irritation.

“Vadim, I’m not a mind reader. I’m a person who worked ten hours today with almost no break. I physically couldn’t be in two places at once.”

“That’s not an excuse. Those are pretexts,” he cut in, and a steely, unyielding gleam flashed in his eyes. “Caring for her is your duty. Your direct duty as my future wife. You need to understand that and accept it as a given.”

He said it with such confident, immovable certainty, as if quoting an article from a family code he himself had written. The word “duty” hung in the kitchen air, pushing out the smell of food and the cozy warmth. It was alien, bureaucratic—like a stamp on a document you sign without looking.

Lera froze. She stopped hearing the hum of the fridge, the traffic outside the window. She looked at the face of her fiancé—the man she was supposed to marry in two months—and she didn’t see love, care, or partnership. She saw an overseer who’d come to check whether she was doing her job properly. And in that moment, all the day’s fatigue evaporated, giving way to an icy, crystalline clarity.

“Duty?” she repeated. Quietly, almost tonelessly. But that quiet word sounded in the kitchen louder than any shout. She stared straight at him, with the gaze of someone who has just noticed the ugly detail on a familiar painting—the one that changes its entire meaning.

“Yes. What did you think?”

He nodded smugly, as if she had asked the stupidest question in the world and he, tired of her incomprehension, had finally set everything straight. That nod, that calm, confident tone became the trigger for Valeria. Not for hysteria—for something far colder and more final. Suddenly she saw the whole picture without the rosy filters of love and hopes for a shared future.

Snatches of their plans flashed through her mind: the white dress they’d chosen last week, their silly arguments about a honeymoon destination, his promises to carry her in his arms. And now, over those bright images, another picture laid itself—disgustingly clear and real: she, worn out after work, going not home but to his mother’s stuffy apartment that smelled of medicine and old age. She saw her hands changing a diaper, felt the dull ache in her back from lifting and turning someone else’s frail body. And in that picture there was no Vadim. He was somewhere in their cozy apartment, waiting for dinner, certain that his woman was “fulfilling her duty.”

Lera gave a bitter little smile, with no trace of amusement in it. It was the sound of a snapped string.

“My duty?” she repeated, and now there was metal in her voice. “So, according to you, I’m getting married to become a free caregiver for your mother? To wash her, spoon-feed her, and change her diapers for the rest of her days? Is that the happy family life you’re offering me?”

Vadim frowned, his face twisting in irritation. He hadn’t expected such pushback. In his world a woman was supposed to accept her role meekly.

“Why do you always exaggerate? She’s my mother! She raised me, lost sleep over me…”

“Don’t lecture me about her sleepless nights,” Lera cut him off sharply. “I’m talking about my life. About our life. Or is there not going to be any ‘our’ life? Will there only be your life and your mother, while I’m the service staff who should be grateful for the opportunity?”

He rounded the table and leaned on the counter, looking down at her. His favorite pose in arguments—a dominance pose.

“This is called family. This is called respect for elders. That’s how it’s done in normal families. A wife takes care of her husband and his parents. That’s the foundation. My father looked after his mother until her last day, and my mother helped him, and no one thought it was shameful. And you… you’re made of different stuff. All you want is comfort and entertainment.”

His words were like small, poisonous darts. He was trying to prick her, to make her feel selfish and wrong. But he was too late. The process had begun, and her soul was icing over in armor.

“Yes, Vadim, I’m made of different stuff,” she agreed calmly, meeting his eyes. “The kind where marriage is a partnership of two equals, not a lifetime slavery contract. I thought I was marrying a man with whom we would build our future together. Turns out I’m just interviewing for a nurse’s position. Unpaid.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” He slapped his palm on the table—but not hard, more to signal his anger than to express it. “You’re just looking for an excuse to shirk! It’s not that hard to swing by for an hour or two!”

“An hour or two? Every day? After work? And weekends too, I suppose? And when are we supposed to live, Vadim? When are we supposed to be together? Or will our evenings now go like this: you on the couch in front of the TV, and me on the phone reporting to you whether I changed Zinaida Viktorovna’s diaper?”

She said it with such cold, cutting sarcasm that he lost his tongue for a moment. He looked at her, bafflement in his eyes. He genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was. In his coordinates, everything was logical and correct. He was the man. She was his woman. His mother was part of him. Therefore, his woman should care for his “part.” It was as simple as two times two.

“I thought you loved me,” he finally managed, reaching for his last, cheapest argument.

Valeria slowly shook her head.

“I thought so too. And today I realized you’re not looking for love—you’re looking for convenience. A free bonus to your comfortable life. And love, in your understanding, is when I silently agree to everything you order. Well, darling, that’s not love. That’s exploitation.”

The word hit him in the face like a slap. Vadim recoiled from the counter, his features contorting. He wasn’t used to Valeria—his quiet, compliant Lera—speaking to him like that. Looking at him like that—cold, appraising, as if weighing him on an invisible scale and disliking the result intensely. Confusion flickered in his eyes, but it drowned instantly in a new wave of wounded pride. He was losing this battle, and that was unbearable.

So he decided to play his trump card. The one that was supposed to work unfailingly.

Without a word, he demonstratively pulled his phone from his pocket. His movements were deliberately slow, theatrical. He didn’t look at Lera, but he felt her gaze, and it gave him confidence. He found “Mom” in his contacts and pressed call, immediately switching to speaker. All-in—his last attempt to appeal to her conscience, to what he considered her feminine softness.

“Yes, son?” came the thin, trembling voice of Zinaida Viktorovna from the speaker. It was weak, as if muffled by a wad of cotton. The voice of a sick, lonely person.

Vadim shot Valeria a quick, triumphant glance. There, listen. Listen and be ashamed.

“Hi, Mom. How are you? I just wanted to check on you,” his own voice changed at once. The steel and hardness vanished; it became soft, velvety, full of filial care. It was a revolting, fake performance, and Lera saw it with frightening clarity.

“Oh, Vadimchik… Well… I’m lying here. My head is spinning today. I was waiting for Lerochka, she promised to stop by. She’s not coming? Did something happen?”

Every word from Zinaida Viktorovna carried an old woman’s hurt and anxiety. She wasn’t complaining directly, but her intonations painted abandonment better than any words.

“No, Mom, she’s not coming. She has… work,” Vadim paused meaningfully, loading that simple word with a whole world of accusation. “A lot of work. Important things.”

Lera stood with her shoulder against the cold refrigerator and kept silent. She didn’t move—hardly breathed. She listened to the dialogue and felt the last drop of warmth toward the man standing two steps away freeze inside her. He wasn’t merely arguing with her. He was cynically, cold-bloodedly using his sick mother as a battering ram to break her will. He had turned the old woman’s fear and loneliness into a weapon aimed at the woman he supposedly loved. That was beyond the pale. That was vile.

“Have you eaten anything?” Vadim continued his little play. “You need to eat, Mom. You know you mustn’t skip meals.”

“What am I going to eat here all alone… No appetite at all. My blood pressure’s up again, probably. I took a pill, just lying here staring at the ceiling. Good thing you called, son, otherwise it’s so bleak…”

He let that phrase hang in the air so it would soak properly into Valeria’s conscience. He looked at her, not hiding his sense of superiority. His gaze said: Well? Swallowed it? Do you see now what a heartless person you are?

But he’d miscalculated. He expected tears on her face, repentance, shame. Instead, he saw only a mask of ice. Her eyes—once warm and alive—had become two dark, impenetrable crystals. There was nothing in them—no anger, no hurt. Only emptiness. Emptiness where, an hour ago, there had been love.

 

She was looking through him, at the ugly essence of what he’d done. In that moment she understood completely: it wasn’t about his mother. It was about him. About his rotten, exploitative nature for which any person is merely a resource. His mother, and she—everyone was just a function, an instrument to ensure his personal comfort and peace.

“All right, Mom, get some rest,” Vadim said, wrapping up the call. “We’ll… sort it out here. I’ll talk to her. Everything will be fine.”

He hung up and, with a satisfied air, set the phone on the table. He was sure the game was played and won. He expected her capitulation. Expected her to come over, hug him, and admit he was right.

He expected in vain.

The silence that followed was dense and heavy. It didn’t ring or press; it simply existed, like a new, invisible object in the room. Vadim placed the phone on the table and crossed his arms over his chest, assuming the pose of a victor. He looked at Valeria with poorly concealed triumph, waiting for her to break, to come over and start apologizing. In his world this was checkmate. He’d pinned her to the wall with an irrefutable piece of evidence—his own mother’s suffering—and now awaited unconditional surrender.

He waited a minute. Two. Then he said loudly enough for her to hear it from anywhere in the apartment:

“Starting tomorrow, you’re resuming your duties! You will go to my mother and help her with everything, whether you want to or not! Clear?!”

Valeria slowly peeled herself off the refrigerator. She took one step toward the center of the kitchen and stopped. Her face was calm, almost lifeless, but deep in her eyes a cold, dark fire was kindling. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time—not a fiancé, not a beloved man, but a stranger she found unpleasant.

Then she spoke. Her voice was steady, without a quaver, but there was such strength in it that Vadim involuntarily straightened up.

“On what grounds am I supposed to go to your mother every evening to wash her and change her diapers? Hire a caregiver for her, because I will not be doing this anymore.”

The words dropped into the kitchen like stones. Not like a shout—like a sentence. Vadim was caught off guard. He opened his mouth to object, to unleash his righteous anger—but she didn’t let him get a word in.

“Did you think your little performance would work?” She gave a mirthless smile—a grimace of contempt. “You decided to press on pity, to make me out to be a heartless monster? Congratulations, you’ve just shown me your true face. The face of a cheap manipulator who’s willing to use his sick mother as a cudgel to drive me into a pen.”

He stared at her, and his confidence began to crack like thin ice underfoot. This wasn’t Lera. This was some other woman—unfamiliar and frightening in her cold composure.

“So listen to me, Vadim,” she went on, taking another step toward him. “There won’t be a wedding. I’m not going to bury myself under your future mother-in-law’s diapers at the whim of a future husband who thinks it’s my direct duty. I wanted a family, not a life sentence.”

“How dare—” he began, but his voice drowned in her gaze.

“And now about your mother. You’re so worried about her, aren’t you? Such a loving son. Well, here’s a wonderful chance to prove it. You can put on an apron and fulfill your filial duty. You’re a man, the head of the future family. Go on. Every evening, after work. You’ll cook for her yourself, mop the floors, wash her laundry. And change the diapers, Vadim. Don’t forget the diapers. She’s your mother. That’s your duty. You said so yourself—it’s fundamental, it’s respect. So respect.”

She delivered it methodically, hammering each word like a nail. She took his own weapon—his words about duty, family, and respect—and turned them against him. She drew him a picture of his own future, the very one he had so easily prepared for her.

Finished, she turned without a word and walked toward the entryway. She didn’t run, didn’t slam doors. She simply walked. Vadim watched her back, and the realization began to dawn—not that he had hurt her, but that the perfectly arranged world in which he’d been so comfortable had collapsed in an instant. He had destroyed it with his own hands.

She picked up her purse and keys from the hall table. He heard her putting on her shoes. He wanted to shout something, to stop her, but no sound would come. His mouth was dry.

The front door clicked softly shut.

Vadim was left alone in the kitchen. He looked around, as if not recognizing the familiar surroundings. His gaze fell on the microwave with the forgotten lasagna inside. Dinner for two. He walked over slowly and opened the door. The smell of cooled, dried-out food drifted through the kitchen. The smell of a life gone wrong. And for the first time that evening, he felt neither anger nor resentment. He felt an animal, chilling fear of the reality in which he had just been left. Alone. With his duty…

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Marina stood by the window. The July heat pressed down on the city. In the yard, children ran between the trees, hiding in the shade.

“Marinka, where’s my shirt?” came from the bedroom. “The checkered one!”

“It’s hanging in the closet,” she replied without turning. “On the top shelf.”

Alexey appeared in the doorway of the living room, buttoning up the shirt he had found. Tall, sturdy, with the working hands of a locksmith. Once, those hands had seemed reliable to her.

“Listen,” he began, adjusting his collar. “My mother is coming today. Clean up better, otherwise last time she spent the whole evening complaining about dust.”

Marina slowly turned to her husband. Something inside her clenched with familiar irritation.

“Your mother always complains about something,” she said quietly. “Last time the borscht was too watery, the time before that the cutlets too salty.”

“Then do better,” Alexey shrugged, as if talking about the weather. “She’s an experienced woman, giving advice, and you take offense.”

Marina clenched her fists. This apartment belonged only to her. She had received this two-room flat before they even met, furnished it to her taste, invested all her savings in the renovation. And now Valentina Petrovna came in every time, rearranged things, and lectured her on where everything should stand.

“Lesha, we live in my apartment,” Marina reminded him. “Maybe you should take that into account?”

Her husband froze, one hand already on the doorknob.

“What are you trying to say?” Alexey’s voice darkened. “That I don’t belong here?”

“I’m saying your mother acts like she owns the place,” Marina stepped closer. “And you let her.”

“Mother cares about us!” Alexey turned his whole body toward her. “About her family! By the way, she even gave up her own apartment for her younger son!”

Marina gave a bitter smile. That story about “helping the young family” had grown tiresome.

“Your mother gave Igor a one-bedroom two years ago,” she said slowly. “So what? Now she has the right to boss around in my home?”

“In our home!” Alexey barked. “We’re married!”

“On your thirty-thousand salary we’d be renting a corner on the outskirts,” the words slipped out before Marina could stop them.

Her husband’s face darkened. He stepped toward her, looming with all his weight.

“So now you reproach me?” His voice shook with anger. “Because I don’t earn enough?”

“I’m not reproaching you,” Marina lifted her chin. “Just reminding you of reality. Your mother rents now because she gave Igor her flat. Yet she lectures us on how to live.”

“Igor really needed help!” Alexey turned to the window. “Young family, planning kids!”

“Kids,” Marina repeated. “Always about kids.”

Her husband spun back around. The familiar fire lit in his eyes.

“And what, isn’t it time? We’ve been married five years and you keep putting it off. A real woman should have children!”

“On what, Lesha?” Marina spread her hands. “On your salary? Do you know how much baby food costs? Clothes? Medicine?”

“We’ll manage somehow,” he waved it off. “Others do!”

“Others,” Marina shook her head. “And I’ll be stuck on maternity leave without a penny while you break your back at the factory for peanuts?”

Outside, birds chirped in the leaves. Alexey was silent, staring off to the side. Marina saw his jaw tighten.

“You know what,” he finally said, turning back. “Enough bickering. My mother has problems.”

“What problems now?” Marina stepped away from the window.

 

“She can’t rent anymore,” Alexey rubbed his neck. “Her pension isn’t enough and the landlady doubled the rent.”

Marina nodded. Valentina Petrovna had been complaining for months about the high cost of rent. It was only logical she move in with her younger son—into the very one-bedroom she had given him.

“I see,” Marina said. “Then Igor’s family will have to make room.”

Alexey straightened sharply. His gaze hardened.

“Mother will live here,” he declared. “Temporarily, until she finds something else.”

Marina froze. His words echoed as if from afar.

“Here?” she repeated. “In our apartment?”

“Yes, here!” Alexey raised his voice. “What’s the big deal? There’s enough space.”

“Lesha, where will she stay? In the living room?”

“What’s wrong with that?” he crossed his arms. “Mother sacrificed her whole life for her children, and you’re being stingy!”

 

Marina stepped back against the wall. Inside, indignation churned.

“Why not with Igor?” she asked quietly. “He has the flat your mother gave him.”

“They have a child!” Alexey roared. “They need the space! Aren’t we a family too?”

“We are a family, but this apartment is mine,” Marina reminded.

Her husband’s face grew darker still. He stepped closer.

“Selfish! Always thinking only of yourself! A normal wife would support her husband in a hard time!”

Marina pressed her back against the wall. He was too close, suffocating with his presence.

“You won’t give me children, at least help the family this way!” he went on. “Mother has sacrificed her whole life for us!”

“Lesha, listen—” Marina began, but he cut her off.

“Maybe you don’t need a family at all? Then say it straight!”

Marina lowered her head. Alexey knew how to press, knew every weak spot. Guilt washed over her.

“All right,” she said quietly. “She can stay for a while.”

A week later, Valentina Petrovna moved into their living room. She brought three suitcases and immediately began rearranging everything. The TV went to the window, the couch to the wall, Marina’s houseplants banished to the balcony.

“It should be brighter here,” the mother-in-law explained as she moved furniture. “And those pots just gather dust.”

Marina silently watched her living room turn into a stranger’s bedroom. Alexey helped his mother, carrying heavy things.

“Mom, will you be comfortable here?” he asked gently.

“I’ll manage,” sighed Valentina Petrovna. “Though there’s not much space.”

Three months passed. Marina became a shadow in her own home. She tiptoed around, afraid to disturb her mother-in-law. Apologized for every sound, every move.

Valentina Petrovna fully took over. She threw out Marina’s laundry detergent, replaced it with her own. Forbade buying her favorite sausage.

“This one’s too expensive, buy the regular kind,” she ordered in the store. “Why waste money?”

In the mornings, Marina cleaned under her mother-in-law’s watchful eye. One day, carrying out the trash, something familiar caught her eye. She bent down and froze.

A childhood photo album. The one with kindergarten and school pictures. Her only memory of childhood.

With trembling hands, Marina pulled it out, stained with tea leaves.

“Valentina Petrovna,” she called, entering the living room. “Why was this in the trash?”

Her mother-in-law didn’t even look up from the TV.

“Oh, that? I threw it out. Just junk, takes up space.”

“These are my childhood photos!” Marina’s voice shook.

“Old stuff,” Valentina waved her off. “Why keep it?”

Something snapped inside Marina. Three months of humiliation, silence, and shame burst out.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my apartment right now!”

The mother-in-law jumped from the couch, eyes blazing.

“How dare you treat your elders this way!” she shrieked. “You should know your place!”

Disheveled Alexey rushed from the bedroom. Hearing the shouting, he instantly took his mother’s side.

“Mom isn’t going anywhere!” he roared at his wife. “It’s you who’ll be out on the street!”

But inside Marina something had broken for good. Her scream died in her throat. She looked at her husband and his mother with icy calm. Rage gave way to cold clarity.

“The apartment is in my name,” Marina said quietly but firmly. “Only I decide who lives here.”

“How dare you!” Alexey stepped toward her, face red with fury. “I’m your husband!”

“Ex-husband,” Marina corrected, turning to the closet.

She pulled out a large sports bag and began throwing in her mother-in-law’s things—shirts, skirts, robes—without care.

“You’ve lost your mind!” Alexey shouted. “Stop this at once!”

Marina didn’t answer. She yanked slippers from under the couch, tossed them in the bag. The older woman scurried, trying to grab her belongings back.

 

“Daughter, calm down!” her voice trembled with outrage. “We’re family!”

“Family?” Marina spun around. “Family doesn’t throw childhood photos in the trash!”

The mother-in-law shrank back. Alexey tried to grab the bag, but Marina dodged.

“Mother sacrificed everything for her children!” he shouted. “And you kick her out like a dog!”

“For five years I endured your nonsense,” Marina zipped the bulging bag. “For three months I lived like a ghost in my own home!”

She went to the bedroom for her husband’s things—sweaters, shirts, jeans—all into another bag. Alexey followed, grabbing her hand.

“Think! Where will we go?”

“Not my concern,” Marina pulled free. “Go to Igor’s.”

“There’s no room at Igor’s!” the mother-in-law wailed from the living room. “There’s a child!”

“And here there’s me!” Marina shouted back, carrying out both bags.

She set them by the front door. Returned for shoes, cosmetics, trinkets.

“You’ll go mad with loneliness!” Alexey shouted, pulling on his jacket. “You’ll crawl back begging us to return!”

Marina silently held the door open. Her mother-in-law sniffled, shoving the last of her things into a bag.

“Daughter, think again,” she pleaded. “Where will we live now?”

 

“Where you lived before me,” Marina replied.

Alexey grabbed his bag, stormed out. On the threshold he turned back, face twisted in rage.

Valentina Petrovna stepped out last, dragging her bags. She glanced back from the landing.

“Ungrateful!” she shouted. “We only wanted what’s best for you!”

Marina shut the door. Turned the key twice, slid the chain. Shouts, footsteps, elevator doors echoed from the stairwell.

Then silence.

Marina stood with her back to the door, listening to her own breathing. For the first time in months, there was no blaring TV, no creaking couch under heavy weight.

She walked into the living room. Put the couch back, turned the TV around. Returned her plants to the windowsill.

Then she sat down, took the rescued photo album in her hands. Flipped through the pages—school ceremonies, a birthday with five candles, kindergarten graduation.

And suddenly she laughed. Quietly at first, then louder. The laughter turned to sobs of relief, then back to laughter. She laughed until tears streamed down her face, clutching the album to her chest.

The home was hers again. Hers alone.

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Eleonora slowly put down the book she’d been reading on the balcony. The spring air was cool, but pleasant after a stuffy winter. She looked at her husband standing in the doorway. Svyatoslav looked determined—too determined for a Saturday morning.

“What did you say?” she asked, hoping she’d misheard.

“We’re going to sell your apartment and live with my parents,” he repeated, stepping onto the balcony. “Mom and Dad have already arranged everything. A room on the second floor, a separate bathroom. It’ll be convenient.”

Eleonora stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was joking or serious. Three years of marriage had taught her to read his moods, but now she was at a loss.

“Svyat, this is my grandmother’s apartment. She left it to me.”

“So what? The apartment needs repairs, the utilities are expensive. And my parents have a big house—plenty of space for everyone. We’ll put the money from the sale into a deposit.”

“Whose deposit?” Eleonora clarified.

“The family’s, of course. Mom says it’s the sensible thing to do. She’s always given sound financial advice.”

Eleonora rose from the wicker chair and walked to the balcony rail. Down in the courtyard, children were playing. She remembered running around there herself as a little girl when she came to stay with her grandmother during the holidays.

“Your mother decided what I should do with my apartment?”

“Don’t start, Elia. We’re discussing this calmly.”

“Discussing? You’ve presented me with a fait accompli.”

Svyatoslav stepped closer and tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.

“Listen, it’s logical. Why do we need two properties? My parents are getting older; they need help. And the apartment… what’s so special about it? A typical two-bedroom in a bedroom community.”

“My childhood was there,” Eleonora said quietly. “Grandma left it to me because she knew I would cherish every corner.”

“Sentimentality is sweet, but impractical. Mom’s right—we need to think about the future.”

“Whose future? Your mother’s?”

Svyatoslav frowned. He didn’t like anyone criticizing his parents, especially his mother. Regina Pavlovna had raised him alone for the first ten years of his life, until she met Arkady. Ever since, Svyatoslav considered it his duty to defend her from any attack.

“Elia, enough. The decision’s made. We’re meeting a realtor on Monday.”

“What decision? Made by whom?”

“By me. I’m the head of the family.”

Eleonora laughed—not with amusement, but bitterly.

“The head of the family? Seriously? Svyatoslav, you and I are equal partners. At least, that’s what I thought.”

“Equal partners don’t cling to junk. My mother sold her apartment when she married my father. And they’re fine.”

“Your mother sold a studio on the outskirts and moved into your father’s mansion. There’s a difference.”

Svyatoslav flushed. He couldn’t stand being confronted with obvious things he preferred to ignore.

“Don’t you dare talk about my parents like that!”

“I’m telling the truth. And here’s another truth—I am NOT selling the apartment.”

“We’ll see,” Svyatoslav hissed and left the balcony.

Eleonora stayed where she was. The sun rose higher, warming her face. She thought of Grandma Lida, who had worked her whole life as a doctor and saved up for this apartment. “Elyechka,” she used to say, “a woman must always have a place of her own. Remember that.”

That evening Svyatoslav brought his parents “for tea.” Eleonora knew it wasn’t just a polite visit. Regina Pavlovna entered first, sweeping an appraising gaze over the apartment.

“Yes, no one’s done any renovations here for about twenty years,” she concluded. “The wallpaper’s peeling, the parquet creaks. Imagine how much money it’ll take to make everything presentable!”

Arkady Mikhailovich quietly walked into the living room and sat in an armchair. He rarely interfered in his wife’s conversations, preferring to observe.

 

“Hello, Regina Pavlovna, Arkady Mikhailovich,” Eleonora greeted them. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Green tea, if you have it,” the mother-in-law replied. “And no sugar. We watch our figure.”

Eleonora went to the kitchen. Svyatoslav followed.

“Don’t sulk,” he said. “My parents want to help.”

“Help with what? Depriving me of my home?”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not like you’ll be out on the street.”

“No, I’ll be living in your parents’ house. By their rules, their schedule.”

“What’s wrong with rules? Mom just likes order.”

Eleonora brewed the tea and set cookies on a tray. Her hands trembled slightly with restrained emotion.

In the living room, Regina Pavlovna was already spreading some papers out on the table.

“Eleonora, sit down,” she said in a tone that brooked no objection. “We need to discuss the details.”

“What details?”

“The sale of the apartment, of course. I’ve made inquiries. A property like this can fetch a decent sum. Naturally, we’ll have to lower the price because of the condition, but it’ll still be good.”

“Regina Pavlovna, I am NOT going to sell the apartment.”

The mother-in-law raised her eyebrows.

“Excuse me? Svyatoslav said you agreed.”

“Svyatoslav LIED.”

“Elia!” her husband exclaimed. “We talked about this—”

“You talked. I listened. And I answered—NO.”

Regina Pavlovna straightened in her chair. Her face hardened.

“Girl, you don’t understand the situation. Svyatoslav is my only son. I won’t allow some—”

“Some WHAT?” Eleonora cut in. “Go on, finish.”

“Some girl from who-knows-what kind of family to manipulate him.”

“I’m manipulating him? Aren’t you the one trying to force me to sell my only home?”

Arkady Mikhailovich cleared his throat.

“Regina, maybe don’t—”

“Quiet, Arkady!” his wife snapped. “I know what I’m doing. Eleonora, be reasonable. You’ll be more comfortable in our house. A big kitchen, a garden, a pool. What more do you need?”

“Freedom,” Eleonora replied.

“Freedom? From what? From family?”

“From your CONTROL.”

Regina Pavlovna flushed.

“I’m controlling? I care! About my son, about his future!”

“About his future or about YOURS?” Eleonora asked. “Why do you need the money from selling my apartment?”

A pause fell. Regina Pavlovna and Arkady Mikhailovich exchanged glances. Svyatoslav looked from his parents to his wife.

“What’s with the insinuations?” he protested. “Elia, you’re crossing the line!”

“I’m asking a logical question. If your parents are so well-off, why do they need the money from selling my apartment?”

“Not yours—ours! We’re a family!” Regina Pavlovna cried.

“NO,” Eleonora said firmly. “The apartment is in my name. It’s MY property.”

“Selfish!” the mother-in-law blurted out. “Svyatoslav, do you see who you married?”

“Mom, calm down…”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! I raised you, devoted my life to you! And you brought this—into our home…”

“That’s enough,” Eleonora stood up. “Please LEAVE my apartment.”

“What?” Svyatoslav was taken aback. “Elia, you can’t throw my parents out!”

“I can, and I AM. Regina Pavlovna, Arkady Mikhailovich—goodbye.”

The mother-in-law rose, trembling with rage.

“Svyatoslav, let’s go. If your wife doesn’t value family, we have no business here.”

“But, Mom—”

“I said let’s go!”

Svyatoslav looked helplessly at Eleonora, then at his mother.

“Elia, apologize. You’re in the wrong.”

“For what should I apologize? For not wanting to give up my apartment?”

“For insulting my mother!”

“She insulted me. But of course you didn’t notice.”

Svyatoslav clenched his fists.

“You know what? Maybe Mom’s right. You only think about yourself.”

“And you only think about your mother. Maybe you should’ve married her?”

Svyatoslav turned pale. Regina Pavlovna grabbed his hand.

“Come, son. Don’t waste time on ungrateful people.”

They left, slamming the door. Eleonora was alone in the living room. Papers the mother-in-law had brought lay on the table—printouts of listings for apartments in the area, realtor contacts, even a draft sales contract.

“They planned everything in advance,” Eleonora realized. “They never doubted I’d agree.”

The next few days passed in silence. Svyatoslav ostentatiously slept in the living room, left early in the morning, and returned late at night. When she tried to talk, he answered in monosyllables.

On Thursday Eleonora came home from work and found a stranger in the apartment. He was walking from room to room, jotting notes in a pad.

“Who are you? How did you get in?” she asked.

“Mikhail Sergeyevich, appraiser,” the man introduced himself. “Your husband gave me the keys and asked me to assess the apartment.”

“My husband had no right to do that. Please leave.”

“But I’m almost finished…”

“LEAVE. Now.”

The appraiser shrugged, gathered his things, and left. Eleonora dialed Svyatoslav.

“How dare you bring in an appraiser without telling me?”

“I just wanted to know the real value. Nothing criminal.”

“Svyatoslav, this is MY apartment. You have no right to dispose of it.”

“You’re my wife. What’s yours is mine.”

“NO. It’s premarital property.”

“Formalities. We love each other.”

“Love doesn’t give you the right to STEAL my apartment.”

“Steal? You’re accusing me of theft?”

“What else do you call TRYING to sell someone else’s property?”

Svyatoslav hung up. He didn’t come home that evening. Eleonora called his friend Maksim.

“He’s with me,” Maksim said. “Elia, what’s going on with you two?”

“Ask him.”

“He says you won’t meet his parents halfway.”

“I don’t want to sell my apartment. Is that a crime?”

“No, but… maybe find a compromise?”

“What compromise? Sell and then be dependent on his mother?”

Maksim hesitated.

“I don’t know. But Svyat is upset. Says his mother is crying.”

“Let her cry. That’s no reason to strip me of my home.”

On Saturday morning the doorbell rang. Eleonora opened it—on the threshold stood an unfamiliar woman in a tailored suit.

“Viktoria Andreyevna, attorney for the Volkonsky family,” she introduced herself. “May I come in?”

Volkonsky—Regina Pavlovna’s maiden name. Reluctantly, Eleonora let the woman in.

“Eleonora Dmitrievna, I’m here to discuss the apartment.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. The apartment is not for sale.”

“I understand your position. But let’s be objective. You’ve been married to Svyatoslav Arkadyevich for three years. In that time, the Volkonsky–Semyonov family has done a lot for you.”

“For example?”

“The wedding at their expense, a vacation in Turkey, gifts…”

“Those were gifts, not investments. Or did Regina Pavlovna expect repayment?”

Viktoria Andreyevna smiled.

“Regina Pavlovna is a generous person. But she has the right to expect reciprocal generosity.”

“So, BLACKMAIL?”

“Not at all—no blackmail. Merely a reminder that family means mutual assistance.”

“Mutual assistance doesn’t mean ROBBERY.”

“You’re exaggerating. No one intends to rob you. The money from the sale will go toward family needs.”

“What needs exactly?”

Viktoria Andreyevna faltered.

“That’s a private family matter.”

“If it concerns my apartment, it’s MY matter too.”

“Eleonora Dmitrievna, don’t make this harder than it is. Regina Pavlovna is willing to compromise. For example, to allocate you a separate room with a balcony in their house.”

“How GENEROUS. A whole room in exchange for a two-bedroom apartment.”

“Plus living with a loving family.”

“With a family that’s trying to BLEED me dry.”

Viktoria Andreyevna sighed.

 

“You’re being needlessly categorical. Svyatoslav Arkadyevich can file for divorce.”

“Let him FILE.”

“And demand division of marital property.”

“The apartment is premarital property. It’s not subject to division.”

“But the bedroom was renovated during the marriage. Using Svyatoslav Arkadyevich’s money.”

Eleonora laughed.

“Do you mean the wallpapering for five thousand rubles? Seriously?”

“Any improvements to property during marriage can be grounds to deem it joint.”

“Try proving that in court.”

Viktoria Andreyevna stood.

“Eleonora Dmitrievna, think about it. Is it worth destroying a family over real estate?”

“I’m not the one destroying it.”

The lawyer left, placing a business card on the table. Eleonora tore it up and threw it in the trash.

On Monday at work, her colleague Ksenia approached her.

“Elia, is it true you’re getting divorced?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Your husband posted on social media. Says his wife kicked him out and doesn’t value family.”

Eleonora opened her phone. On Svyatoslav’s page was a long post about how he was suffering from his wife’s selfishness, how she valued the material over the spiritual.

“I suggested we live at my parents’ house, where we’re welcomed with open arms,” he wrote. “But she prefers clinging to an old apartment, destroying our marriage.”

Below were dozens of comments. Most supported Svyatoslav and scolded the “mercenary wife.”

Eleonora dialed his number.

“Delete the post.”

“Why? I told the truth.”

“You wrote a LIE. I didn’t kick you out. You left.”

“After you insulted my mother.”

“Svyatoslav, DELETE the post or I’ll write my version.”

“Go ahead. We’ll see who they believe.”

Eleonora hung up. That evening she wrote a response, calmly laying out the facts: the attempt to sell her premarital apartment, pressure from her mother-in-law, a lawyer’s visit with veiled threats.

The scandal exploded. Friends and acquaintances split into two camps. Some supported Eleonora, others—Svyatoslav.

A week later Svyatoslav came home. He looked rough—gaunt, red-eyed.

“Elia, let’s talk.”

“About what?”

“About us. About our future.”

“Do we HAVE a future?”

Svyatoslav sat on the couch and cradled his head in his hands.

“I don’t want a divorce. But Mom…”

“What about Mom?”

“She says if I don’t make you sell the apartment, she’ll cut me out of the inheritance.”

“And what does that inheritance include?”

“The house, accounts, my father’s business.”

“So you’re choosing between me and your parents’ money?”

“It’s not that simple!”

“It’s very simple. Either you love me and respect my property rights, or you love your mother’s MONEY.”

“Don’t oversimplify!”

“Then don’t overcomplicate. Svyatoslav, answer honestly—why does your mother need the money from my apartment?”

Svyatoslav was silent. Then he spoke quietly:

“They have DEBTS.”

“What debts? I thought they were rich!”

“They used to be. Dad made a bad investment. Lost almost everything. The house is mortgaged.”

Eleonora sat down beside him.

“Why didn’t you say so right away?”

“Mom forbade it. Said it’s a family matter.”

“And the solution is to sell my apartment?”

“It’ll buy time. Pay off the most persistent creditors.”

“Svyatoslav, that’s not a solution. That’s plugging HOLES.”

“What do you suggest? Let them lose the house?”

“I suggest honesty. If your parents had told the truth from the start, we could have figured something out together.”

“Like what?”

“For example, rent out the apartment. The income’s small, but steady.”

“Mom will never agree to live off rental money from your apartment.”

“Then she can look for other options.”

Svyatoslav stood and paced.

“You don’t understand. If they lose the house, it’s a disaster. Mom won’t survive it.”

“Svyatoslav, I’m sorry. Truly. But I’m not obliged to pay for other people’s mistakes.”

“Other people’s? They’re my parents!”

“To me, they’re STRANGERS. Especially after how they treated me.”

“You’re vindictive!”

“I’m a realist. Your parents tried to DECEIVE me, intimidate me, humiliate me. And now I’m supposed to hand them my apartment?”

“Not to them, to us! We’re a family!”

“NO, Svyatoslav. Family means trust and respect. Not lies and manipulation.”

Svyatoslav grabbed his jacket.

“You know what? Mom was right. You’re selfish. You only think about yourself.”

“And you only think about your mother. Maybe that’s our real problem.”

He slammed the door. Eleonora was alone again. He’d left his phone on the table. The screen lit up—a message came in.

“Son, how did the conversation go? Did she agree?”

Eleonora didn’t read the thread. She put the phone on the hall shelf and went to bed.

In the morning, his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Eleonora didn’t answer. Around noon, someone started pounding on the door.

“Eleonora, open up! I know you’re home!” shouted Regina Pavlovna.

Eleonora opened the door but left the safety chain on.

“What do you want?”

“My son’s phone! And don’t pretend you don’t know where it is!”

“It’s on the hall shelf. Svyatoslav forgot it yesterday.”

“Hand it over immediately!”

“He can come and get it himself.”

“He doesn’t want to see you!”

“Likewise.”

Regina Pavlovna turned crimson.

“How dare you! I’ll call the police!”

“Go ahead. Explain to them what you’re doing at my door.”

“It’s my son’s door too!”

“No. He isn’t registered here.”

Over her shoulder, Arkady Mikhailovich peeked out.

“Regina, let’s go. No need for a scene.”

“Be quiet! That girl ruined our son’s life!”

“Your son ruined his own life when he chose Mommy’s money over his wife.”

“What do you know about choosing? You—”

At that moment, the neighbors, the elderly Vorontsovs, appeared on the landing.

“What’s going on here?” Pavel Ivanovich asked sternly.

“Nothing special,” Eleonora replied. “Former relatives came for a phone.”

“Former?” asked Valentina Petrovna.

“Future former,” Eleonora clarified.

Regina Pavlovna wanted to say something, but Arkady Mikhailovich pulled her toward the elevator.

“Let’s go, Regina. Svyatoslav will handle it himself.”

They left. The neighbors looked at Eleonora sympathetically.

“If you need help, just ask,” said Valentina Petrovna.

“Thank you, but I’ll manage.”

That evening Svyatoslav came by. He silently picked up his phone and packed some of his things.

“I’ll come for the rest later,” he said curtly.

“Svyatoslav, wait. We need to talk about the divorce.”

 

“What’s there to talk about? You made your choice.”

“So did you.”

He paused in the doorway.

“You know, I thought you loved me.”

“I did love you. But that love died when you tried to STEAL my apartment.”

“I didn’t steal anything! I wanted to help my parents!”

“At my expense. That’s theft.”

Svyatoslav left. Eleonora closed the door and leaned her back against it. It hurt, but at the same time she felt relief—as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

The divorce went quickly. Svyatoslav didn’t try to claim the apartment, realizing it was hopeless. Eleonora didn’t ask for alimony or compensation.

A month after the divorce she ran into Maksim at a café.

“How’s Svyatoslav?” she asked, stirring sugar into her coffee.

“No idea,” she said—then corrected herself with a small smile. “We don’t talk.”

“I do,” Maksim said. “The three of them are squeezed into a one-room place on Lesnaya. The house was taken for the debts after all.”

Eleonora nodded silently. The news didn’t surprise her.

“Regina Pavlovna’s working as a sales clerk at a cosmetics shop now,” he went on. “And Svyatoslav’s just an office drone. No money at all.”

“I do feel sorry for them,” Eleonora said, and it was true.

“Svyatoslav asks about you sometimes. Says he was wrong.”

“Too late.”

Maksim finished his coffee and looked at her closely.

“And are you happy?”

Eleonora smiled.

“You know, I finally fixed up the balcony. Got a new chair, planted flowers. In the mornings I sit there with a book and think about how right my decision was.”

“No regrets?”

“Not for a minute. Grandma’s apartment only became a real home after the lies left with it. Now it’s just me here, and that’s enough. For now, it’s enough.”

Eleonora stood, gathered her purse.

“I should go. The workers are coming this evening—I’m changing the bedroom wallpaper. With my own money, in my own apartment, as it should be.”

She walked home with a light step, savoring the spring sunshine—and her freedom.

My husband quietly transferred everything to his mistress. He had no idea his accountant wife had been preparing a surprise for him for ten years.

“Everything’s been transferred. Nothing belongs to us anymore.”

Igor tossed out the phrase as carelessly as he used to toss his car keys onto the hall stand. He didn’t even glance my way as he tightened an expensive tie—my gift from our last anniversary.

 

I froze with a plate in my hands. Not from shock. From a strange, hollow premonition, like the tremor of a taut string.

Ten years. Ten long years I’d been waiting for something like this. Ten years I, like a spider, wove this web at the very heart of his business, weaving the threads of my revenge into boring financial reports.

“What exactly is ‘everything,’ Igor?” My voice was even, steady. I slowly set the plate on the table. The porcelain gave a soft clink against the oak tabletop.

He finally turned. Poorly concealed triumph and a flicker of irritation at my icy calm swirled in his eyes. He expected tears, hysteria, curses. I had no intention of giving him that pleasure.

“The house, the business, all the accounts. All the assets, Natasha,” he said with relish. “I’m starting a new life. From a clean slate.”

“With Marina?”

His face went stone for a split second. He hadn’t thought I knew. Men are so naive. They truly believe the woman who balances debits and credits in their multimillion-dollar company won’t notice the regular “representational expenses” that equal a top manager’s annual salary.

“None of your business,” he snapped. “I’ll leave you your car. And I’ll rent you an apartment for a couple of months until you get settled. I’m not a monster.”

He smiled magnanimously—the smile of a well-fed predator certain he has driven his prey into a corner.

I walked slowly to the table, sat down, and folded my hands.

“So everything we built over fifteen years—you just gifted it to another woman?”

“This is business, Natasha, you wouldn’t understand!” he began to boil, red blotches blooming on his face. “It’s an investment in my future! In my peace!”

His. Not ours. He crossed me out of the equation so easily.

“I understand,” I nodded. “I’m an accountant, remember? I know investments. Especially high-risk ones.”

I looked at him, and I felt neither pain nor resentment. Only cold, crystal-clear calculation.

He didn’t know I’d been preparing my own surprise for him for ten years. Since the first time I found the message on his phone: “I’m waiting for you, kitten.” I didn’t make a scene then.

I simply opened a new file on my work computer and titled it “Reserve Fund.”

“Did you sign a deed of gift for your share in the authorized capital?” I asked in a businesslike tone, as if we were discussing a quarterly bonus.

“Why do you care?!” he barked. “It’s over! Pack your things!”

“Just curious,” I smiled faintly. “You remember that additional clause in the charter we added in twelve? When we expanded the business.”

“The one about alienating assets to third parties without a notarized consent from all founders?”

Igor froze. His smug smile slowly slid off his face. He didn’t remember.

He never read the papers I slipped him to sign. “Natasha, what is it, everything clean? Hand it here, I’ll sign.”

He signed everything, certain of my blind devotion. And he was right. I was devoted—down to the last comma.

“What nonsense are you spouting?!” he laughed nervously, but the laugh came out hoarse. “What clause? We never added anything like that.”

“We is you and me. Founders of Horizon LLC. Fifty–fifty. Clause 7.4, subparagraph ‘b.’ Any transaction transferring a share—sale or gift—is null and void without the written, notarized consent of the second founder.”

“Which would be mine. I insisted on that clause, remember? I said it would protect us from a hostile takeover. You laughed and called me paranoid.”

I spoke evenly, almost lazily, as if explaining multiplication to a first-grader. Each word fell into the void of his incomprehension.

“You’re lying!” He snatched up his phone, fingers darting over the screen. “I’ll call Sergey right now!”

“Call him,” I shrugged. “Sergey Ivanovich notarized that edition of the charter. He definitely has a copy in his archive.”

Igor’s face lengthened. He understood I wasn’t bluffing. Sergey Ivanovich had been our lawyer since the day the firm was founded. And his loyalty was not to Igor, but to the letter of the contract.

Igor dialed anyway. I caught snatches of phrases: “Sergey, it’s Igor… Natasha says… the 2012 charter… the clause about alienation…”

He moved to the window, turning his back to me. His shoulders tensed. The conversation didn’t last long.

When he turned around, rage and bewilderment were splashing in his eyes.

“This is a mistake! It’s illegal! I’ll sue you!”

 

“Go ahead,” I replied calmly. “Just note: on paper your deed of gift is a worthless scrap. But an attempt by a company director to siphon off assets—that’s criminal.”

He dropped heavily into a chair. The predator’s grandeur evaporated.

“What do you want, Natasha?” he hissed. “Money? How much do you need? I’ll pay you off!”

“I don’t need your hush money, Igor. I need what’s mine by right. My fifty percent. And you—you’ll be left with what you had when you came to me fifteen years ago. A suitcase and a pile of debts.”

“I won’t give you the company! I created it!”

“You were its face,” I corrected him. “I was the one who built it. Every contract, every return. While you were ‘working’ at your business meetings.”

He sprang up sharply, knocking over the chair.

“You’ll regret this, Natasha! I’ll destroy you!”

“Before you destroy me, call your Marina,” my voice was quiet, but steel rang in it. “And ask if she received the notice of early loan repayment.”

Igor froze.

 

Polina was trudging home from work reluctantly. The autumn wind tugged at the hem of her coat, and the leaden clouds seemed to press down on her shoulders. But it wasn’t the weather that weighed on the young woman. An unexpected guest had appeared at their home today.

In the afternoon, during an important meeting with a client, Andrey had called her:
“Polina, don’t be mad, but I picked Mom up from the station. She missed the grandkids. She’s come to stay for a couple of days.”

Those words sent a chill through Polina. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, was a real thorn in her side. In ten years of marriage, Polina had never managed to find common ground with her.

“Andrey, we agreed,” she said, keeping her irritation in check. “You were supposed to warn me in advance.”

“Sorry, darling. She called out of the blue and said she needed some tests at the regional hospital. And she’d visit us too. I couldn’t refuse her.”

Polina sighed heavily. Of course he couldn’t. Andrey had always been too soft with his mother, despite all her antics.

“Fine, I’ll stay late at work. I have to finish the project by tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, Mom will watch the kids. She brought them gifts, and I’ve got to go to the client urgently—there’s a software issue.”

So Polina put off going home as long as she could. Ahead of her lay the unbearable prospect of spending the evening with the woman who had once thrown her and little Kirill out into the rain, blaming her for every sin under the sun.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. A message from Andrey:
“Still with the client. I’ll be late. How are you?”

Polina sighed and typed back:
“Almost at the house. I’ll manage.”

Memories of the first years of their marriage flashed through her mind. Back then they had lived in her mother-in-law’s house—big, but as cold as its mistress’s heart.

Six years earlier.
Young Polina was at the stove, stirring soup. Somewhere upstairs, little Kirill—barely five months old—was crying. She wiped her hands on her apron, about to go up to her son, when Valentina Petrovna walked into the kitchen.

“Don’t you hear the child crying?” the mother-in-law snapped.
“I was just going to him,” Polina answered calmly.

“You’re always ‘just going,’” Valentina snorted. “And nothing ever gets done. My Andryusha slept like an angel at his age. Must be your genes showing.”

Polina bit her lip. She heard remarks like that almost every day.

Valentina peered into the pot.
“And what is this swill? Andrey doesn’t eat that.”
“It’s his favorite soup,” Polina objected. “He asked me to make it.”

“Nonsense. I’m his mother. I know better what he likes!”

Valentina grabbed the pot and poured its contents into the sink. Tears sprang to Polina’s eyes.
“Why did you do that? I spent two hours cooking!”
“Don’t be dramatic. Go to the baby, and I’ll make a proper dinner for my son myself.”

When Andrey came home that evening, his mother met him in the hall:
“Son, can you believe it—your wife did nothing all day! The baby cried and she didn’t even go to him. Good thing I was here.”

Andrey looked at his mother wearily.

“Mom, I’m sure Polina takes care of Kirill.”

“Of course you defend her!” Valentina threw up her hands. “She’s wrapped you around her finger and you’re happy about it. And I’m nothing to you now!”

She let out a theatrical sob and went to her room. Andrey looked at his wife apologetically.
“Sorry, she’s just worried…”

“Andrey, she pours out the food I cook,” Polina said quietly. “She tells Kirill I’m a bad mother. It’s unbearable.”

“Just hold on a little longer,” he pleaded. “We’ll move out soon, I promise.”

But the weeks turned into months, and things only got worse.

A passing car yanked her out of her reverie. Polina came to and quickened her pace. She was almost home.

Without noticing how she’d reached the entrance, she darted into the elevator and pressed her forehead to the cold wall.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “Just a couple of days…”

When the elevator doors opened, Polina heard something that froze her blood—desperate child’s crying. It was Sveta’s voice.

She ran to the apartment. Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key. At last the door gave way.

What she saw made her go numb.

In the living room stood Valentina Petrovna. In her hand—a belt, which she was using to lash little Sveta. The girl, cowering, was sobbing in the corner. Kirill was trying to shield his sister, tears streaming down his face.

“I’ll teach you not to touch Grandma’s things!” the mother-in-law shouted, raising her hand for another strike.

Polina felt her face flush hot.
“What are you doing?!” she screamed, rushing to the children.

Valentina turned, unashamed:
“Oh, you finally showed up! Your daughter spilled tea on my new handbag—an expensive one, mind you!—and then she talked back!”

Polina hugged her sobbing children.
“You’re beating my child?! Are you out of your mind?!”

“Don’t tell me how to handle kids!” she snapped. “I raised my son alone! I could make a proper person out of you too if you’d listen!”

Looking over her daughter, Polina saw red stripes from the belt. Something snapped inside her.

She gently set the children aside and straightened up.
“Get out of my house.”

Valentina stared in genuine surprise:
“I’m not going anywhere! I came to see my son and to raise my grandkids!”

“Mom,” Kirill said in a trembling voice, “Grandma hit Sveta because she accidentally spilled tea. And then Sveta said it was bad to hit children, and Grandma got even angrier…”

“Silence!” Valentina barked at him, but Polina stepped between them.

“Don’t you dare yell at my son! You hit my daughter. You would have hit him too if he hadn’t jumped away in time!”

At that moment the front door opened. Andrey walked in.
“What’s going on here? Why are the children crying?”

Valentina’s expression changed instantly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Sonny, Polina shouted at me! I merely scolded Sveta, and she caused a scene!”

Andrey’s gaze shifted to the belt in her hand.
“Mom, what’s that?”

“I just took it out of your old briefcase… I wanted to polish the buckle…”

“Dad!” Sveta sobbed. “Grandma hit me with that belt because I spilled tea by accident!”

Andrey went to his daughter and stroked her back.
“Show me where it hurts, sweetheart…”

Seeing the marks on the child’s legs, he slowly straightened. His usually kind eyes turned hard.
“Mom, you’re beating my children?”

He went to the cabinet, opened it—inside was a security camera.
“We have a system set up to keep an eye on the kids when we’re out. I just watched the recording.”

 

Valentina turned pale.
“Andryusha, come on now! You know how much I love my grandkids! It was just a little disciplinary action… In our day everyone was raised like that—and we turned out fine!”

“In our day,” he repeated in an icy tone, “children shouldn’t be afraid of their grandmothers. In our day adults learn to talk to children, not beat them.”

“That’s what this modern parenting leads to! Kids walk all over you! And you, Andrey, are under your wife’s thumb! I came to help you, I’ll have you know! I have surgery in a week—I thought maybe you’d stay with me…”

“What surgery?” he frowned.

“A serious one,” she sighed meaningfully. “The doctors say something has to be removed…”
“What exactly, Mom?”
“It’s not important! What matters is I need support! I thought… maybe you could move in with me for a while? The house is big… And Polina can stay here if she wants.”

Andrey shook his head:
“Mom, is that why you came? To try again to break up my family?”

The doorbell rang. In stepped a gray-haired man with kind eyes—Nikolai Stepanovich, Polina’s father.

“Hello,” he said, looking around. “I thought I’d check on the grandkids… What’s going on here?”

The children ran to their grandpa.
“Grandpa! Grandma Valya hit me with a belt!” Sveta sobbed.

“Don’t interfere!” Valentina snapped. “This is our family matter!”

“When someone hurts my grandchildren,” Nikolai Stepanovich said firmly, “it’s my matter too.”

He suggested everyone sit down.
“Let’s talk like adults. Valentina Petrovna, please take a seat.”

Something in his tone made the woman obey.

“You know,” he began, “when my Polina got married, I wasn’t thrilled either. I thought Andrey was too much of a city boy for our village girl… But I gave them a chance and saw how much they love each other.”

He turned to the mother-in-law:
“And you’re trying to control your son’s life, to keep him to yourself—and you’re only pushing him away. And now you’re turning the grandkids against you.”

“What do you know?!” she flared. “I raised my son alone! My husband died early—everything fell on my shoulders!”

“And you’re afraid of ending up alone,” he said gently. “That’s why you made up the surgery story…”

Valentina’s shoulders sagged.
“Just a small examination… But I really am scared…”

“Mom,” Andrey came over. “If you need help, you could have just asked. Why lie? Why try to destroy what’s dear to me?”

“I didn’t want to…” she faltered. “It’s just… when I see you happy without me, it feels like you don’t need me anymore…”

“You’re my mother,” he said firmly. “Of course I need you. But not like this—angry, trying to run my life. I need you as my mom, who respects my choice and loves my children.”

“I don’t know how to be otherwise…” she whispered.

“Try,” suggested Nikolai Stepanovich. “Start by apologizing to the grandkids. Children know how to forgive when they see sincerity.”

With difficulty, Valentina lifted her eyes:
“Forgive your grandma… I… I was wrong.”

Unexpectedly, Sveta nodded:
“Okay… but don’t do it again. It hurts.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

Nikolai Stepanovich took a bottle of homemade compote out of his bag.
“Now let’s all have dinner together. I’ve got an apple pie in the car—baked it just for the grandkids.”

Later, when everyone gathered at the table, the atmosphere was still tense, but no longer hostile. Valentina silently watched Polina gently slice the pie, and Andrey joke with the children.

After dinner, Nikolai Stepanovich suggested:
“Valentina Petrovna, I think it’s best if you come with me tonight. I’ve got plenty of space at my place. Until things settle, there’s no need to rush it.”

She agreed, unexpectedly.

As they were leaving, Sveta tugged her grandmother’s sleeve:
“Will you really not fight anymore?”
“Really.”
“Then… will you come to my performance? I’m going to be a snowflake in kindergarten…”

Something flickered in Valentina’s eyes.
“Thank you… If your parents allow it, I’d like to come.”

A month passed. The first winter frosts bound the ground.

Today was an important meeting—the first since the incident. At Nikolai Stepanovich’s suggestion, they gathered at his house. Valentina had agreed to the conditions: no unsolicited advice, no manipulation, and no criticism of Polina.

“Are you ready?” Andrey put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“I don’t know… but I’ll try.”

When they arrived, the mother-in-law was already there. She wore a simple blue dress—not the showy outfit she used to use to outshine her daughter-in-law.

 

Over lunch they spoke about neutral topics. Afterward, Nikolai took the children off to show them his coin collection, leaving the adults alone.

“I’ve been seeing a psychologist,” Valentina said suddenly. “On Nikolai Stepanovich’s advice… It’s helped me understand a lot.”

She looked at Polina:
“I behaved horribly all these years… And what I did to Sveta… there’s no excuse for it. I just… thought I was losing everything that mattered to me. And instead of figuring out why, I started destroying even more.”

For the first time Polina saw not an overbearing woman, but a lonely person afraid of being left entirely alone.

“Valentina Petrovna,” she said slowly. “I can’t say everything’s forgotten… but I’m willing to try to start over. For Andrey’s sake. For the children.”

“Thank you…” tears glimmered in the mother-in-law’s eyes. “That’s more than I deserve.”

Sveta ran into the room with a little box:
“Grandpa gave me a lucky coin! Want to see?”

Valentina carefully took it, as if afraid the girl might change her mind.
“It’s very pretty… Thank you for showing me.”

When the family was getting ready to leave, the mother-in-law approached Polina:
“You know… I always thought Andrey chose the wrong woman. But now I see—I was wrong. He chose a strong one. The kind I wanted to be myself.”

“You’re strong too,” Polina replied. “Just in a different way.”

That night, after putting the children to bed, Polina stood for a long time at the window, watching the snow fall. She didn’t know how their relationship with her mother-in-law would unfold from here. But for the first time in a long while, she felt hope.

And Valentina, returning home, took out an old photo album. In a yellowed picture, little Andrey smiled, sitting on her lap.

“I’ll try to be better…” she promised herself. “For my son. For my grandchildren. And… maybe even for myself.”

The road to reconciliation was only beginning. But the first—and hardest—step had been taken.

At first, Genka thought his mother had simply gained weight. Though in a strange way. Her waist had suddenly rounded out, while the rest of her looked the same as before. It felt awkward to ask—what if his mom took offense? His father kept quiet, gazing at her with tenderness, and Genka pretended he hadn’t noticed anything either.

But soon her belly was clearly growing. Once, walking past his parents’ room, Genka happened to see his father stroking his mother’s belly and whispering something to her sweetly. She was smiling, pleased. The scene made him uncomfortable, and he hurried away.

“Mom is expecting a baby,” Genka suddenly guessed. The thought didn’t so much surprise him as shock him. His mother, of course, was beautiful and looked better than many of his classmates’ moms, but a pregnancy at her age filled him with a kind of rejection. It was embarrassing even to think about it. Genka had long known where babies came from and suspected a lot more, but he couldn’t picture his parents doing that. After all, it was his mom and dad.

“Dad, is Mom expecting a baby?” he asked his father one day.
For some reason it was easier to talk to him about it.

“Yes. Mom’s dreaming of a daughter. It’s probably silly to ask which you’d prefer—a brother or a little sister.”

“Do people even give birth at that age?”

“At what age? Mom is only thirty-six, and I’m forty-one. Are you against it?”

 

“Did anyone ask me?” Genka shot back roughly.
His father looked at him carefully.

“I hope you’re grown-up enough to understand us. Mom’s wanted a daughter for a long time. When you were born, we were renting. Mom stayed home with you, I was the only one working, and the money barely covered the bare necessities. So we decided not to rush into a second child. Then Grandma died, and your grandparents gave us her apartment. Do you remember Grandma?”

Genka shrugged.

“We did some remodeling and moved in. When you got older and Mom went back to work, money got easier, I bought our first car. We kept putting off having a daughter, telling ourselves there was time. And then it just wouldn’t happen. And now, when we’d already stopped hoping and waiting…”

“I hope it’s a girl, like Mom wants. Of course our mom is young, but she’s not a girl anymore. So at least try not to upset her, so she won’t worry. Think before you snap or say something you’ll regret. If anything, tell me. Deal?”

“Yeah, I got it, Dad.”

Later they found out it really would be a girl. Pink baby things started appearing around the house. To Genka they seemed tiny, doll-like. A crib showed up. Mom often drifted out of conversations, sitting distant as if listening to herself. Then Dad would ask anxiously if everything was all right. His father’s anxiety rubbed off on Genka.

Personally, he couldn’t care less about a baby—especially a sister. What did he need with snot and diapers? The only person he needed was Yulya Fetisova. If his parents wanted another child, that was their business. What was it to him? It was even good in a way. They’d be busy with her and nag him less. At least there was some benefit to a future sister.

“Is it dangerous? I mean, giving birth at her age?” Genka asked.

“There’s risk at any age. Sure, it’s harder for Mom now than when she was expecting you—she was thirteen years younger then. But we don’t live in the woods or a village; we live in a big city with well-equipped hospitals and doctors… Everything will be fine,” his father added wearily.

“When? How long?”

“What, the birth? In two months.”

But Mom gave birth a month early. Genka woke to noise. He heard a groan and footsteps rushing around behind the wall. He got up and, blinking sleepily, went to his parents. Mom was sitting on the rumpled bed with her hands on her lower back, rocking back and forth like a pendulum and moaning. Dad was nervously running around the room, gathering things.

“Just don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mom managed, closing her eyes.

“Mom,” Genka called, instantly awake and catching the general alarm.

“Sorry we woke you. The thing is… Where’s that ambulance?” Dad asked the air.
The air answered with the doorbell, and he dashed to open it. Genka couldn’t decide whether to get dressed or stay with Mom, just in case. But then a man and a woman in EMS uniforms came in, went straight to Mom, and started asking odd questions:

“How long have the contractions been? How often? Has your water broken?” When another contraction hit, Dad answered for her.

No one was paying attention to Genka, so he slipped out. When he came back already dressed, Dad and Mom were leaving the apartment. She was still in her robe and slippers. At the door Dad glanced back.

“I’ll be right back—tidy up here.” He wanted to add something else, but Mom cried out and hung on his arm.

Genka stood listening to the unfamiliar silence for a while, staring at the door. Then he went back to his room and checked the time. He still had two hours to sleep. He carefully folded out the sofa, picked up the scattered things, and went to the kitchen. Dad returned when Genka was getting ready for school.

“So? Did she have the baby?” he asked, trying to read his father’s face.

“Not yet. They didn’t let me in. Pour me some tea.”

Genka set a cup of tea before his father and made sandwiches.

“I’m going?” he asked.

“Go. I’ll call when there’s news,” Dad promised.

Genka was late to school.

“Mr. Kroshkin has deigned to grace us with his presence. Why are you late?” the math teacher asked.

“We called an ambulance for my mom; they took her to the hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit down,” the teacher softened.

“His mom’s having a baby!” Fyodorov yelled, and snickers rippled through the class. Genka snapped his head toward him.

“Quiet! Kroshkin, sit down already. And what’s so funny about that?”

Dad called during the last period.

“May I step out?” Genka raised his hand.

“Nature’s calling? There are twenty minutes left—hold it. And put your phone away,” the Russian teacher said.

“His mom’s in the maternity ward,” Fyodorov shouted again, but this time no one giggled.

“All right, go,” the teacher allowed.

“What is it, Dad?” Genka asked when he stepped into the hallway.

 

“A girl! Three kilos one hundred grams! Whew,” his father shouted into the receiver, relieved.

“Well?” the Russian teacher asked when he came back into the classroom.

“It’s all good—a girl,” Genka answered automatically.

“Now Kroshkin will be the babysitter,” Fyodorov snorted again. The class exploded with laughter, drowning out the bell.

Firsova caught up with him on the street and walked beside him.

“How old is your mom?” she asked.

“Thirty-six.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you—for you all. A little sister is great. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more kids…” They walked and talked, and for the first time Genka felt glad he had a sister.

Three days later they discharged Mom from the hospital.

“What a beauty!” Dad said, peering at his daughter.
Genka saw nothing beautiful. A tiny, wrinkled body, a red face, a little bow mouth and a button nose. His standard of beauty was Firsova. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and squeaked. And immediately turned as red as a tomato. Mom quickly took her in her arms and began rocking her, murmuring “Shhh…” over and over. It was strange to realize that his mom had become someone else’s mom too.

“What will we name her?” Dad asked.

“Vasilisa,” Mom answered.

“What a cat’s name. They’ll call her Vasya at school,” Genka snorted.

“Then Masha, after Grandma,” Dad suggested.

Life now revolved around little Mashenka, as Mom fondly called her—around her needs. No one paid attention to Genka, except to ask him to run to the store, take out the trash, pull the laundry from the washer and hang it in the bathroom. Genka gladly helped.

But when Mom once asked him to take the stroller out for a walk while she washed the floor, Genka balked. Better Mom go for a walk herself—it would be good for her to get fresh air—and he’d wash the floor.

“I’m not going. What if the guys see me? They’ll laugh,” he muttered.

“I’ve already dressed her; she’ll overheat. And you dress warmer yourself—it’s cold outside. If you catch a cold, you could infect Mashenka, and she’s too little and fragile to get sick,” Mom said.

Genka was circling the yard with the stroller when he saw Firsova. Before, she would’ve walked past pretending not to notice him; now she came straight toward him.

“Mashenka! She’s so sweet,” Firsova cooed and walked along with him. The neighbors smiled when they met, and Genka didn’t know where to hide his eyes from embarrassment.

In the evening Mom rocked Mashka and sang her a lullaby. Genka listened and drifted off unnoticed.

But Mashenka fell ill anyway. At night her fever spiked. Medicine brought it down a little. Mom and Dad took turns carrying her in their arms all night. In the morning the temperature began to creep up again; nothing would bring it down. Mashenka breathed fast and with effort. Dad called an ambulance.

No one blamed Genka for anything, but he felt guilty. He hardly left his room.

“She really gave us the business,” Dad said, stepping into his room after the ambulance took Mom and Mashenka away.

“Will she get better?” Genka asked cautiously.

“I hope so. Of course she will. There are good medicines now, antibiotics…”

Genka hadn’t thought he would worry so much. At school he answered at random and got a C, though he knew the material cold. When he came home, Dad was sitting in the kitchen staring at a single spot. Anxiety stirred in Genka’s heart.

“Dad, why are you home? Are you sick?” he asked.
His father was silent for a long time.

“Our Mashenka’s gone,” he said with a sigh.

Genka thought his father was raving, and then the meaning sank in.

“It happened so fast… There was nothing they could do…” Dad covered his face with his hands and either growled or sobbed.

“Dad…” Genka came over, not knowing what to say.
His father hugged him, and for the first time Genka saw him cry. He himself burst into tears like a little kid.

He wanted to disappear. If only he had died and not Mashka. Later Mom came back from the hospital. Genka barely recognized her. She’d become a shadow of his former mother. Silence and darkness settled over the apartment, though it was bright daylight outside. Genka’s heart tore to pieces—from pity for Mom, for Mashenka, and from the awareness of his own guilt.

After the funeral Mom sat for hours by the empty crib. At night she would jump up and run to it. She dreamed she heard Mashenka crying. Dad could barely lead her back to bed. A week passed like that, then another, a month. Spring was coming. It seemed joy and laughter had left their home forever.

“Listen, before the roads turn to slush, we need to take the crib and things out to the dacha, or your mom will go out of her mind,” Dad said on Saturday. “I’ll take apart the crib, and you gather all the things and toys. The bags are over there.”

“What about Mom?” Genka asked.

“She went to Aunt Valya’s. She doesn’t need to see this.”

There was still snow along the highway outside the city. The sun peeked through dense gray clouds. Genka suddenly thought that Mashenka would never see spring, never squint at the sun’s rays, never hear thunder… Tears welled up, and he shook with silent sobs. Suddenly Dad pulled over to the shoulder.

“Sit tight, I’ll go see if anyone needs help.”

Only then did Genka notice the cars ahead and a cluster of police. He got out and walked over too. A mangled red car caught his eye. The truck’s door was open; a man sat on the step repeating, “I only closed my eyes for a moment…” One policeman was holding a baby carrier. Something pink was inside. Genka stepped closer. A girl about Mashenka’s age was sleeping there.

“Can you imagine—parents dead, and she’s fine, not a scratch,” said a young policeman.
In the distance a siren wailed. The girl woke up and started screaming, just like Mashenka. The policeman flustered and stared at her helplessly.

“Give her to me. I had a little sister…” Genka faltered.
The policeman looked doubtful but handed him the carrier. Genka lifted the girl out and pressed her to his chest. And miracle of miracles—she quieted!

“How did you do that, kid?” the policeman marveled.

“Girl from the car? Let’s go,” another policeman came over and led Genka to the ambulance.

“Brother?” the doctor asked Genka. “Give me the girl.” But Genka stepped back.

“Are you going to take her to the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes, they’ll examine her there, and then she’ll go to a baby home or orphanage.”

“Dad…” Genka looked reproachfully at his father, who had come up too. And his father understood everything.

 

“Could we take her? She seems fine. You see, my wife and I recently lost a child about the same age. My wife is suffering terribly. This girl would be her salvation,” his father began.

“By all means. Go to the guardianship office and file an application. If they don’t find relatives or the relatives refuse to take the child, then you can take her in. It all has to be formalized. Come on, kid, don’t waste time.”
Reluctantly, Genka handed the girl to the doctor.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Her documents say Vasilisa.”

He and his father exchanged a quick look.

“All right, let’s go,” Dad headed for the car first.

“To the dacha?” Genka asked, settling into the front seat.

“Home. We’ve no business at the dacha. We’ll still need those things.”
And Genka calmed down. He was surprised himself at how worried he was about someone else’s child.

“Dad, what if Mom won’t agree to take Vasilisa?”

Mom was sitting on the couch staring at the empty corner where the crib had stood.

“You’re back? The road was impassable?” she asked indifferently.

“Mom, you see, we met Vasilisa,” Genka said quickly, barely holding back his excitement.

“Whom?”

“Vasilisa.” And he and Dad began telling her about the accident.

Mom was silent for a long time. Then she said she would go to the hospital tomorrow and find out everything.

“Hooray!” Genka and Dad shouted…

“— It’s all so sad…” Katya drooped. “What is a childhood without parents?
… No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that an orphanage was a forced necessity, she couldn’t believe in such a way of the world. It was strange that most people didn’t feel this horror, soaked through with the smells of institutional life. They could come here to work, do their tasks, and not notice the children’s screaming gaze: ‘take me home.’
… Every adult, unlike a child, has a choice. And that choice is never easy—it’s always complicated, agonizing, and full of doubt. But it can give hope.”

Victoria had always thought of herself as a kind, responsive woman. When she married Konstantin three years ago, her relationship with his mother, Lyudmila Georgievna, was quite friendly. Her mother-in-law often dropped by, helped with housework, and Victoria genuinely appreciated the support.

The first time she was asked to hand over her bank card for shopping, it was her husband who asked.

“Vic, Mom’s going to the store—give her your card so she can buy bread and milk,” Konstantin said as he was getting ready for work. “I don’t have any cash, and the ATM’s on the way.”

Without a second thought, Victoria took the card out of her wallet and wrote the PIN on a slip of paper.

“Lyudmila Georgievna, here you go, please. Just don’t forget to bring the receipt.”

Her mother-in-law smiled and carefully slipped the card into her handbag.

“Of course, dear. Thank you for trusting me.”

Back then, it seemed like ordinary family give-and-take. Lyudmila really did buy only the essentials and returned the card with the receipt. Victoria didn’t even check the amount—she trusted her completely.

Gradually, these requests became frequent. Sometimes her mother-in-law went to the pharmacy to get medicine for everyone, sometimes to the store for groceries before guests came, sometimes Konstantin asked her to hand the card to his mother when he didn’t have time to stop by the supermarket. Victoria got used to it and didn’t see anything wrong with it. Lyudmila always brought receipts and always bought exactly what they’d agreed on.

One day in September, Konstantin came home particularly pleased.

 

“Vic, Mom found a great deal on vacuums! Our old one is completely dead, and this one’s on sale. Will you give her your card? She’s already headed to the mall.”

“How much is it?” Victoria asked.

“Well, the usual price for a good vacuum. But it’s German—quality stuff.”

Victoria nodded and handed over the card. They really had needed a new vacuum for a while, and Lyudmila understood appliances as well as the salespeople.

That evening, when her mother-in-law returned with the purchase, Victoria was surprised by the size of the box.

“Lyudmila Georgievna, it’s huge! So how much did it come to?”

“Twenty-eight thousand, dear. But it has a five-year warranty, and you don’t need bags—the container is washable.”

Victoria’s eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. The amount seemed hefty, but she didn’t argue. The vacuum really did look solid, and Lyudmila was so delighted with her lucky find.

A week later the story repeated itself with a microwave.

“Can you imagine, Vika,” Konstantin said over dinner, “Mom popped into the same store for batteries, and they were having an appliance sale! A microwave exactly like the one we wanted, at half price!”

“We wanted a microwave?” Victoria asked.

“Well, yeah, you said it’d be convenient for reheating…”

Victoria tried to recall the conversation, but nothing came to mind. Still, a microwave would indeed be useful.

“All right. But next time let’s discuss it first and then buy.”

“Of course, of course,” her husband agreed hastily.

October brought new surprises. Lyudmila bought a set of bed linens—expensive, natural silk.

“Sweetheart,” her mother-in-law explained, unfolding the purchase, “I saw the exact same one on a TV show! They said silk is great for your skin and hair. And the color—just gorgeous!”

Victoria examined the beige linens with a golden sheen. Beautiful, no doubt, but the price—seventeen thousand rubles—seemed excessive.

“Maybe you should have checked with us first, Lyudmila Georgievna?”

“Oh, Vika, don’t worry! It’s for you and Kostya. I wanted to do something nice.”

Konstantin backed his mother up:

“Come on, Vic. Mom went to the trouble. It really is beautiful.”

In November, Lyudmila brought a massage certificate.

“Vikulya, you work so hard! This massage is a miracle. My friend Zoya Ivanovna went—she said she felt reborn!”

“How much did it cost?” Victoria asked cautiously.

“Fifteen thousand for the course. But just imagine how good it is for your health!”

Victoria took the certificate in silence. A massage wouldn’t hurt, but again—a major expense without discussion.

When in December Lyudmila announced she’d bought orthopedic pillows for twelve thousand, Victoria decided to check her bank statements.

What she saw made her sit down. More than a hundred thousand rubles had left the account in the last three months. The vacuum, microwave, bed linens, massage, pillows, and many other purchases Victoria hadn’t even known about: a set of frying pans, a humidifier, an electric kettle, cosmetics, groceries in quantities far exceeding what one family needed.

Konstantin came home around eight and immediately noticed his wife’s dark expression.

“What happened?”

Victoria silently handed him the statements.

“Konstantin, please explain to me what this is.”

Her husband ran his eyes down the lines and coughed awkwardly.

“Well… Mom gets carried away sometimes. But it’s all for the house, for us.”

“For us?” Victoria stood and paced the kitchen. “Konstantin, no one told me I was sponsoring your mother’s shopping! An eighteen-thousand-ruble cookware set—is that for us? Face cream for five thousand—is that for us too?”

“Vic, don’t get heated. Mom didn’t mean any harm. She’s just used to a certain standard of living…”

“On my dime?” Victoria’s voice grew quieter but firmer. “Konstantin, this is my salary as a design engineer. I work ten hours a day to earn this money. And your mother spends it as if it were her own!”

Konstantin lowered his eyes.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“No,” Victoria shook her head. “I’ll talk to her myself. And tomorrow I’m going to the bank to change the PIN.”

“Why so drastic? We can just come to an agreement…”

“An agreement?” Victoria unfolded the statement and jabbed a line with her finger. “Right here your mother bought French perfume for eight thousand. As a present—to herself. Is that ‘for us’ too?”

Konstantin had no answer.

The next day, Victoria left work for an hour and went to the bank. Changing the PIN took a few minutes, but she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

“The new PIN will be active,” the bank employee said. “And I recommend you don’t share it with anyone.”

“I certainly won’t,” Victoria replied firmly.

At home, Konstantin asked nervously:

“Well, did you change it?”

“I did. And no one but me is going to use the card anymore.”

“What if Mom needs something urgently?”

“Then she can use her own money or ask you.”

Konstantin wanted to object, but one look at his wife’s face told him the conversation was over.

Two days passed. Victoria had already forgotten about the PIN change when the doorbell rang on Saturday morning. On the threshold stood a red-faced, blazing-eyed Lyudmila.

“Where’s Konstantin?” she demanded sharply, not even greeting her.

“Good morning, Lyudmila Georgievna. Konstantin’s in the shower. Come in.”

Lyudmila stepped into the entryway but didn’t take off her coat.

“I’ll wait here.”

Victoria shrugged and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. A few minutes later, Konstantin appeared, still not fully awake.

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

Lyudmila drew herself up to her full height and loudly—so that Victoria could hear from the kitchen—declared:

“Your wife changed the PIN on the card, and now I can’t buy a wardrobe!”

Victoria froze at the stove, ladle in hand. So her mother-in-law had already tried to use the card.

“What do you mean, a wardrobe?” Konstantin asked, bewildered.

“An ordinary wardrobe! For clothes! At the furniture showroom!” Lyudmila’s voice was rising. “I picked out a wonderful set, went to the register, and the card wouldn’t go through! The salespeople looked at me like I was a thief!”

Victoria stepped out of the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

“Lyudmila Georgievna, why did you decide you could buy a wardrobe with my money?”

Her mother-in-law swung around to her.

“Because we’re one family! Because Konstantin needs that wardrobe for his things! And because I’ve always helped you!”

“Helped?” Victoria frowned and tilted her head, trying to digest what she’d heard. “Lyudmila Georgievna, in three months you spent more of my money than I spend on myself in half a year.”

“So what? At least now you have the best of everything! Appliances, cookware, bed linens!”

“Which I didn’t choose and didn’t need in that quantity.”

Lyudmila threw up her hands.

“Didn’t need them? You use all of it every day! You should be thanking me!”

Konstantin tried to intervene:

“Mom, maybe let’s not… Vika’s right, you should have asked first…”

“Oh, so now you’re on her side?” Lyudmila turned on her son. “I raised you for twenty-eight years, spared nothing, and now you listen to your wife more than to me!”

Victoria calmly went to the living room, opened the writing desk, and pulled out a folder with bank documents. Returning to the entryway, she set it on the console.

“Here are all the statements for the last three months, Lyudmila. You can see how many of your purchases are on them. Those are not my expenses.”

Her mother-in-law didn’t even glance at the folder.

“Why are you counting pennies! The main thing is your home is overflowing now!”

“At my expense,” Victoria repeated evenly. “And without my consent.”

“Consent?” Lyudmila snorted. “Did I ask for consent when I made you soup? When I washed the floors? When I ironed Konstantin’s shirts?”

Victoria nodded slowly.

“Let’s tally it up, Lyudmila Georgievna. You came about once a week. You cooked when you felt like it. You cleaned when you were in the mood. But you spent my money every day.”

“Vikulya, don’t be so stingy,” Lyudmila shifted to a pleading tone. “What does it cost you? You have a good job, a decent salary…”

“Which I earn myself. And I’ll be the one to decide how it’s spent.”

Konstantin shifted awkwardly between his wife and mother.

“Maybe we can find a compromise? Mom, what if you give us a heads-up before big purchases?”

“What purchases?” Victoria looked at her husband. “Konstantin, there won’t be any more purchases. I’m the only one who knows the PIN.”

 

Lyudmila flung up her hands and headed for the door.

“Fine! Wonderful! Live on your own then! Without my help! We’ll see how you manage!”

She slammed the door so hard the glass in the china cabinet rattled. Konstantin gave his wife an apologetic look.

“Vic, maybe you’re being too harsh? Mom is just used to helping…”

“Helping?” Victoria took the statements and opened to the first page. “Sit down, Konstantin. I’ll show you how your mother ‘helped.’”

She spread the statements out on the table like a fan, pointing to lines of expenses.

“Here’s the vacuum for twenty-eight thousand. Here’s the microwave for fifteen. Bed linens—seventeen thousand. Massage—fifteen. Pillows—twelve. And those are just the big purchases.”

Konstantin stared silently at the numbers, and Victoria went on:

“And here are the little things. A spice set for three thousand that nobody uses. Scented candles for fifteen hundred—I’m allergic to those fragrances. Hand cream for two thousand, even though I already have some. Shampoo for twelve hundred—not for my hair type.”

Lyudmila stood in the doorway listening, growing paler by the minute. Victoria raised her eyes and looked at her steadily.

“Please explain, Lyudmila, why you thought you had the right to spend my money on your whims.”

Her mother-in-law froze, blinking, unable to find an answer. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came.

“I… I didn’t know…” Lyudmila finally squeezed out.

“Didn’t know what?” Victoria asked calmly. “That the money isn’t yours? Or that you need to ask permission?”

“Kostya gave me the card…”

“Kostya gave you the card for bread and milk. Once. And then you decided you had a right to my account permanently.”

Konstantin flushed and mumbled:

“I didn’t think it was that serious… You know, a few things for the house…”

“A few?” Victoria flipped through the pages. “Konstantin, in three months your mother spent a hundred and twenty-three thousand rubles. That’s two of my salaries.”

Her husband flinched at the total.

“One hundred and twenty-three? But I thought…”

“You didn’t think,” Victoria cut him off. “You just turned a blind eye to the fact that your mother was living off me.”

Lyudmila tried to go on the offensive:

“So what? You earn money! And besides, I raised Kostya for years without counting the cost!”

“Lyudmila,” Victoria stood, folding her arms, “he’s your son. Raising your children is a parent’s duty, not a service you can demand payment for later.”

“How dare you talk like that!” her mother-in-law flared. “Ungrateful! And who helped you when you were sick last year?”

“Helped?” Victoria gave a short laugh. “You brought me one jar of chicken broth and left after half an hour because you ‘had things to do.’ But the next day you bought a humidifier for eight thousand—on my card.”

Konstantin squirmed in his chair.

“Mom, maybe Vika’s right… You should have warned us before buying things…”

“Warned?” Lyudmila turned on her son. “I’m your mother! I don’t have to report to anyone!”

“It’s my money,” Victoria said quietly but clearly, “and it will no longer be spent without my knowledge.”

Her mother-in-law threw up her hands and wailed:

“You traitor! I counted on your support! We’re one family! And you’re putting up walls with money!”

“With ‘some money’?” Victoria’s eyebrows rose. “Lyudmila, this is the result of my work. I get up at seven, spend an hour commuting, and work until evening to earn it. And you spend it on perfume and massages.”

“But I wasn’t buying for myself! For the family!”

“For the family?” Victoria opened to the October expenses. “Foundation for four thousand rubles—is that for the family? It’s not even my shade. Vitamins for strengthening nails—those are for the family too? I don’t take those.”

Her mother-in-law tried to justify herself:

“Well… maybe I got the shade wrong… And vitamins are healthy, you should try them…”

“Lyudmila,” Victoria stood and gestured toward the door, “enough of this scene. In my home, I make the rules.”

“In your home?” Lyudmila squealed. “What about Kostya? It’s his home too!”

“Konstantin,” Victoria turned to her husband, “do you agree that your mother has the right to spend my money without asking?”

He lowered his head and kept silent.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Victoria pressed.

“I… don’t know…” Konstantin muttered.

“Then I’ll help you decide,” Victoria said, picking up the November statement. “Your mother bought a gift set of cosmetics for seven thousand. Who do you think she gave it to?”

Konstantin looked up.

“Probably some friend…”

“Herself,” Victoria said curtly. “She bought herself a present—with my money.”

Lyudmila couldn’t hold back:

“So what! I have the right to treat myself!”

“At my expense?” Victoria stacked the statements. “If you want to treat yourself, use your pension.”

“My pension?” her mother-in-law gasped, scandalized. “You can’t buy much on a pension!”

“Exactly. That’s why you decided to live on my account.”

Konstantin tried to rise from his chair.

“Girls, maybe let’s not fight? Let’s find a compromise…”

“What compromise?” Victoria looked at her husband. “Konstantin, your mother stole a hundred and twenty-three thousand rubles from me. That’s a criminal offense.”

“Stole?” Lyudmila screamed. “How dare you! You gave me the card yourself!”

“For buying bread,” Victoria reminded her. “And you decided that gave you the right to all my money.”

“We’re relatives! We should help each other!”

“Help—yes. Not rob.”

Lyudmila darted to her son:

“Kostya! You’re not going to let your wife talk to me like that!”

Konstantin sighed heavily.

“Mom, what can I say? Vika’s right. You really did spend a lot…”

“Oh, I see!” Lyudmila clutched at her heart. “She’s turned my own son against me! A snake in the grass!”

Calmly, Victoria gathered the statements into the folder.

“Call me whatever you like, Lyudmila. But you won’t be managing my money anymore.”

“And if Kostya needs something?” her mother-in-law tried one last loophole.

“Konstantin is a grown man. He can earn it himself or ask me. Ask properly—explain what for and why.”

“Ask?” Lyudmila snorted. “Ask his own wife for permission?”

“His own wife, whose money he’s claiming,” Victoria clarified.

Realizing she had no arguments left, her mother-in-law switched to shouting:

“Stingy! Miser! You’ll lose a good husband because of your penny-pinching!”

“If a husband is good, he won’t steal from his wife,” Victoria replied, then added, looking at Konstantin, “If you think it’s normal to steal from your wife—pack your things.”

Konstantin flinched as if slapped.

“Vic, are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Choose: either you’re on my side, or you go to your mother and live at her expense.”

“I didn’t know it was this serious…”

“Now you do. What’s your decision?”

Her husband stayed silent, staring at the floor. Lyudmila waited for him to defend her, but he never raised his head.

“Fine, stay with your miser then!” the mother-in-law burst out. “I will never set foot here again!”

She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the stairwell echoed.

Victoria and Konstantin were left alone. The silence stretched.

“I really didn’t think Mom was spending that much,” he said at last.

“Didn’t think, or didn’t want to?”

Konstantin looked up.

“Maybe didn’t want to. I thought it wasn’t a big deal… She bought something for the house…”

“For the house?” Victoria pulled another statement from the folder. “Your mother bought clothes. On my card. For herself. Here’s a dress for nine thousand, shoes for seven, a handbag for twelve.”

He examined the lines carefully.

“I… didn’t know about the clothes.”

“But you knew about the rest?”

“The big purchases—yes. But I figured since you trusted her with the card…”

“I trusted her with the card for groceries. Once.”

 

Konstantin stood silently and went to the bedroom. Victoria heard him open the wardrobe and pull out a duffel bag.

Half an hour later he came back with the bag in his hand.

“I’ll stay with a friend for a while. Think things over.”

“What is there to think over?” Victoria asked.

“How to live from here on. I won’t side with Mom—she really crossed the line. But I understand you too.”

“Konstantin, it’s simple: will you defend your mother when she steals my money, or will you stand with me?”

He was silent for a long time, then said quietly:

“Probably, for the first time in twenty-eight years, I’ll tell my mother ‘no.’”

“Probably?”

“I will,” he repeated more firmly. “Vika, you’re right. Mom abused your trust. That’s wrong.”

Victoria nodded.

“Then stay. And don’t give the card to anyone again.”

Konstantin set the bag on the floor.

“What do we do about Mom? She’s offended.”

“Let her be offended. When she realizes the money’s gone, she’ll stop.”

And that’s exactly what happened. Lyudmila held out for three weeks, then called Konstantin.

“Son, maybe we should make peace? I realize I was wrong…”

But Victoria was adamant: no cards, no major purchases without discussion. Lyudmila agreed, but she started visiting much less often.

Victoria safeguarded her finances and showed everyone that trust cannot be replaced by using someone else’s account for personal whims. Family relationships became more honest, if a bit cooler. But Victoria preferred honesty to showy kinship at her own expense.

Phone buzzed on the table, lighting up a social media notification.

Tamara Igorevna, my mother-in-law, had posted a new photo. “Enjoying the Turkish sunshine!” the caption read.

In the picture she was smiling happily with a cocktail in hand against a backdrop of azure sea. I zoomed in on the background. Just automatically.

There, at the water’s edge, stood two people. Slightly out of focus, but painfully recognizable.

My husband Dima—who was supposed to be on an “urgent business trip” to Yekaterinburg—had his arm around my younger sister Ira’s waist. Ira was laughing, head thrown back.

His hand lay on her waist so confidently. So familiarly.

The world didn’t collapse. Nothing snapped inside me.

The air in the room didn’t grow thick. I just looked at the screen while, in my head, a puzzle of dozens of tiny details I’d refused to notice for so long fell into place with perfect clarity.

 

His sudden evening meetings. Her mysterious “admirer” she didn’t want to talk about.

His irritation when I asked for his phone. Her averted eyes at the last family dinner.

His words: “Nastya, you’re tired, you need to rest,” when I cried after yet another failed attempt at pregnancy. And her words, said at the same time: “Maybe it’s just not meant to be for you two?”

Calmly, I took a screenshot. Opened an editor. Cropped out my mother-in-law’s beaming face and left only what mattered.

I sent the edited photo to Ira without a single word.

Then I called my husband. He didn’t pick up right away; I could hear the sound of waves and some music in the background.

“Yeah, Nastya, hi. I’m in a meeting, not a great time.”

His voice was lively, pleased. Nothing like a man swamped with work.

“Just wanted to ask,” I said evenly, without a tremor. “How’s the weather in Yekaterinburg? Not too hot?”

He hesitated for a second.

“It’s fine,” he threw out. “Work-like. Nastya, I’ll call you back, I really can’t right now.”

“Of course, call me back,” I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “When you finish your ‘business trip.’”

I hung up. The phone vibrated again immediately. Tamara Igorevna. She’d clearly seen my comment under her photo: “How lovely! And do say hi to Dima and little Ira from me!”

I declined the call and opened the banking app. There it was—our joint account, where his salary was deposited and from which all the main expenses were paid. I saw the latest transaction: “Restaurant ‘Sea Breeze,’ Antalya. Paid 15 minutes ago.”

In a matter of seconds I opened a new account in my name and transferred every last kopeck there. Then I blocked the joint credit card linked to that account. His personal debit card was now just a useless piece of plastic.

Let them enjoy their vacation. On their own dime now. If they even have one.

No more than ten minutes passed before the phone started blowing up. Ira first. Ten missed calls, then a barrage of messages.

“Are you out of your mind? What kind of Photoshop is that? Why are you doing this?”

“Nastya, delete your comment right now! Dima’s mom is calling me in hysterics!”

“It’s not what you think! We ran into each other by accident!”

By accident. In another country. At a hotel my husband paid for. I read it all and felt nothing but a cold, ringing calm.

Then Dima joined in. His messages were different. First—rage.

“What the hell are you doing? What the hell? My card isn’t going through! Did you block it?”

“I don’t get it—what kind of games are these? Answer the phone!”

I stayed silent. I went to the closet and took out a big suitcase. His suitcase. Opened it and put it on the bed. While I methodically folded his things, the phone rang again. My mother.

“Anyechka, sweetie, what happened? Ira just called me in tears. Says you’re accusing her of something…”

“Mom, everything’s fine. It’s just that Ira is vacationing in Turkey with my husband. And he’s supposed to be on a business trip.”

Mom fell silent, searching for words.

“Nastya, but you know what Ira is like… She’s so flighty. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding? You’re the older sister, you should be wiser. You can’t just hack at things like this.”

“Wiser means letting my sister sleep with my husband?” I asked, my voice icy.

“There’s no need to put it that way… You should figure it out…”

“Thanks for the advice, Mom,” I said and hung up.

A new wave of messages from my husband. The tone shifted from angry to pleading.

“Nastya, I don’t know what you’ve made up for yourself, but you left me without a cent in a foreign country! That’s low!”

“Please unblock the card. We’ll come back and I’ll explain everything. You don’t want to destroy our family over some nonsense, do you?”

Nonsense. Ten years of marriage he called nonsense. I smirked and tossed his shaving kit into the suitcase. The final chord was my mother-in-law. She sent a voice message, dripping with venom.

“I always knew you were a snake! Decided to ruin my son’s life, did you? He found you in the gutter, and you… He’ll be happy to be rid of you! Ira’s a good girl, a looker, not like you—a gray mouse!”

I didn’t finish listening. I deleted the message and blocked her number. Then I took a photo of the packed suitcase by the front door. And sent that photo to Dima.

With a single caption: “It’s waiting for you. As are the divorce papers.”

There was a lull for almost five days. In that time I changed the locks on my apartment, consulted a lawyer, and called Dima’s boss, Igor Semenovich, an old friend of our family.

I didn’t complain, no.

I simply “shared a concern,” saying that Dima had flown to Turkey on a “last-minute package,” though he was supposed to be at a critical site in Yekaterinburg, and that I was very worried about his condition. Igor Semenovich understood without extra words.

On the evening of the fifth day the doorbell rang. In the peephole stood the two of them. Rumpled, angry, with sunburned noses.

I didn’t open.

“Nastya, open the door!” Dima’s voice was thick with fury. “Stop putting on a circus!”

He slid his key into the lock. Useless.

“You changed the locks?” amazement crept into his voice.

I calmly opened the door, leaving the chain on. I was wearing my best dress, light makeup, red lipstick.

“What are you doing here?” I asked politely.

“I came home!” Dima tried to yank the door.

“This is my home, Dima. And yours, it seems, is now wherever my sister is.”

That’s when Ira stepped forward.

“Stop playing the victim, Nastya!” she hissed. “So yes, it happened. Dima fell in love with me! You just need to accept it. You can’t give him anything anyway. Not passion, not even a child.”

 

That was a low blow. They both knew what my two miscarriages had cost me.

And in that moment, something clicked. The so-called “wise older sister” inside me died.

I looked at Ira. Straight into her brazen eyes. And smiled.

“A child? Are you sure you want to talk about that? You haven’t even paid off the loan for your ‘procedure’ yet. You couldn’t carry to term, and your man vanished afterward…”

Ira’s face turned as white as a sheet. Dima stared between her and me, stunned.

“What loan? What child?” he muttered.

“Oh, he doesn’t know?” I feigned surprise. “Well, then you’ll be interested to learn that your new ‘look-er’ has been living off me for the last six months. And not just her.”

I turned to Dima.

“Your things,” I nodded toward the suitcase in the hall, “a courier will deliver to your mother tomorrow. The divorce papers are with my lawyer. And now, be so kind as to clear my doorstep.”

Without waiting for an answer, I slowly and deliberately closed the door right in their faces. The lock clicked.

For a while there were muffled shouts behind the door. Accusations flew both ways. He yelled about a child, she—about him being broke. Then silence.

The next morning I called my father. I told him everything. Calmly, without tears, just the facts. He was quiet for a long time, then said, “I understand, daughter. You did everything right.”

A week later Dima called. From an unfamiliar number. His voice was completely different.

“Nastya… forgive me. I was an idiot. That Ira… she nagged me to death.”

I listened in silence.

“I got fired. Igor Semenovich said I let him down. I’m living with my mother, and she nags me from morning to night. Nastya, I’ve lost everything. Let’s start over?”

I paused.

“You know, Dima, I took a look at our joint accounts. And I found a couple of interesting loans taken out in my name without my knowledge. For ‘business development.’ So, I sold our car. It was just enough to pay everything off.”

A heavy silence hung on the other end.

“How… sold it? You had no right!”

“I had every right to protect myself and my future,” I cut him off. “And your future is now entirely in your hands. Live with that.”

I ended the call.

A year later.

I was sitting in a small café on one of Florence’s side streets, sketching in my notebook.

Over the year I’d traveled almost all over Italy, and my old, neglected passion for drawing had turned into something more. I started selling my watercolors online.

That day I happened to open a social network. And saw a message from my cousin.

“Nastya, hi! I saw your drawings—they’re out of this world! Listen, here’s the thing… Remember your Dima? His mother, Tamara Igorevna, called my mom recently, crying.”

I smirked and kept reading.

“Turns out your Dima fell to pieces after the divorce. Lived with her for a month, then she kicked him out herself. Supposedly he left to find work and just disappeared.

And with your Ira—what a circus. She tried to move back in with her parents, but Uncle Slava wouldn’t let her set foot over the threshold. Said he wants nothing to do with her until she apologizes to you.

She drifted around, found herself some guy, moved in with him. He kicked her out two months later. Word is, she tried to milk him for money.

Now she’s working the register at a 24-hour shop. And the funniest thing,” the message ended, “is that Tamara Igorevna now tells everyone what a wonderful daughter-in-law she lost.”

I closed the message. There was no gloating, no satisfaction. There was… nothing. Their life, their choices, their consequences. They wrote their own script.

I looked at my drawing—sun-washed square, pigeons drinking from a fountain.

I remembered how Dima laughed at my hobby, calling it “kid’s scribbles.” How Ira said artists are paupers.

They both tried to jam me into the frame of their world.

I put my pencil down and took a sip of espresso. The bitterness of the coffee tasted good.

Victory isn’t when your enemies are humiliated. Victory is when their lives and opinions no longer matter to you at all.

And at that moment, under the warm Italian sun, I realized I had finally, completely won.

— Can you believe it, Masha? Yulia’s parents bought her an apartment! — Irina was nervously twirling a strand of dyed blond hair, the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear.

What a big apartment your parents bought you, she thought enviously, eyeing her brother’s wife’s new place.

Her slender fingers with a perfect pastel manicure betrayed the habit of taking care of herself despite a modest income. — And not just any apartment, a three-room in a new building! In “Sunny Park,” you know? With a fountain in the courtyard and an underground parking garage!

— Well, that’s great, I’m happy for Yulia, — Masha replied calmly. — She’s a good girl; she deserves it.

— Deserves it? — Irina stopped short in the middle of her rented place. — How, exactly? By still living off her parents at twenty-seven? Making pennies in that research library of hers?

— Ira, come on…

— No, listen! — Irina went to the window and pulled aside a synthetic curtain — cheap, but presentable. — My Andrei — their own son, mind you — works his tail off every day. He’s a department head at a big company! And we’re still renting this one-room place. Can you imagine, the neighbors upstairs flooded us again yesterday, and the landlady refuses to fix anything!

— Have you asked his parents for help? Maybe they just don’t know you’re struggling?

Irina hesitated, studying her reflection in the windowpane. At thirty-two she looked great — a slim figure, a stylish haircut, expensive lipstick. No one would guess her designer blouse was bought on sale.

— We… I mean, I… tried to talk to my mother-in-law. At Andrei’s birthday, remember, a month ago? She baked that cake everyone raved about. I said, “Ah, how wonderful it would be to gather in our own apartment instead of a rental…” And she just smiled and offered everyone seconds.

— And what does Andrei say?

— Andrei! — Irina snorted. — You know what he told me yesterday? “Sweetheart, let’s buy Yulia a nice plant for her new apartment tomorrow. I’m so happy my sister will finally have a place of her own!”

— Well, that’s good, that he and his sister…

 

— Good how? — Irina cut her off. — His sister’s got a three-room in an elite complex now, and he’s thrilled! You should’ve seen it; we went to see it before they bought it. Ninety square meters, three-meter ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows! And the bathroom! God, my bedroom is smaller than her bathroom!

— Ira, — Masha’s tone turned firm, — you’re working yourself up. Maybe you shouldn’t…

— No, Mash, — Irina dropped to a half-whisper, — I’m going to say everything at the housewarming tomorrow. Let them know what it’s like to divide children into favorites and unfavorites. I’ll ask right in front of everyone — why does one get everything and the other nothing?

— Irina! Don’t you dare! You’ll start a fight with everyone!

— I can’t keep quiet anymore! We’ve lived like poor relatives for five years. For my birthday, my mother-in-law gave me a handbag. A handbag! And for her daughter — an apartment! — Irina ran a hand over her perfectly set hair. — Andrei makes a decent salary, but all our money goes to rent and my cosmetics. I have to look presentable — I’m a manager’s wife! I can’t show up at my husband’s office party in just anything!

The key turned in the lock.

— That’s Andrei — Irina whispered quickly. — We’ll talk tomorrow; I’ll tell you how it went.

She hung up and turned to the door, pulling a welcoming smile onto her face. Andrei walked in — a tall brunette with kind brown eyes and light stubble. Despite being tired, he smiled.

— Hi! I picked up food for us on the way home. Sorry, the meeting ran long. There are your favorite croissants, with coconut and hazelnuts.

— It’s fine, dear, — Irina pecked his cheek, glancing sidelong at the bag from an ordinary supermarket. — How was your day?

— Great! You know, I’m so happy for Yulia. She saved for years for her own place, and our parents helped her out! — Andrei began unpacking the groceries.

Irina bit her lip. “It’s okay,” she thought. “Tomorrow will be a very different conversation. I’m done keeping quiet and pretending everything’s perfect.”

The next morning, Irina spent almost two hours getting ready. She scrutinized her wardrobe and tried on all her dressy outfits. At last she chose a cream sheath dress she’d bought on sale last month — conservative but striking.

— Ira, we’re going to be late! — Andrei called from the kitchen. — Yulia asked us to come early to help arrange the furniture.

— Coming, coming, — Irina answered, giving her hair one last brush. — What, your sister can’t even handle furniture placement on her own?

Andrei appeared in the bedroom doorway:

— Ira, why say that? Yulia just needs a hand.

— Of course, — Irina pressed her pink-lipsticked mouth into a line, — why think and strain yourself when you can ask big brother to help? As usual.

— What’s with you today? — Andrei came over and set his hands on her shoulders. — You’re so tense.

Irina met his eyes in the mirror. His brown eyes were filled with genuine concern. For a second she felt ashamed of her barbs, but then she remembered the spacious rooms in Yulia’s new place.

— I’m fine, — she gave a stiff smile. — Let’s go; we shouldn’t keep your sister waiting.

The new complex was impressive — tall modern buildings of glass and concrete, manicured grounds, security at the entrance. Irina’s stomach tightened as they passed through the broad, designer-finished lobby.

— Can you believe it, two concierges, — Andrei chatted lightly as they rode the elevator. — And underground parking. Pretty great, right?

— Very, — Irina ground out between her teeth.

Yulia met them at the door — a petite brunette with lively green eyes, dressed in simple jeans and a loose shirt. Not at all like the ecstatic owner of elite real estate, Irina noted.

— Andryusha! Irochka! — Yulia hugged her brother. — I’m so happy you came!

— We’re happy too, — Irina smiled stiffly, stepping into the spacious entryway.

— Come in, come in! — Yulia was glowing. — Just ignore the mess; I haven’t unpacked everything yet.

Irina looked around. There was no mess — big boxes were stacked neatly along the walls, protective floor covering kept the new parquet safe. The air smelled of fresh paint and new furniture.

— Your entryway is so roomy, — Irina remarked, slipping off her heels. — It must be nice to have so much space.

— Yes, there’s even a walk-in closet, — Yulia pointed to sliding doors. — Though I’m not sure how I’ll fill it. I don’t have that many things.

— Don’t worry, — Irina smiled, but her eyes stayed cold, — you’ll accumulate plenty. Now that you have somewhere to keep it.

Andrei shot his wife a warning look, which she pretended not to notice.

— Come on, I’ll show you everything! — Yulia led them through the apartment. — Here will be the living room. Look at these windows! And the balcony!

— Incredible, — Irina breathed, taking in the panoramic windows. — And how much does happiness like this cost?

— Ira! — Andrei checked her.

— What? — She fluttered her lashes innocently. — I’m just curious. Maybe we’ll get lucky someday too… and land an apartment like this.

Yulia froze, her cheeks tinged pink:

— Ira, you know our parents worked their whole lives…

— Oh sure, — Irina cut in, — they worked, and somehow you’re the only one who ended up with the apartment. Interesting, isn’t it?

A heavy silence fell. Yulia glanced helplessly from her brother to her sister-in-law, plucking at the sleeve of her simple blue shirt. A deep crease formed on Andrei’s high forehead.

— Irina, can we step out for a minute? — His voice was unusually firm.

— Why? — Irina spread her hands theatrically. — I’m only saying what everyone is thinking. Tell me, Yulia, don’t you find it odd that your parents bought only you such a huge apartment? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to buy two smaller ones? One for you and one for your brother?

— Ira, stop it, — there was steel in Andrei’s voice.

But Irina was unstoppable. She strolled slowly across the spacious living room, pressing her heels into the protective covering:

— Your brother and I have been renting a one-room place for five years. Five years! And you get all of this — she swept an arm around — just like that. For your pretty eyes.

— Ira, — Yulia stepped forward, her green eyes filling with tears, — I didn’t think…

— Of course you didn’t think! — Irina raised her voice. — Why would you? You’ve got loving parents to decide everything for you! And we… — she faltered, brushing away an invisible tear. — Every month we count every ruble, saving for a down payment on a mortgage. And then — bam! — and a three-room in a luxury building just falls out of the sky!

— That’s enough! — Andrei grabbed her by the elbow. — Come on, we need to talk.

— Don’t touch me! — Irina yanked her arm free. — I’m not finished! Yulia needs to know that…

— Yulya, I’m sorry, — Andrei cut in. — We’ll be right back.

He practically hauled the resisting Irina into the hallway and then out onto the spacious loggia, firmly shutting the glass door behind them.

— What. Are. You. Doing? — he asked, enunciating each word.

Irina folded her arms, her flawlessly painted lips twisting:

— What’s so terrible? I’m just telling the truth. Look at this apartment! One chandelier costs as much as our monthly rent!

— You don’t know anything, — Andrei ran a weary hand over his face.

— What don’t I know? — Irina leaned in. — That your parents favored their darling youngest daughter? That she gets everything while we…

— Our parents offered me an apartment three years ago.

Irina froze, mouth open:

 

— What?

— I turned it down, — Andrei looked straight into her eyes. — I said my sister needed it more. She’s a woman. A woman should have a secure home base. And I’d earn mine myself.

— You… what? — Irina went pale; her perfect makeup suddenly looked like an ill-fitting mask. — Why didn’t you tell me?

— Would you have understood? — Andrei gave a bitter smile. — Judging by your little performance today — no.

— But that’s… — Irina swallowed hard. — You should have discussed it with me! I’m your wife!

— Discuss what? — Andrei shook his head. — That my kid sister lives on a modest librarian’s salary and rents a room in a communal flat? That she put half her pay aside every month, denying herself everything, while you go to salons every week?

Irina stepped back; her heel rang sharply against the balcony tile:

— Don’t you dare throw the salons in my face! I’m a manager’s wife; I have to look the part!

— Look the part? — Andrei raked a hand through his hair; his usually calm face twisted with bitterness. — You know how Yulia looks? In the same dress for the third year running. And she doesn’t complain.

— Ah, so that’s it? — Irina leaned toward him, her carefully styled hair spilling over her shoulders. — You like that your sister is such a modest little thing? So proper? And I’m the spendthrift?

— That’s not it, — Andrei shook his head. — It’s how you’re behaving. Do you even understand what you’ve just done?

Through the glass door Yulia’s figure flickered — she paced the living room, clearly at a loss. Her shoulders were slumped; her face was tear-streaked.

— And how am I supposed to behave? — Irina raised her voice. — Be happy? Clap my hands? “Oh, how lovely, my sister-in-law got an apartment for fifteen million, and we’ll keep renting our one-room place with the leaky ceiling!”

— The awful part… — Andrei looked at his wife intently. — Isn’t that you’re jealous. It’s that you don’t think about anyone else. Tell me, have you ever once asked how Yulia lives? What she does? What she dreams about?

Irina sniffed:

— What’s there to ask? She sits in her library handing out books…

— She defended her Candidate’s thesis last year, — Andrei said quietly. — On the history of ancient manuscripts. Four years writing it, at night, after work. By day she led tours at the library just to make ends meet.

— And so what? — Irina jerked a shoulder, but doubt crept into her voice.

— So when our parents offered me the apartment, I knew Yulia needed it more. Her whole life is ahead of her. She can do so much; she dreams of opening a calligraphy school — she’s dreamed of that since childhood. And you… — he broke off.

— Say it! — Irina’s eyes flashed angry tears. — What about me?

— You think only about looking the part, — Andrei said it without anger, with a kind of tired resignation. — I kept thinking — maybe it’ll pass? Maybe you’ll grow up and start valuing something besides money and status?

At that moment the doorbell rang — the first housewarming guests. Wiping her eyes, Yulia hurried to the entryway.

— What are you trying to say? — Irina stepped closer, her perfectly lined eyes narrowing.

— Remember what you said to my mother on my birthday? About how nice it would be to gather in our own apartment?

— So what?

— So my mother cried after that. Because she remembers I turned down the apartment. And now she thinks I’m living in a rental because of her.

Irina recoiled; her manicured fingers clutched the balcony railing. — Don’t try to guilt-trip me! Your mother knows perfectly well…

— No, you listen, — Andrei gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him. Pain showed in his brown eyes. — You know what Mom said then? “Son, did we do something wrong? Should we have insisted, made you take the apartment? You have a family.” And I stood there not knowing what to say. Because my own wife reproaches them for helping their daughter!

Inside, guests were already gathering. Muted laughter and the clink of glasses drifted out. Yulia, wearing a forced smile, was saying something to their parents. Their mother, a petite woman with kind eyes in a simple blue dress, kept glancing toward the balcony.

— Your parents could have bought two apartments, — Irina said stubbornly, but her voice had lost its former certainty.

— They could have, — Andrei agreed calmly. — Only, you know what? They saved that money for twenty years. Dad took extra shifts at the plant. Mom tutored in the evenings. They denied themselves everything. And you show up here and count other people’s money.

— I just wanted…

— I know what you wanted, — Andrei cut in. — You wanted everyone to see how unfairly you’ve been treated. Only — he paused a beat. — I can’t do this anymore.

— What do you mean “can’t”? — Irina nervously smoothed her hair with a trembling hand.

— It means I’m tired, — Andrei turned away, staring into the distance through the panoramic glass. — Tired of your constant dissatisfaction. Of tallying other people’s money. Of how you treat my family.

In the living room their mother’s anxious voice rose:

— Yulia, dear, where are Andryusha and Irina? What’s happened?

— They… they’ll be right in, — Yulia’s shaky voice answered. — They’re just discussing… the balcony layout.

— And now what?

Andrei turned back to her slowly. His face wore an expression Irina had never seen — a mix of resolve and bone-deep weariness:

— I’ve always been proud I earned everything myself. A good job, a career — all on my own. And I wasn’t ashamed to refuse my parents’ help because I knew I’d make it. I only failed to account for one thing…

— What? — Irina whispered.

— That my wife would be incapable of being happy for someone else’s good fortune. Even when that someone is my own sister.

The living room grew noticeably louder — more guests had arrived. Through the glass door they could see Yulia, furtively wiping her eyes as she accepted congratulations and gifts. Her simple blue shirt was a bit rumpled, and red blotches from nerves had risen on her pale face.

— I think we should join the guests, — Irina stepped toward the door, but Andrei blocked her path.

— No, — his voice was uncharacteristically hard. — We finish this first.

— Finish what? — Irina tried to smile, but it came out crooked. — Andryusha, I got carried away, it happens to everyone…

— It doesn’t, — he said bitterly. — Remember how you reacted when you found out Yulia was accepted to grad school? You said, “Of course — some people get to live off their parents for years and play at science.”

— I just…

— And when she defended her dissertation? “Big deal — poking around in old books.” Have you ever once asked what she does? What she studies?

Irina was silent, nervously worrying the strap of her expensive watch — Andrei’s last birthday present.

— And you know what? — Andrei went on. — She restored several lost eighteenth-century texts. Her work was recognized at an international conference. You don’t know that because you’re interested in nothing but money and status.

Their father’s figure flashed past the glass — a tall, gray-haired man in a simple gray suit. He spoke anxiously to his wife, glancing toward the balcony.

— Andryusha, — Irina set a hand on his shoulder, — let’s not ruin the celebration. I admit I was wrong. I’ll apologize to Yulia…

— No, — he gently but firmly removed her hand. — It isn’t about apologies. I kept thinking — maybe you’ll change? Maybe you’ll realize there’s more to life than money and prestige? But today… — he shook his head. — Today I understood I was wrong.

— What are you saying? — fear crept into Irina’s voice.

— Remember how we met? — he asked instead. — At that company party? You were so beautiful, so sure of yourself. I fell in love with your smile, your laugh…

— Andrei…

— And then it started, — he seemed not to hear her. — First it had to be an apartment in a prestigious district. Then designer clothes, because “you’re a manager’s wife.” Salons, restaurants, status things… I kept hoping — maybe it would pass? Maybe someday you’d learn to value the simple things?

Andrei held her gaze. — You know what’s scariest? I stopped recognizing the girl I fell in love with. She could rejoice at little things, laugh from the heart, dream… And you — you just count other people’s money and envy them.

— I don’t… — Irina began, but fell silent under his look.

— Today you humiliated my sister in her own home. You insulted my parents, who worked their whole lives for their children — he drew a deep breath. — I’m grateful to you.

— Grateful? — Irina blinked, bewildered.

— Yes. Because now I know for sure we need to get a divorce.

Irina went white; her perfect makeup suddenly looked like an ill-suited mask:

— You can’t…

— I can, — Andrei said softly. — And I must. Because I don’t want to wake up in twenty years and realize I live with someone who can only envy and demand.

From the living room came his mother’s voice:

— Andryusha! Irochka! What’s taking you so long?

Andrei took the balcony door handle.

— I’m going back to the guests. And you… you can leave. Or stay and sincerely congratulate Yulia. The choice is yours.

 

He opened the door and stepped inside, leaving Irina alone on the wide balcony. She watched him go to his sister, hug her tightly, whisper something in her ear. She saw Yulia’s face light up. She saw their parents breathe easier when their daughter smiled.

Irina looked at her reflection in the glass. A beautiful, well-groomed woman in an expensive dress. Everything perfect — hair, makeup, manicure. Only her eyes were empty.

She pulled out her phone and called a taxi. Then, after one last look at the happy family behind the glass, she slipped quietly out of the apartment. In the vast mirrored lobby, the click of her heels sounded especially lonely.

“Ninety square meters,” she thought as the elevator descended. “Some get ninety meters, and some get a divorce…”

Outside, a fine drizzle was falling. Irina took a compact from her bag and, by habit, touched up her lipstick. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care whether her reflection looked flawless.